Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word count: 8.5k
Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink?
Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.
At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.
You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”
You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.
You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.
"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"
Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa."
Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.
You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.
You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.
Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.
Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.
“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.
You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.
“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."
"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing.
Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.
"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"
“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince.
You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”
“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.
"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”
His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”
“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.
After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you.
Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”
Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.
“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”
Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.
“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”
Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”
Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.
Your body went still.
"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."
You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound.
Okay, it hurt a lot.
It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that."
Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.
“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”
“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”
You swallowed. “Do what?”
“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”
Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”
“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help.
“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership.
Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”
The flight home was torture in slow motion.
Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.
And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.
After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way.
The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off.
His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.
Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.
“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”
Your stomach dropped.
Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”
Steve glared. “Tony.”
“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”
“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated.
The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on.
And Bucky—
Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.
What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in.
You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.
Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.
“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”
Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”
Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”
Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”
“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”
“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.
He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask.
Swing.
Swing.
Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake.
You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly.
Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees.
He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—
You nearly whimpered.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin.
Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both.
And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—
"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”
Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."
"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor.
“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”
When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between.
His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”
It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you.
Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place.
With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you.
“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”
"You're not exactly making it easy."
Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”
His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”
The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”
“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”
“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were.
The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.
Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.
He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.
Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough."
Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”
Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”
“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief.
“He needs her.”
“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.
“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.
You tried to go about your night.
You really did.
You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.
You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.
You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.
But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.
So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least.
The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path.
His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.
Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.
He didn’t see you.
He was somewhere inside the fever.
“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.
He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.
Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.
He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass.
"Get out of here."
Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"
Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”
"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.
"You'd never hurt me."
"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to."
He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.
“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”
He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.
The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.
“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.
“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside.
"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you.
You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.
“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.
“Not enough,” you said quietly.
He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”
Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.
“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”
His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.
He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.
He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.
You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”
His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.
“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”
His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.
You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.
So you touched him.
Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.
You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.
His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.
“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”
You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.
“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.
The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.
So you sank to your knees.
The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.
You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.
He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.
Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.
“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”
You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.
“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”
His knees almost buckled.
The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.
He didn’t last long.
He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.
His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”
“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”
You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.
His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.
“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”
His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water.
Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights.
“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.
Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.
He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.
He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“…holy fuck,” he rasped.
You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.
“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.
That was all it took.
A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.
But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.
“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”
You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.
He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.
“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”
He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.
He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.
When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.
“I still need more.”
Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.
Then you stood.
Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.
His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.
“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.
“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”
That did it.
He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”
You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.
“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”
You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.
“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”
“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.
“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”
“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”
His rhythm faltered.
You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.
“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”
You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.
Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.
But Bucky didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.
You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin.
“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”
He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.
Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.
“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”
You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”
His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”
Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.
“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”
“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”
His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”
Then he slammed back into you.
You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.
“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”
He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.
“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”
Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.
“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”
“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”
He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.
“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”
You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.
His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.
“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”
“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.
You didn’t know how long it had been.
How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.
You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”
“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”
Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.
And still—he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”
You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
That shattered him.
His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.
His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.
“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”
You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.
“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”
“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”
He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.
Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.
You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.
And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.
Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”
“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”
“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”
The door hissed open.
Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.
There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.
Naked.
Dead asleep.
His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.
And the sheets?
The sheets were barely covering anything.
“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”
Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”
Steve groaned. “Tony.”
“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”
“Stop talking.”
Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”
Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”
“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”
Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”
And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.
Tony paused.
“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”
a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!
Summary: Questioning your boyfriend's super-soldier resistance gets you into both pleasurable and overwhelming trouble that you can't easily get out of.
Tags: MDNI! +18, smut, sexual content (if you are underage, do not interact with this work or I will block you), established relationship, p in v, porn without plot, Bucky aka big dick, unprotected sex, soft sex, Saying "I love you" during sex, missionary, praise, Bucky likes it when you call him by his name, nicknames, cursing, rough sex, mating press, I have no idea what the other position is called, creampie, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, squirt, proper use of a super soldier’s resilience, Bucky gets a little chatty during sex, reader affectionately calls Bucky "Sergeant", no Y/N. No beta reader. My native language is not English, so there may be possible mistakes.
Masterlist.
"I love you, baby... I love you so much..." Bucky whispered, his voice hoarse with lust, savoring every millimeter of resistance your pussy offered him. "You're so good at this..."
He knew his size was a challenge for you, but seeing you beneath him, writhing and moaning in that enchanting, sweet way only fueled his desire and love for you.
“I-I love you, Bucky…” you replied in a trembling voice. “S-Shit…”
The curse had slipped from your lips thanks to his deep, circular movements; his cock had hit that particularly good spot, making you arch your back.
“Do you like it there, doll?”
You bit your lower lip as you nodded, somewhat desperately, feeling the need to grind against him to soothe the heat and itch inside you.
Instead of thrusting, Bucky began to slide his cock with a torturously slow, sensual motion, wanting you to feel every contour of his throbbing cock.
“I could spend all day worshiping you like this.”
You let out a moan that sounded almost like a sob as your toes curled and your sweaty thighs squeezed his hips, trying to push him deeper into you. You wanted to encourage him to pick up the pace.
As he looked into your glassy eyes, he pressed his lips together to stifle a moan and shut his eyes tightly, struggling to maintain the rhythm of his hips, which were beginning to falter.
“J-James…” You moaned his name like a prayer.
You reached out your hand toward his face, gently caressing his cheek and feeling his stubble for a moment before tangling his hair in your fingers.
Your other hand did the same, drawing his face closer to yours to kiss him. His dark hair fell across your cheeks, tickling you as he came back to himself.
“My sweet girl…” he whispered against your lips. “So beautiful and good…”
His metal arm slid under your hip, lifting you just enough so that his pelvis remained pressed against your clitoris while his hips kept grinding and grinding.
Bucky’s lips began to kiss your cheeks and jaw with his mouth open, and you could hear him panting and growling against your skin in that way that left no doubt he was about to come. For your part, you moaned beneath him, your hands exploring his broad back and your pussy throbbing greedily around him.
“Oh, James… I-I…” The words didn’t quite come out as you let out a faint sob.
Your orgasm hit, spreading from your core to the rest of your body. It was like being in a daze, letting the pleasurable heat devour you.
Bucky’s cock throbbed against your sensitive walls, and with a deep, hoarse moan, he let himself come inside you, filling you with his warm, thick seed.
You barely felt Bucky’s weight on top of you.
You closed your eyes as you panted softly and your boyfriend buried his face in your neck, feeling his heavy breath brush against your skin.
“Baby, you’re amazing, ” he murmured against your neck.
It didn’t take long before you felt his kisses on your skin, brushing those spots that made you tremble beneath him and let out little giggles. But you knew his intentions—especially since he couldn’t hide them, given how his cock remained hard inside you.
“Aren’t you tired yet, Sergeant?” you teased, humming playfully into his hair.
Bucky moaned against you, this time a little embarrassed that his super-soldier endurance was keeping him from reaching satisfaction so easily.
“I just need to go to the bathroom to take care of it.”
Before he could pull out of you completely, you wrapped your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck, holding him close to your body.
He barely stifled a moan as he slid deep inside you once more, completely sensitive because he was hard as a rock, with a red tip and dripping with pre-cum inside you.
“That won’t be necessary because I have a tempting offer for you, Sergeant.” You spoke in that playful, seductive tone that Bucky knew so well. “If you stay, I’ll help you with your problem however you want.”
“Honey. If doing it slowly makes you want to cry, I don’t even want to imagine what’ll happen if I lose control…”
He couldn’t finish his sentence as he felt the soft, playful bite on his lower lip.
“How hard can it be to satisfy a super soldier?” you murmured against his lips.
“Honey, I don’t think you can…”
“I can handle it.”
You sounded far too confident—a confidence that was on the verge of shattering.
☆
The creaking of the mattress and the constant thud of the headboard against the wall echoed through the room along with your moans, sobs, and the slapping of skin.
Bucky was fucking you desperately while you moaned helplessly, your face covered in tears and your knees pressed against your shoulders.
He’d never fucked you that wildly and roughly before; he’d really been holding back all this time and was seizing this opportunity to take you exactly as he’d been craving for months.
Bucky’s eyes darted from your tearful face to his cock sliding in and out of you—completely soaked with your fluids and a ring of his own cum around the base from the three previous times he’d climaxed.
“O-Oh, fuck,” he moaned, his voice breaking. “I can feel you.”
The tip of his cock had started to hit your cervix, making you roll your eyes back and sob from the new pressure.
“Do you feel that, baby? It’s my cock kissing you.”
You weakly reached out your arm toward him, trying to push his body away from your hips because of the hypersensitivity, but instead, Bucky let go of your legs to grab your wrist, pulling you to force you to sit up for a second on the mattress while he wrapped your arm and the other one around his neck.
You whimpered as the change in position caused his cock to slide out of you, even if only by a few inches, giving you a little relief from the overwhelming pressure.
Bucky’s strong arms quickly hooked under your knees, and he stood up, lifting you with him with impressive ease.
“I’m so fucking horny for you, baby. Why do you want to run away?” he growled against your cheek as his hips thrust against yours, fucking you deep. “You said you were going to put up with it for me.”
“B-Bucky…” you squealed, your voice breaking.
Your body was trembling, and you couldn’t escape his thrusts as he carried you and held you open to use you.
“Say my name, baby,” he moaned as he planted open-mouthed kisses on your jaw. “Come on, do it.”
Your toes curled as your pussy clenched tightly around him, feeling another orgasm coming.
Bucky moaned as he felt you tighten around him, and that only encouraged him not to stop.
“Say it.”
“J-James…” you screamed. Your fingernails dug into his back.
Your squirt drenched his entire cock and slid down Bucky’s muscular thighs until it reached the floor, which was already splattered with the juices of your orgasm.
“So perfect,” he moaned. “My good girl with a perfect pussy.” His tongue traced your cheek, savoring the saltiness of your tears. “I’m going to cum inside you so you know just how much I love you.”
He thrust hard one last time, staying buried deep inside you with his balls pressed against your ass as he came inside you once more and you clenched tight around him.
A muffled sound escaped you because of the intensity as your body went limp, your arms hanging limply and your back arched backward while you remained deeply united.
Still holding you tightly, he bent over you, pressing his forehead against your collarbone as he breathed heavily and his hips trembled slightly against yours, gasping at how incredibly sensitive he felt after emptying himself inside you so many times.
You both needed a few minutes before moving or speaking.
Bucky was the first to move. His steps were slow as he made his way to the bed, laying you down carefully so he could pull himself out of your swollen pussy. You both moaned at the loss.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked as he brushed damp strands of hair from your face.
His fingers gently brushed your face, and at times the coolness of the metal felt comforting against your burning body.
Slowly, you turned your gaze toward him, watching as his expression shifted from gentle and slightly concerned to one with a smug smile.
“Was it hard to please a super soldier? You look a little tired.”
You let out a snort and tried to push his face away with the palm of your hand so you wouldn’t have to see him looking so proud of your current state.
“I hate you, James Buchanan Barnes.”
You didn’t mean it, but he knew that hearing his full name meant trouble.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured in that soft, affectionate tone he always used in situations like this.
He took your wrist again, only this time to plant a series of kisses on your skin—almost desperate and full of regret.
“Do you need anything? Water? Food?”
You smiled weakly as you watched him jump to his feet, scanning the mess in the room for the box of tissues to clean up between your legs.
You’d underestimated him.
He’d made you eat every single one of your words, but all it took was for you to say his full name for all that arrogant confidence to vanish as if it had never existed.
In a matter of seconds, the man who just minutes earlier had brazenly boasted of a super-soldier’s resilience had transformed into the most attentive and concerned boyfriend in the world.
★ summary: when spider-man comes to yelena for help, he doesn’t expect you to be there. you don’t expect for him to be so hot
★ pairing: spider-man x widow!reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, public sex, accidental vouyerism, web kink, web play?, enhanced!sperm, cum play, cream pie, mask stays on during sex (but reader is into it)
★ word count: 5.7k words
★ notes: putting myself in horny jail for this one
The steam curling on top of the water was thick enough to blur the edges of the room, hot enough that every inhale burned pleasantly at the back of your throat. It clung to your skin in a permanent sheen, damp strands of hair sticking stubbornly to your temples while eucalyptus hung heavy in the air. Next to you, Yelena dissolved into another fit of laughter, the movement of her shoulders sending a wave across the pool that splashed directly into your face and soaked the hair you’d spent the last ten minutes trying to keep dry.
“Сестра,” you hissed through a laugh of your own, swatting uselessly at the water before shoving her shoulder. “I told you to stop doing that.”
“Your hair,” She droned on, eyes rolling dangerously hard. “You look fine, hair will be fine there’s good essential oils in the water.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully.
Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.
“Were you expecting company?”
She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.
“Oh. Right.”
A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day.
Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”
“W-what?”
“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered.
“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?”
Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.”
His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“
“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.”
He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“
You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.”
His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger.
“…Seriously?”
You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.”
His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.
“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.”
You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?”
“I forgot.”
“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.
You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost.
Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.
The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.
You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately.
Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off.
“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?”
He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.”
“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“
You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago.
The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?”
You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again.
“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.”
“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.”
“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch.
“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”
You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”
“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement.
“Yes, can we?”
“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.”
“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet.
The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.
“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”
“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.
“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.
Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”
”It is more like possession."
You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.
Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”
You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs.
“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”
Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”
“I’ve seen your belly button.”
All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered.
“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”
“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”
The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.
”You’ve scared him off.”
“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.
Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.
News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last.
The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????”
You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything.
“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “
“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”
You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.
“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”
“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”
“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”
A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”
“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”
You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”
“So what’s next?”
“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”
He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”
“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing”
“Oh? That’s it huh?”
“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to.
Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”
“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.
Instead, silence answered you.
The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity.
You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.
I’m at your office. Where are you?
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
running 2 get food
Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.
do u want blini
wait no dumplings
there's an ice cream cart do u want
of course u want why do i ask
Then another.
I'll get them all brb
there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country
You couldn’t help smiling.
thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea
Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.
yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time
Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.
You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.
By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.
A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.
So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.
”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.
“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself.
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.
“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”
“I’ll just wait here.”
“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.”
“Are you sure?”
”Yes.”
“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”
That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”
He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask.
“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”
“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”
”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.”
“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.
He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.
It was then your eyes caught the scar.
Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.
He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”
One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.
”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.”
“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.”
“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?”
He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.”
He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.
You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.
“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”
“Y-Yeah…”
The word caught somewhere in his throat.
A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.
His eyes betrayed him.
For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.
“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.”
“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.
He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.
“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”
Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”
Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view.
“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated.
“Do you shoot webs from other places?”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”
A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“I said that’s a shame.”
“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”
For a long second he simply stared at you.
“What? I like spiders too, you know?”
Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.
“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.”
“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?”
He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you.
“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”
Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.”
He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.
For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.
“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?”
“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.
The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.”
“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?”
He shakes his head, “I try not to.”
You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.
“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek.
“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric.
You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.
“Is this okay?”
“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced.
Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones.
“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing.
“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch.
“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.”
He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins.
“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?”
“I-“
“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“
One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it.
He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?”
You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth.
One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds.
“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits.
“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit.
“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.”
Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist.
“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.”
“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”
There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically.
In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you.
He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt.
There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd.
“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.”
Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?”
“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.”
“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out.
“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs.
“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you
Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh.
You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.
“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.”
“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again.
When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“
”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.”
“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm.
“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.
“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.”
“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time.
You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him.
“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you.
“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.
“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him.
“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“
“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.”
He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his.
“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…”
“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.
You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs.
“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.
He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.”
“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened.
“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.
That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name.
You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again.
“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.”
The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries.
“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.”
“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.”
“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you.
“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.”
“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head.
The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.
frank doesn't like giving up control, especially not in the bedroom. but when you try to prove that you can give as well as you take, he decides to entertain you...for about thirty seconds.
WARNINGS: pornwhatplot, cunnilingus, hair pulling, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, missionary too, r slaps frank and he's kinda into it, lots of talk about "making him your bitch", rough sex, lots of condescension, creampie <3
NOTES: i haven't written for this guy in years, but BND got me feeling things...this is pure brain fart FILTH.
Orgasms never come quietly, not when you're with him. That's something you learned a long time ago.
Keeping it down becomes an impossible task when his head is buried between your thighs, tonguing your cunt like he has something to prove. Indelicate and hungry; unapologetically Frank. You've never known someone be so brash with a mouth full of pussy. Never known someone make you feel as incredible as he does.
Maybe the key to female pleasure is this. Devotion that borders on cruelty. All tongue and teeth and scratchy stubble; a war waged by a mean mouth that knows you far better than anyone ever should.
He groans against your clit, holds you firmly in place as the pleasure drives you to writhe. Brown eyes flick up, meeting yours through the haze—face squished between trembling thighs, fingers bruising plush skin—as he shifts, dragging his hips against the mattress.
Eye contact proves too much for you to handle, and you let your head fall back. Your fingers curl into the sheets in search of relief but find nothing, so they move instead to his hair, driving him deeper into you as you sing his praises ("Fuck, that's it…"; "Makin' me feel so good, Frankie…"; "Don't stop, please, I'm so— shitt…").
Climax hits as it always does; sudden, explosive, and fucking blinding.
Frank hisses as you yank on his hair and retaliates by pressing his tongue flat against your clit, drawing out a filthy whine and sending a fresh pang of pleasure shooting through you; electricity on electricity. A circuit overload.
You lose a handful of seconds to the climax, and when you come to you've lost feeling in your hands. All that remains is the slight tingle of lingering sparks in your fingertips. The post-coital numbness used to freak him out until you explained the science to him, and now he takes pride in knowing that he can make you come so hard it essentially rewires your nervous system.
"Sweetheart," his voice comes out as a low rumble against your inner thigh, unamused, as he eases your hands from his hair, "you keep pullin' like that, and I'll go get the fuckin' clippers."
"…hey," you mumble, a lazy, almost drunken smile creeping up your face, "don't act like you don't like it."
Scoffing, Frank pulls himself up and leans over you, matching your expression with his own, sharper, smile. "You think I enjoy havin' my shit yanked on? I swear to God, I can feel my scalp separatin' from my fuckin' skull."
"The Punisher can't handle a little tug on his hair?" You jut out your bottom lip, voice taking on a honeyed, mocking tone. "Oh, poor Frankie..."
"Real cute," he mutters. "Real fuckin' cute. You tryin' to piss me off here, after all the work I just did?"
Skipping over his question completely, you nudge him with your foot. "Get on your back, Frank."
"On my back?" He catches your ankle in one strong hand, holds it firm as he raises his eyebrows. "What you want me on my back for, huh?"
"Well, after all the work you just did…" You give his shoulder a light push, grinning. "I figured I should repay the favour. Make it even."
Frank purses his lips into a tight smile, and you watch the subtle workings of his jaw as he nods along with your words. "Right, right…cause you're miss generosity all of a sudden, aren't ya? Bein' all nice, wantin' to take care of me…yeah, I'm not buyin' it."
You roll your eyes. "Frank—"
"No. No, I'm talkin' now. If I'm gonna fuck you, I'm gonna do it my way, and I'm gonna do it properly, alright? I'm not gonna let you hop on top and make me your bitch, sweetheart, no fuckin' way."
"Frank," you try again, like you're talking to a child. Cocking your head to one side, you gaze up at him through your lashes, using the afterglow to your advantage. "Get on your back."
A twitchy frown, a curled lip, and, finally…a huff of resignation. It takes less than five seconds for his oh-so-stubborn resolve to come crashing down, and you didn't even have bust out the big guns, like saying "please".
Slowly, Frank retreats off of you, movements stiff and drawn out; if you didn't know him, you'd misinterpret his theatrics for pain. He flops down onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling like a man awaiting execution, and you waste no time in climbing on top of him.
The weight of you alone is enough to put a crack in his sulky facade. He sits up, leaning back on his hands as you make yourself comfortable. His gaze fixes on your face, soft behind that furrowed brow.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that? A real pretty piece of— fuck—"
You sink onto his cock without bothering to warn him, and what you earn in response is a gorgeous, unfettered groan—all low and resonant, too caught off guard to try and suppress. It reverberates in your chest like a heavy strum of a bass guitar, hurtles down to your core and has you clamping down on his length like a vise grip, and you've only taken half of him.
Head thrown back, Frank wipes his mouth with his hand, cursing into his palm as he cleans up the slow-drying mess of sweat and slick. "The fuck is your problem?" he grunts. "You can't give me a goddamn minute?"
"What?" You steady yourself on his shoulders, breathless, as you take him to the hilt, hips flush against each other. His cock sits so nicely inside of you, pushing up against that spongy spot that'll have you unravelling far too soon if you aren't careful. Teeth clenched, you push through the pleasure to taunt him. "…Can't take it?"
He barks out a laugh, but it's weak. Frail at the edges. The effect that you're having on him is something he can't quite mask, even as he snarls. "Oh, I can take it," he murmurs, licking his lips as he flashes you a dark smile. "You sure you can give it, sweetheart?"
A rough jerk of his hips sends you reeling, rips a moan from your throat as your curl your fingers into his shoulders, nails digging into rough skin. Pleasure takes root in your stomach, blooms into static.
"'Cause you seem pretty fuckin' shaky to me." He's grinning now, teeth bared as he watches you struggle to stay composed. "How 'bout you stop being such a damn brat and let me fuck you, huh? I'll be nice, I swear…"
He brushes his knuckles against the flushed skin of your cheek, chases your lips with his own as you try to pull away. Hot breath fans across your face as he waits with smug impatience for you to cave, because, in his mind, he's already won; he can't fathom you standing up to him in earnest.
Which makes it all the more satisfying when your palm strikes his cheek. The slap is loud, but the force behind it is minimal; just enough to surprise him.
And he laughs in your face.
"Oh, what's wrong?" He tilts his head, eyeing you with shameless amusement. "Am I pissin' you off, pretty girl? Is Frankie makin' you all mad? Aww, you poor thing." A firm hand grabs your jaw, holds it steady as he smiles up at you, expression nothing but pure glee. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that—"
The second slap is the real thing.
His head snaps back with a sharp grunt and, for a couple seconds, you wipe that smile clean from his face.
"On your back," you repeat, trying to keep the pride swelling in your chest from spilling into your voice.
Inside you, his cock jumps.
Frank leans back, taking a moment to study you as his lips curl back up into a smile—but this one reads more as impressed than it does smug. Something about it makes your heart leap into your throat.
"You've got bigger balls than I thought," he murmurs. The cheek that you struck is turning red. "And what if I misbehave? You gon' hit me again?"
…Christ, now who's the brat?
You raise your hand, daring him to keep talking, but you can't help the smile that cracks your stern look as he flinches away with a defensive "woahh!".
"Easy there, sweetheart." He catches your wrist, uses it to pull you in closer. "Wouldn't wanna hurt that pretty lil' hand of yours beatin' on me, would you?"
Before you can respond, he silences you with a kiss. You feel him grinning against your lips as he lies back, bringing you down on top of him. The movement alone is enough to make both of you moan, and you grind down on him instinctively, desperate to pull more noises from him.
Breaking the kiss, you sit up, one hand on his chest to keep him down as you roll your hips. He melts under you, head thrown back against the mattress as he resigns himself to watching you.
His large hands find your waist, but he doesn't try to hold you still or guide you as he usually would; no, just this once, he's letting you take the reins, set the pace, take control—the tiny amount he's willing to relinquish.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, thumbs pressing into your lower stomach as you find a rhythm that suits both of you. "That's it, that's my girl, taking me so fuckin' well…"
The praise does straight to your head, and you're sure he can feel it in the way you clench around him. He drums his fingers against your sides, not bothering to hide his smug little smirk.
"Lookin' like a damn angel," he continues, slipping a hand down until his calloused fingers find your swollen clit. It makes you jolt, pulls a moan from your lips as he applies a little pressure on the oversensitive bundle of nerves. "Doin' all the work and still lookin' so pretty— that too much, sweetheart?"
"Frank—" You can barely keep yourself upright. In a matter of seconds, he's ruined your composure; his focus on your clit, paired with the feel of being stuffed so full of his cock— it is too much. "Frankie, if you keep doing that, I'm—fuck…"
That must be exactly what he wants to hear, because he doesn't let up. "You gonna come again? Already?" he coos, matching your deteriorating rhythm with his own thrusts.
"'s too much…" you mumble. Humiliation burns in your cheeks, but you don't dare tell him to stop, not when you're this close.
"Aw…" He pouts. "I thought you said you could handle givin'?"
"This— this isn't…fair, Frank."
"'Course it isn't," he grunts, pinching— yes, pinching your clit like it's some kind of toy as you whine on top of him, "I said I wasn't gonna let you make me your bitch. What, you thought I was kiddin'?"
All you can do at that point is close your eyes. Keeping your hands on his chest for balance, nails cutting into his skin, you let him push you over the edge—and it hits hard. An unbearable warmth deep in your core, and the relief of it catching fire.
You don't notice his arms bracing, hands anchored on your waist, until he's flipping you over.
Your back hits the mattress, and before the orgasm can finish wrecking you, Frank is competing with it, dragging it out as he drives himself into you at a pace that'll leave you bruised for days. He's cursing in your ear, breath hot against the skin, but you can barely hear him over the sound of your own vulgar moans and the wet sound of skin hitting skin. Over and over.
Orgasms weave into each other, when you're with him. That's another thing you learned a long time ago.
You grow numb to everything but your own devastating pleasure, lose track of where one climax ends and another begins. Your walls pulse around him like a constant, feverish heartbeat until he dumps his cum deep inside you, and even then your body struggles to let him go, stays clenched around him like it's staking its claim.
When he pulls out, he does so carefully; kisses your forehead, shushes every whimper. He flops down beside you and wastes no time in pulling you close, almost smothering you with his chest, like you'll break if he doesn't physically hold you together. But you don't complain; he's warm. He's Frank.
"You good?" he asks after a moment, once you've both caught your breath.
"Mhm." You nod, nuzzling his chest. Your voice is a little hoarse, hands still a little numb, and you're sure you must look a right wreck—but you've been in worse states after sex, that's for sure. "…I'll make you my bitch one day."
"Ha!" is his only response, smug and sarcastic, riddled with affection. He pats the top of your head the way he would a dog's and murmurs in this stupidly soft, mocking tone, "You gotta work on those weak ass slaps, first."
⤷ thunderbolts*!bucky barnes x apothecary fem!reader
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, thunderbolts fluff, opposites attract, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy and sunshine, sex pollen (dubconnish) dom!bucky, bucky is hungryyy, rough sex, angry sex, oral (m!receiving), intense eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 8.6k
⭐︎ a/n: probably my final thunderbolts fic huzzah before bucky gets slimed in doomsday (will edit this in a few months when the movie comes out)
synopsis:
The team is in dire need of a healer. So when Alexei mentions that he knows someone who's proficient with medicinal herbs, Bucky has his hesitations. How could someone possibly heal people with stupid plants and minerals? Then, upon meeting, you accidentally give Bucky a tincture that leaves him feeling all fuzzy and warm, proving his concerns exactly right. And only you can help him get rid of his ache.
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There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.
As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.
“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”
“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.
“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.
“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”
“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.
“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.
Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”
Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”
“Thank you, Bob—”
“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”
Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.
“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.
And John, of course, does.
“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”
“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.
“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”
Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”
“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression.
“We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”
Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.
Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”
Ava, John, and Bob shrug.
Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”
It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.
So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.
“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”
You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.
Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.
“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.
Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”
You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”
“Our team needs a healer.”
To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.
“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.
Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.
“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”
You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”
Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.
You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.
“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”
“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”
“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”
That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.
“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”
“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.
“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”
“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”
“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”
John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”
You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.
“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”
The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.
“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”
Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”
“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”
The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.
Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.
Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.
It actually makes perfect sense.
Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.
Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”
“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”
“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.
Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.
“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”
Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”
While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.
“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”
Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.
Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.
“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”
Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.
“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”
Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?
With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.
“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”
Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”
You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.
“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”
“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”
You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”
Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.
You furrow your brows. “What was that?”
“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.
“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”
Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”
You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.
“Here,” you say. “Try it.”
Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”
“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”
He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”
You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.
Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.
He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.
“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.
Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”
You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”
As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.
But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.
The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.
He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.
When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.
What the hell is happening?
He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.
He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.
“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.
When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”
You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.
“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”
With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.
The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.
He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.
“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.
You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”
You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”
You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.
When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.
“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”
“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”
You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”
Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.
It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.
There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.
A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.
“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”
Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.
Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.
His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.
In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.
The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.
His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.
“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”
“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”
You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.
“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”
You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.
“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”
While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.
“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”
Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.
“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.
You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.
“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”
Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.
He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.
He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…
“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.
That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.
He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.
You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”
Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.
As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.
Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.
You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.
You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.
“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”
Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.
You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.
You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.
It doesn’t sound like pleasure.
It sounds like he’s in pain.
Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.
“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”
Silence, save for his labored panting.
Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”
You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.
You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.
You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.
He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.
Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”
“Where are you going?”
You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”
Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”
You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”
“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”
You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.
“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”
He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.
The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.
“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.
Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.
“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”
“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”
His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.
“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”
You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it.
With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.
His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”
His cock twitches at the realization.
“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”
Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.
“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”
Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.
“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”
Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.
His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.
Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.
The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.
With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.
“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”
He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”
Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.
His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.
“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”
You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.
“On your knees,” he urges.
Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.
“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.
Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.
He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.
“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”
You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.
His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”
Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.
“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”
Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.
You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.
“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.
“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”
Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.
“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.
You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.
“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”
His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.
His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.
You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.
He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.
“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”
“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”
He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.
“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”
A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”
“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”
Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
“Bucky—!”
You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.
Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.
“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.
Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.
“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”
His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.
A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.
“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.
The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.
“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”
The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.
With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.
Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.
A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.
He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.
Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.
“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”
You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.
“Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”
He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”
His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.
You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.
“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.
Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.
His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.
Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.
Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.
“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.
A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.
He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.
Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.
“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.
Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.
That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.
“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”
A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.
John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.
“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.
“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.
“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”
“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.
Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”
Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”
“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”
Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.
The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.
The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.
“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.
The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.
“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”
“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”
Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.
John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.
John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”
Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”
Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”
“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.
Bucky’s jaw clenches.
Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.
His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.
You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.
The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.
Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“I’ll go.”
📝 this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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꒰ wc ꒱ 20k words
꒰ summary꒱ bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), college au, situationship, bucky pov, avoidant!reader, lovesick!bucky, mutual pining, asshole!bucky miscommunication, commitment issues, yearning!bucky, toxic relationship, reader is emotionally avoidant, alcohol and weed use, unprotected piv sex, drunk sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, rough sex, dirty talk, jealousy, bucky goes through ittt,
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
it has been such an honour being apart of this collab. i love it so much. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for hosting this beautiful cutesy collab, and putting all this effort and thought in, love you bwabies. on another note this fic has also been the bane of my existence. literally created this fic for one scene in mind, only to not add it because i didnt have time, im actually devastated.
anyway enjoy my loves <3
BWAT MASTERLIST — MASTERLIST
divider by my bby @barnesonly
The night was going perfectly until you walked in.
Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.
Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.
The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didn’t remember starting, let alone winning.
He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.
Some girl he couldn’t name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.
Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.
The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.
It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.
A girl from Tony’s econ class—Eden… or Edith, he couldn’t remember—had her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.
The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didn’t need to hear to understand.
Bucky let himself be pulled.
One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.
Then the front door opened.
He didn’t hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Sam’s drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle he’d smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.
But Bucky’s head turned anyway.
Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.
You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natasha’s forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.
You hadn’t seen him yet.
That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.
Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girl’s wrist.
He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.
Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder.
“Oh, here we fucking go.”
He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldn’t stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.
Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat she’d had a lock on before the front door opened.
She didn’t know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.
Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like she’d already become background noise.
She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.
He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.
And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.
The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.
He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew he’d be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.
“—and I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you can’t fit it through the door, it’s not coming home with us.’ And I said, ‘Watch me.’”
“That did not happen, Lang,” Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.
“On Hope’s life it did,” Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. “Would I lie to you girls?”
The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.
“Ladies,” he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.
“For fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Bucky’s focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.
He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.
“Party started at nine,” he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “It’s almost twelve. What’s your excuse?”
You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. “You’ve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?”
He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. “Whatever, doll.”
The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.
“And where is this from?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.
Bucky’s brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.
“Barton.” He said it flatly, like it was obvious. “Got bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.”
He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didn’t want to say some girl blonde chick whose face he’d already forgotten. Didn’t want to see that hint of something—jealousy? disappointment?—cross your features. Even if he wasn’t sure it would.
Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.
“Come with me.”
You didn’t move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.
“I just got here, Buck. Don’t be rude.”
He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.
“May I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?” He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.
Gamora didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.
It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.
“Just bring her back in one piece,” Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “Preferably still clothed.”
Bucky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasn’t about to give you the chance.
He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d won.
“Where are you taking me, Bucky?” you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.
“You’ll see,” he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.
Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.
By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.
Bucky’s room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.
He didn’t spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.
You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky,” you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. “You’re a pig.”
Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didn’t bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.
“Crash here tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, “and you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.”
His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.
“You wish, Barnes.”
Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Sweetheart, I wish every damn night.”
He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.
A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. “You know, you’re cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.”
He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Shut up.”
He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.
His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.
When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. “Look what I got.”
You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.
Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.
And God help him, he’d take it. He’d take every scrap of attention you threw his way.
“On a scale of one to ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’,” you asked, tilting your head, “where exactly are you right now, Bucky?”
He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.
“Enough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.
You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. “And I’m doing it anyway.”
He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.
“C’mon. Let’s get high.”
Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.
Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.
He’d stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.
“That was my last,” you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.
You didn’t bother aiming it away from him. He wished you’d blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.
“No such thing as ‘last’ with me, sweetheart.” His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. “You started this. Gotta finish what you started.”
He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.
“You’re such a bad influence on me, Barnes.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. “I’m the bad influence?”
He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. “Baby, I’m just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. You’re the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like I’m your favourite toy.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
“If anyone’s the devil here, sweetheart… it’s definitely you.”
Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.
“Shut up,” you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.
The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.
“Make me.”
The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if that’s what it took.
Your eyes dropped to his lips.
Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.
He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.
But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.
Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.
“As fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Nat’s gonna send a search party if I’m gone much longer.”
You didn’t wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.
Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.
He didn’t give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.
“You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”
Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “Pay for what?”
“Leaving a man hanging.” His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. “Making me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.”
You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. “Poor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you can’t just charm your way into.”
His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.
But something in him snagged on it anyway.
Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.
Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.
Bucky’s thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.
“Maybe I’m not trying to charm my way into it.”
Your smile didn’t fall all at once. That would’ve been merciful.
It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadn’t agreed to.
Bucky should’ve stopped there.
He knew he should’ve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.
But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.
So he kept going.
“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”
Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.
For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.
Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.
“Bucky.”
He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.
“What?” he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.
“You’re drunk.”
He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. “Yeah, you said that already.”
“And high.”
“And still not stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.
Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.
There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.
Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.
His stomach dropped before you even spoke.
“I should go back downstairs.”
Of course.
Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.
“Right.”
Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. “Act like I did something.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.
Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasn’t pretty.
“You didn’t,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”
Something flashed across your face.
Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.
Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
Your voice was quieter when you said, “I was just joking with you.”
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. “You’re good at that.”
The air stalled between you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.
Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.
That was the worst part.
You would let him.
You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.
And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.
Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.
“Go on, then,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Nat’s waiting, right?”
Your eyes lifted to his.
He could tell you didn’t like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didn’t seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.
But you still went.
You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.
At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.
Then you paused.
“Buck?”
He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.
You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.
Instead, you gave him a small smile.
“Don’t sulk too much.”
Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.
Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.
Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.
“Yeah,” he muttered to the cluttered room. “Sure.”
Bucky hated spring festivals.
That was a lie.
Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.
Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.
Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.
Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.
Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldn’t muster the energy to care about.
Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.
“He wore a wig, man,” Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. “Like that was supposed to make people forget he’s still Clint fucking Barton.”
Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. “The volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.”
“She panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.”
Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someone’s shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.
He wasn’t hearing any of it properly.
His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.
Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He was not looking for you.
He wasn’t.
He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.
He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.
He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didn’t.
If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.
He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.
No.
This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.
“You good?” Steve asked.
Bucky blinked.
The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadn’t realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.
They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.
The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.
“What?”
Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. “He lives.”
“I’m good,” Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.
“You sure?” Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.
“Christ, Rogers, I said I’m good.”
Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. “Nobody said you weren’t. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.”
Bucky looked over.
Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.
The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like she’d been caught stealing.
Great. Perfect.
Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.
“I’m getting a drink,” he muttered.
“From the lemonade stand?” Sam asked.
“Fuck off.”
Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.
The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.
Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.
A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.
Normally, it would have been easy.
Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.
Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasn’t entertained by the whole spectacle.
That was what pissed him off most.
Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.
Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.
Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.
Good.
He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.
“Bucky!”
He turned, half out of reflex.
A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.
She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.
Her name was Mia.
Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.
Bucky smiled anyway.
There. Easy. He could do easy. He’d been doing easy his whole damn life.
“Hey,” he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, “You runnin’ this scam?”
She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. “It’s not a scam. You’re just bad at aiming.”
“That’s hurtful. I’m great at aiming.”
“Prove it, then.”
Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.
Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.
Bucky noticed.
He also noticed that he felt nothing.
Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.
He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.
But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.
He threw the first ring.
The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.
Mia laughed, bright and sharp. “Great at aiming, huh?”
“Wind interference,” he said, already reaching for the next one.
“There is no wind.” She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.
“Spiritual wind, then.”
Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.
She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didn’t have to work for.
He should have wanted that.
He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.
But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldn’t stop chasing.
Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.
Nat’s laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.
It wasn’t yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she was…
Bucky’s whole body went tight.
The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.
He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.
Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.
And there you were.
By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.
You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes.
You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.
Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.
After that, Mia became background noise.
Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.
But background noise all the same.
Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.
He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex he’d honed over years of easy conquests.
He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.
It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.
Nothing.
Worse than nothing.
Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didn’t catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didn’t hook into something raw and leave him breathless.
Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.
She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.
And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.
You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.
Mia said something. He missed it entirely.
“Right,” Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.
Her brows lifted, “You have no idea what I just said.”
He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. “I was distracted by your beauty.”
She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.
His gaze still slid over her shoulder.
You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.
Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.
You were not looking at him.
Good. Fine.
Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.
Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. “Spiritual wind again?”
“Violent spiritual wind.” He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.
“You’re terrible at this.” Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.
Bucky let it.
He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.
Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.
He did not need you.
He didn’t.
He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.
So maybe you should see that.
Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.
Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.
Your eyes moved.
Just once.
A quick glance over Natasha’s shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.
Bucky should have felt triumphant.
He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.
Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.
Because you did not look angry.
You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.
And that was worse.
Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.
Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.
“You want to try again?”
No.
The word cut through him clean and fast.
He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasn’t allowed to cross.
He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like that—like he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone else’s hand rest on his arm.
He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.
He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.
He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.
“You know what?” His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. “I’m gonna quit while I still have some dignity.”
Mia laughed, “You had dignity?”
“Once. Briefly.” He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. “Freshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.”
She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.
All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.
Instead, he stepped back.
“See you around, Mia.”
Her face flickered. The smile didn’t drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.
“Maya,” she corrected.
Fuck.
Bucky blinked.
He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?
“Right. Maya.” He let the apology bleed into his voice. “Sorry.”
Her smile thinned.
Bucky deserved that too.
He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.
For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.
He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.
He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judges’ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being “the same small blond criminal in a wig.”
The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.
He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Bucky’s entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.
He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.
That was the pathetic part.
His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.
By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.
Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasn’t intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.
But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldn’t seem to coax from you.
He was exhausting.
But he couldn’t stop.
By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.
The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.
Bucky had finally lost sight of you.
At first, he told himself it was a relief.
Good.
Great.
Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.
He lasted thirty seconds.
Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.
Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
You were not beside her.
Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.
Bucky looked away immediately.
His pulse hammered in his throat.
Fuck.
He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.
“Hey.”
Bucky turned too fast.
And there you were.
Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.
For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.
The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.
Then you smiled at him.
Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.
He did not trust himself to name it.
“They messed up my order,” you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. “Gave me hazelnut instead of caramel.”
Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.
You held the cup out toward him.
“I remembered hazelnut’s your favourite.”
That was all.
One sentence.
One stupid fucking coffee.
And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.
He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.
Instead, he took the coffee.
His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.
“Thanks,” he said.
The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.
Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.
“You haven’t talked to me all day.”
Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.
“Been busy.”
“I saw.”
The straw stopped against his lips.
There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.
He took a sip to give himself something to do.
Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.
Of course you remembered.
He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.
“Did you?”
Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.
“Bucky.”
He hated that too. The softness. The warning.
“What?” he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.
“You’re being weird.”
He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. “I’m being weird?”
Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.
That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.
But you did not.
You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.
Then you said, “Are you mad at me?”
He was finished.
He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.
Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.
He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.
“Why would I be mad?” he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.
You did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you weren’t ready to say.
When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.
“I don’t know,” you said, and your voice was thinner now. “I thought maybe the other night…”
You trailed off.
The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.
Bucky’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You weren’t pretending it hadn’t happened, weren’t going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.
“You thought maybe what?”
Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”
The words went straight through him.
Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.
Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.
And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.
His anger lost its shape.
It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.
Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.
“You didn’t,” he lied.
Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.
He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.
“Fine,” he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. “Maybe a little.”
Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.
Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
“You always apologise with beverages?”
“Only when I’m feeling generous.”
“Dangerous habit.” He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. “I’m very bribable.”
Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.
All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.
“You’re cheap,” you said.
“Not cheap.” He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. “Accessible.”
“That’s worse.”
“You say that like you’re not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.”
“Seven fifty,” you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. “Campus pricing is criminal.”
He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.
Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.
Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.
His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.
Bucky ignored him.
He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.
A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.
Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.
“You wanna go on a ride?”
You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.
“With you?”
“Don’t sound so horrified.”
“I’m not horrified.” You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. “I’m considering the risk.”
Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.”
You looked at him for a second too long.
Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.
“Fine,” you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”
Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.
“Good,” he said, “Then at least you’d be consistent.”
For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.
A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parents’ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.
First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.
Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as “intimate” in the same way someone might call a riot “spirited,” given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.
Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.
Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were “essential to the ecosystem” despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.
Bucky had always loved it.
How could he not?
It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.
Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.
Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.
And this year was supposed to be the best one.
Senior year.
The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.
Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.
The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.
Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.
Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.
Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. ”Stop making the trip sad, Rogers. You’re gonna manifest a bad vibe.”
Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.
He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they weren’t looking.
Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.
Like the fact that you were coming.
Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadn’t checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadn’t hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.
He hadn’t carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than he’d ever admit.
He was just excited for the trip.
That was all.
The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.
The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.
The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.
Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.
“My children,” he called as soon as the car doors opened. “You made it.”
Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. “You say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.”
“I survived being seated beside Barton,” Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. “Which is worse.”
Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. “I heard that, Stark.”
“You were meant to.”
Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.
Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tony’s parties never waited for the host.
Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.
No other car yet.
He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.
Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.
“Subtle,” he said, the word drawn out.
Bucky frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.” Sam’s grin widened, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.
Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Sam’s teasing.
Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.
“I’m getting a room before all the good ones are gone.”
Tony scoffed. “Please. Your rooms are assigned. I’m not running a hostel.”
Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. “You assigned rooms?”
“Obviously.” Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. “I’m not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people don’t know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.”
Clint, trailing behind, muttered, “That was one time.”
“It was twice,” Tony shot back, not looking back.
The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.
A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.
Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.
Tried and failed.
Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where he’d have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?
Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. “Rogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.”
Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Damn.”
Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. “This is excessive.”
“That’s the family motto,” Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “There’s food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Don’t break the bed, I’ll know.”
Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.
The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.
He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.
The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.
Down below, the patio had already started filling.
Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.
A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.
Still no you.
He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.
Fine.
He had time.
He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.
Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.
“Don’t start,” Bucky said, not turning around.
Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “I just came to tell you Tony’s making drinks downstairs.”
“Great.”
“And to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.” Sam’s voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.
Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. “I know how to have fun, Sam.”
“Historically, yes.”
Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.
He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. “What are we talking about?”
“Nothing,” Bucky said.
“His disease,” Sam said at the same time.
Bucky stared at him. “My what?”
Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Symptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.”
Steve sighed. “Sam.”
“What? He needs medical attention.”
Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“See? Irritability. Another symptom.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. “I’m not doing this all weekend.”
“Good.” Sam’s voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, “Don’t.”
It was said lightly, but not entirely.
Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.
Sam’s shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.
Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.
He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.
But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t force them out.
So he said nothing.
From downstairs, Tony’s voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. “First round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!”
Sam clapped his hands once. “Saved by alcoholism.”
Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.
Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.
Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.
Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted God’s plan for her evening.
Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.
It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.
Perfect.
He tipped his head back and drank half of it.
By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.
The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.
Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.
Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.
He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Sam’s shoulder and Steve’s long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.
Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.
Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.
Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.
Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.
“Too pretty to die on Tony Stark’s imported marble,” Sam had said.
Bucky had laughed in his face.
Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.
And you had seen it.
You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.
Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.
It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.
You weren’t ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.
Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.
You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.
And fuck, you looked good.
That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.
You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.
The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.
A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.
Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.
He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.
He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.
You wandered back to him sometime after Tony’s third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.
Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.
“No.”
You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. “No?”
“I challenged Thor,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.”
“That was stupid,” you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m acutely aware.”
Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.
You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. “Come on, Buck,” you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. “One more. Just for me.”
He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.
Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.
“Fine,” he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.
The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.
You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.
Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. “Awful, right?”
“Awful,” you croaked, coughing once into your fist.
“You brought it to me,” he pointed out, still grinning.
“I wanted you to suffer with me,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.
“Romantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.” The words came out rougher than he meant them.
He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.
You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.
Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.
He didn’t think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.
“You’re drunk,” you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.
“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.
“Mm. Maybe.” You didn’t pull away.
“Definitely.”
“You always this handsy when you’re drunk, Barnes?” The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.
Bucky’s thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.
He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. “No,” he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. “Just when you’re dressed like that.”
You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.
“I think I need to call it a night.”
Bucky’s head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.
“No.” The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. “No, no, no.”
You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.
“It’s only eleven,” he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. “Party’s gonna go on for another couple of hours.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Don’t leave me alone.”
Your smile curved against his neck. “There’s like forty other people here, Buck. I’m sure you won’t be that lonely.”
He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. “None of them are you.”
The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.
You went quiet for half a second.
Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. “I wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. I’m not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.”
“You’re so boring,” he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldn’t say.
“I’ll let you take me to my room, then.”
Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. “If that’s the only way to keep you with me.”
“It is.”
“Well.” He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. “Who am I to deny a lady?”
“Oh God.”
You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.
Or tried to.
The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.
You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.
The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.
Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.
Bucky ignored all of it.
All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.
“Is this even the right way?” you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.
“Yes.”
“You’re lost.”
“I’m exploring Malibu.”
“That is not what that means.”
He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.
By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Bucky’s pulse kicked harder.
He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.
The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.
You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.
“This is not my room, Buck.”
Bucky blinked.
Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.
“Oh.”
He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.
“Oops.”
You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.
“I cannot believe you,” you said.
“Honest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.”
“Sure.”
You should have turned around.
You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.
Instead, you walked farther in.
Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.
You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.
The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.
You looked obscene.
You looked perfect.
Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.
Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.
Thrown off.
Completely, catastrophically fucked.
“You’re in my bed,” he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.
You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.
“So I am.”
Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.
The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.
He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.
He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.
“C’mon, get up. Let me take you to your room.”
“Mhm-mhm,” you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.
You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water.
Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. “But I’m so comfortable here, Buck.”
His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.
“You gonna get me in trouble, honey.” The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t let me do this.
You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
“Yeah?” you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. “How?”
You weren’t just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.
“For fuck’s sake,” he heard himself mutter.
He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.
He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.
The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.
Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.
He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
He couldn’t get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.
Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.
He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.
“We’re drunk,” he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didn’t want to make. “We... we shouldn’t do this.”
And then he felt it.
One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.
Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
“But I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Don’t you?”
Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.
He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.
They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.
And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.
The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.
His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.
A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.
Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid he’d disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.
But he couldn’t get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.
He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.
“Sit tight, honey,” he breathed.
His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.
His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.
“Tell me to stop, baby.” The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. “Tell me to fucking stop.”
You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.
“Please don’t stop, Bucky.” Your voice cracked, “Please. I’ll die.”
The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.
But first, he needed to see you.
He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.
He stared.
It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.
She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.
A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.
“Bucky.” Your voice was a whine, “Stop staring. You’re making me shy.”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.
He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.
“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was a murmur against your flesh, “She’s just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.”
You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. “Really?”
He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.
Then he went for the kill.
He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.
Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.
He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.
You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.
You didn’t need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.
He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.
“Want another one, sweetheart?” His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.
You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. “Stop fucking with me, Bucky.”
He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. “Don’t wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.”
He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist.
Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.
He didn’t give you a second to recover.
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.
He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.
Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.
He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.
And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.
He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.
“Let me suck your cock.”
You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.
“No, no, no, no.” He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. “No, sweetheart, just—stay—let me—”
You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.
“If you even breathe on my cock, I’ll cum on the spot. I promise.” His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. “Please. Not tonight. Just let me have you. I’ve been waiting for this—waiting for you.”
You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.
He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.
Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.
He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.
And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.
“You’re really that desperate for me?”
Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.
You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. “Okay, baby.”
He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude… and then his eyes flew wide.
Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.
He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.
He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldn’t even muster the shame to wipe it away.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.
It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.
Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises.
“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Stay still for me. Just… keep still.”
You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.
“Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”
You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. “I can’t help it, Bucky.”
And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.
Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steve’s ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.
He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay. Go ahead, baby.”
You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.
Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.
All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.
Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, he’d die the happiest man alive.
This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought he’d ever had.
And then he realised.
You were still wearing that top.
The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.
Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didn’t even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.
Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. “Bucky!”
“’M sorry.”
The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.
The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.
“Needed to see them,” he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. “Needed to feel them.”
A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.
But he needed more.
The angle wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t be buried deep enough inside you.
Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.
A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.
Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. “I need you to cum,” he grunted against your skin. “Please, baby. Need it.”
“Huh?” The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.
“Cum now,” he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Shit… now.”
He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.
There. He’d found it.
“Right there, Bucky—right there—”
The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.
He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.
Then you broke.
He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.
Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
It was enough to push him over.
Bucky let go.
His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming… violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.
He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.
For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.
Then his body went lax.
He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.
And then—
“You’re not gonna be weird about this, are you?”
The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.
You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.
Like you hadn’t just carved something out of him.
Bucky went still.
He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.
The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.
Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.
Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.
Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.
The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.
He had let himself think—
No.
He didn’t get to finish that thought.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.
“Weird?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Me?”
Your mouth curved, “Yeah. You.”
He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.
“Sweetheart, I’m the most normal guy you know.”
A beat. “That is deeply untrue.”
You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. It’s fine. Keep it light.
He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didn’t push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadn’t hit him like a fist.
Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.
The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.
Still, he didn’t move away.
His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.
Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.
“Relax,” he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. “I’m not gonna propose before breakfast.”
Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.
Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. “Good.”
Good.
Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.
“Would’ve been a nice proposal, though.” He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldn’t stop picking at the bruise. “Real romantic. Me, you, Tony’s guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. “Probably.”
Your smile flickered.
There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.
Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.
Instead, your gaze dropped first.
“I just don’t want things to get complicated.”
Bucky stared at you.
Complicated.
You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.
And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.
He nodded once. “Right.”
Your eyes flicked back to him. “Buck—”
“No, I get it.”
He didn’t get it, yet he got it perfectly.
Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.
He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.
And he did try. God, he tried.
He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.
The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.
Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.
And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.
Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.
He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.
Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.
You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.
He hated you a little then.
The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.
He hated you.
Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.
Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadn’t spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.
Selfish, he thought.
And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.
Selfish fucking brat.
You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.
The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.
Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.
He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.
Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.
And Bucky melted.
He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.
Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.
His throat tightened.
“You’re so fucking confusing,” he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.
He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.
His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.
The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.
And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.
He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.
Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadn’t been inside you, like you hadn’t held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.
Instead, he held you tighter.
Because this was still more than he had before.
Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.
His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.
You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.
And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.
He would take it because he didn’t know how to stop.
Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. “I won’t be weird.”
a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at what’s going through reader’s mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS
farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader [26.2k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival; reader uses jamie a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.
A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy!
series masterlist
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES
Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.
Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.
And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.
You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.
Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.
“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”
Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.
Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.
He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.
You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”
Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”
Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.
You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.
“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”
No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.
Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.
Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?
Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.
The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”
You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.
Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.
There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.
Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.
“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”
You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.
“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.
The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.
Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.
“Watch your head.”
You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.
As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.
“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”
You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.
“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”
Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.
In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.
“You look lovely tonight.”
That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.
The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.
His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.
“There’s my pretty girl.”
Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.
“I missed you so much, baby.”
You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.
His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”
You nod eagerly.
“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.
Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.
“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”
You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.
Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.
“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.
“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”
When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.
“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.
You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.
“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.
From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.
And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.
“You wearing the brown boots today?”
You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.
“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE PICTURES TOGETHER
The local coffee shop is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.
You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.
In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.
It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.
The contrast is cute rather than discordant.
You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.
You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.
“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.
You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.
“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”
It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.
So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.
The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure.
“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”
His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.
“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”
His brows draw together. “Went off how?”
Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.
“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”
You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.
“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.
You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”
“The art teacher.”
You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.
“Yeah.”
He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.
“I remember.”
“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.
“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”
You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”
Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”
“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.
“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.
For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.
Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.
“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.
“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.
“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”
You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”
That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.
“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.
You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.
“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”
You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.
“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”
Bucky’s expression softens instantly.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”
He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.
“C’mere.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward his lap.
“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.
The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.
Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.
“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.
“I’m not.” You insist weakly.
Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.
“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”
Your face burns.
“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.
“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”
The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.
The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.
A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.
“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.
You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.
“They came out pretty nice, huh?”
You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.
“Thank you, Jamie.”
The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.
“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”
Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.
“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.
You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.
You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.
The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.
“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.
A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.
“Send me those pictures later.”
You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”
That earns you a look.
“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”
You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.
Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.
Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR HIS CLOTHES
Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.
The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.
The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.
There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.
With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.
You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.
For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.
“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”
Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.
On his flannel wrapped around your body.
His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”
The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.
Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.
“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.
Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”
“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.
“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”
“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”
“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.
Your eyes widen. “What—no!”
A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.
“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”
You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.
“You’re exaggerating.”
A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”
Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was simply checking how it fit.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.
“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.
“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.
“Ain’t.”
“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.
“Not anymore.”
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.
“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”
Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.
He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”
“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.
“Mhm.”
“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.
“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.
“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.
That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”
You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”
His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.
“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”
You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”
“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”
“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.
“Means I make the laws around here.”
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.
“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.
“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.
You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”
At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.
Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.
His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.
Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.
“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”
Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.
“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.
The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.
“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls.
“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.
“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.
“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze.
Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly.
First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.
“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.
“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses.
You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.
“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”
“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.
Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.
“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.
When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.
“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”
You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.
Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.
“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?
Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”
“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”
You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy.
“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.
It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.
“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.
“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.
Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.
It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.
His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair.
“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”
Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”
He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.
“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”
“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”
Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.
“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?”
Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.
“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”
Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.
Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.
“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK
By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.
You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.
Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.
And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.
And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.
It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.
Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.
Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?
So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.
But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.
Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.
You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.
“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.
You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”
Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.
“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”
“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.
A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.
“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”
“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.
That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.
“Baby—”
“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”
Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.
“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”
“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”
His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.
“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.
His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”
There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.
“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.
“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”
“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”
He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”
“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”
“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.
“That’s anxiety.”
“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”
“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”
You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.
“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”
Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.
“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”
“To who? A bowling ball?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.
A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.
“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.
You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.
“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.
His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”
And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.
Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.
Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.
And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.
You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.
His large, warm palm tilted upward.
Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?
Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.
Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.
Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.
Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.
Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.
You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.
His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.
“What?”
Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.
“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”
The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.
A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.
You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.
From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.
“Steve!” He whispers sharply.
The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.
“What.”
“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”
Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST
Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.
One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.
And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.
“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”
His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.
“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”
Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.
By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.
Eat something besides crackers today.
This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.
At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.
“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”
“I know you can.”
The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.
“Then why are you doing all this?”
That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.
“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”
“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”
Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”
“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”
Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.
“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.
You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.
“This is tea.”
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.
“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”
Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”
The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.
“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”
And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.
Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.
There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.
By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.
You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.
Already driving
12:22am
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.
“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.
And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.
“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.
His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.
“You ate dinner?”
The hesitation on your face answers for you.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.
“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”
There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”
Your shoulders visibly lower a little.
“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”
And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.
You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.
“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.
Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”
“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”
“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.
Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw.
“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.
“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”
“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”
You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.
Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.
“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”
“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”
“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”
His grin only grows as he reaches you.
“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”
Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.
“Bucky!”
“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.
“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.
“I know you could.”
His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.
“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.
This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.
“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.
“I know you can, baby.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.
He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.
You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.
“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”
Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.
The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.
“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”
You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.
“C’mere, baby.”
And just like always, you go.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD
For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.
Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.
His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.
“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.
“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.
“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”
His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”
You step closer without thinking.
“You wanna help?”
You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”
The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.
“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”
And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.
“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.
You nod silently.
“Then stay.”
Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.
After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.
“Hold this for me.”
“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”
“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”
At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.
One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.
“I’m fucking useless.”
Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.
“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”
You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.
“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”
You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.
Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.
The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.
Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.
His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.
Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”
Bucky snorts softly without looking up.
“I’m working , sweetheart.”
“Mhm.”
He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”
You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.
“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.
Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.
You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.
“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”
This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.
“Oh, so that’s what this is?”
You try to appear unbothered. “What?”
“You being a needy girl.”
Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.
“I am not needy.” You insist.
His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend.
“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.
The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.
“Oh, you’re trouble today.”
You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.
“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”
You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.
“You’re playing with fire, doll.”
You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”
His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.
“I need you, Jamie.”
And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.
“Jamie—”
“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.
Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.
“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.
“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing.
“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed.
See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.
And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.
By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further.
Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.
You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.
The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.
Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.
“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”
“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.
You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”
“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.
“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”
There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.
“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”
You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.
Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.
“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”
Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.
You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”
He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.
“Mhm.”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”
The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.
“You need ice.”
“Mhm.”
“And water.”
“Probably.”
“And you should sit down for a minute.”
At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.
“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.
You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”
That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.
Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.
“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.
“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.
Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.
“…Little bit.” He decides finally.
Your eyes widen. “You do?”
“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.
You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”
“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”
“You don’t have a concussion.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.
He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”
Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.
“Too cold?” You ask softly.
“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”
You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”
“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.
“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”
That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.
“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.
This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.
“Keep spoiling me like this.”
The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.
“There,” you murmur. “Better?”
Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.
“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND MORNINGS TOGETHER
The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.
You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.
So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.
Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.
“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”
His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.
Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.
“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.
You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.
And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience.
Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.
“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.
The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.
Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?
Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.
Your eyes fly open.
Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.
Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.
Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”
“For falling asleep here.”
“You were tired.” He frowns.
“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.
“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”
You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”
Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.
“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”
Your lips part slightly. “Well—”
“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”
It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.
“I liked waking up next to you.”
The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.
“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.
“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.
“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”
“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.
“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.
“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”
The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.
“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.
“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”
Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.
And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”
The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.
“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it.
Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.
He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.
Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.
“Morning, baby.”
His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.
Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.
“What happened?”
You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”
Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.
“Show me.”
You turn in surprise. “What?”
“Show me what you gotta do.”
“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.
“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”
So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.
“This all for one class?”
“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.
Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.
At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.
“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”
You blink once. “Yes?”
He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”
“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.
Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.
“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”
You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.
“Is that a frog?”
You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”
“He encourages them.”
Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.
“Good for him.”
After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.
By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.
“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.
Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”
He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.
A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.
“Oh no.”
The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.
“No, no, no, no—”
Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”
He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.
“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”
But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—
Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”
Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“Sweetheart.”
You barely hear him.
“Where are my tights? Fuck—”
The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.
“Sit down for me.”
The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.
“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.
“You got thirty seconds.”
“Bucky—”
“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”
And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.
Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.
“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“What about bottoms?”
“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”
A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”
“They’re different.”
“Mhm. I’m learning.”
He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.
“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”
Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”
“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”
And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.
By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.
“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.
“Bucky—”
He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.
“C’mere.”
You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
“You need protein.”
You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”
“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”
You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”
That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”
He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.
He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.
“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.
Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”
“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”
The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.
“A little.” You nod reluctantly.
“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.
“You got everything?”
You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”
“That usually means no.”
You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”
He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.
“You forgot to fill this.”
“Oh.” You frown.
“And your portable charger.”
“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.
“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”
Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.
“Why won’t this stupid thing—”
Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.
“There.”
Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.
You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.
You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.
“You did good.”
You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”
“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”
He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.
He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.
“Now go teach your little gremlins.”
“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.
His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”
“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.
“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”
You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME
Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.
That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.
You don’t even think before stepping in.
“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”
One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”
He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.
“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”
You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”
That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”
He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.
And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.
Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.
The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.
“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”
The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.
“Try again.”
Silence.
Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”
The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.
His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.
“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”
You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”
Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“He’s still a student.”
His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”
With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon.
“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.
“Didn’t look like you did.”
The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.
Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?
You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.
“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.
Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove.
“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”
“I did help.” You frown at his back.
“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”
That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.
“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.
Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.
“I didn’t say you don’t.”
But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.
You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.
“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.
“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.
He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.
“C’mere a second, baby.”
You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.
Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.
But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.
“We’re not doing silence, okay?”
Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”
“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs.
“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”
The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.
“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”
“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.
“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”
You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”
Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer.
“Then help me understand.”
Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.
And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.
“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”
You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”
“But I still made you feel that way.”
That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.
Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.
“C’mere, babygirl.”
You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”
“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.
“You still flinched.”
The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.
“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”
Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh.
“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter.
“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart.
“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you.
Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.
“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little.
“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”
Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.
“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”
You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.
The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.
“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”
Your arms tighten around him at that.
“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”
A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.
Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”
You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”
“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.
“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”
You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.
“That sounds very therapist of you.”
Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”
A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.
“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”
You nod slowly. “I can do that.”
“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.
“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.
His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his.
“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.
He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.
“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”
Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.
Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.
“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.
“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.
“You alright?”
The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.
“Were you scared of me?”
You almost flinch back. “What?”
“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”
You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”
“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”
You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.
“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”
You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.
“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”
“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.
“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”
You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”
His expression softens at the full name.
“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you.
“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.”
“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”
He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.
“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.
That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER
You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.
“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”
Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.
Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.
He pretends to find it deeply offensive.
“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.
“She sees you every day.”
“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”
Tonight is no different.
“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.
“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”
From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.
“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.
“You say that like you’re any better.”
The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.
“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.
“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”
“Mmh, that’s not true.”
“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”
You frown. “She was sick.”
“She had dust on her nose.”
You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.
Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”
“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”
“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.
“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”
You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”
Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.
“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.
“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.
Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”
His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.
“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”
Your breath catches quietly.
“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.
“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”
You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.
Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.
“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”
Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”
Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.
“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.
“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.
“Any future is right if you’re in it.”
Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.
“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”
You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.
“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.
And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.
Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.
“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”
— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
summary: frank arrives home after a long day of dispensing justice. instead of finding his girlfriend's arms around him, he's met with her indifference as she's busy reading a smutty book.
warnings: +18 explicit smut. unprotected sex. rough sex. brief, very brief, orgasm restraint. p in v. couch sex (yeah). swearing. oral (f receiving). frank is jealous during sex, yes.
content: frank is jealous of a smut book. just smut, okay? lmao.
word count: +5k
a/n: one-shot thanks to this request! i apologize for the delay. <3
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Frank had forgotten what silence was supposed to feel like.
For years it had meant the few seconds after pulling a trigger, the ringing left inside his ears after an explosion, the heavy pause between one interrogation and the next while another man decided whether dying was preferable to talking. Silence had never been peaceful. It had always carried the weight of another corpse, another confession, another night that refused to end.
Tonight was no different.
His knuckles ached beneath dried blood that wasn’t his. A shallow cut stretched across his forearm where a knife had managed to find skin before he’d broken the man’s wrist. His back protested beneath the familiar weight of his vest, and every muscle in his body reminded him that he wasn’t thirty anymore.
He barely noticed.
Pain had long ago stopped asking permission before settling into his bones.
The apartment building appeared at the end of the block exactly where it always did, its windows glowing softly against the New York night. Frank climbed the stairs two at a time despite the exhaustion pulling at his legs, already picturing what waited beyond the front door. Maybe you’d be asleep on the couch again, pretending you hadn’t been waiting for him. Maybe you’d have burned dinner because you’d become distracted by whatever book currently occupied your entire personality. Maybe you’d hear his boots outside and throw yourself at him before he even had the chance to complain that you ought to be sleeping.
It happened almost every night.
The first pair of arms around his neck.
The quiet kiss against his jaw.
Your ridiculous habit of greeting him as though he’d returned from work instead of from beating information out of men who deserved far worse.
He never admitted how much he’d grown to expect it.
Maybe because admitting it would mean accepting that somewhere along the way he’d developed routines again. Small ones. Domestic ones. Dangerous ones.
Frank Castle wasn’t supposed to miss being welcomed home.
And yet...
The thought alone was enough to loosen something inside his chest before he’d even unlocked the apartment door.
The lock clicked open with the familiar metallic sound that usually announced your smile long before he heard your footsteps.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Frank stepped inside without bothering to turn on another light. The apartment was already bathed in the warm amber glow of the lamp beside the couch, filling the small living room with the kind of quiet most people would’ve called peaceful. He shut the door behind him with his shoulder, dropped the duffel bag carrying the weight of another night’s worth of violence onto the floor, and stood there for a moment, waiting.
Nothing.
No hurried footsteps crossing the apartment.
No cheerful “Frank?”
No arms wrapping around his neck before he’d even managed to take off his boots.
His brow furrowed almost immediately.
You were there. He could see you from where he stood, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch beneath the blanket you always stole from the bedroom. One leg was tucked beneath you, your nose nearly buried between the pages of an embarrassingly thick smutty romance novel, so completely absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed the front door opening.
For a brief second, Frank wondered whether he’d somehow managed to come home quieter than usual.
Then he noticed the mug of tea resting on the coffee table beside you, still steaming gently.
You were awake.
You simply hadn’t looked at him.
Something unexpectedly sour settled in his stomach.
It was ridiculous.
Completely irrational.
He’d spent the last four hours dragging information out of men whose names wouldn’t survive the week. One had laughed at him until Frank had introduced his face to a concrete floor. Another had cried. A third had begged. By the time he’d gotten what he wanted, his patience had disappeared somewhere between broken furniture and bloodstained walls. His shoulders ached, his ribs complained every time he inhaled too deeply, and dried blood—not his own—had stiffened across the sleeves of his shirt.
All he had wanted during the drive home was you.
Just you.
The thought had carried him through the entire night with embarrassing ease. He’d pictured your sleepy smile, the inevitable little lecture about tracking dirt across the floor, the way you’d wrinkle your nose before pretending the blood didn’t bother you as much as it did. You always kissed him first and scolded him second. It had become a ritual neither of you had ever spoken aloud.
Tonight, that ritual had been interrupted by four hundred pages and what looked like an offensively handsome man on the book’s cover (was it a fairy man?).
Frank stared at it for another second.
“You’re kiddin’ me,” he snorted, as he took off his bulletproof vest and dropped it to the ground without a care.
You hummed absentmindedly, turning another page.
That was it.
A low grunt escaped him before he bent to remove the knife from his belt, setting it beside the duffel with more force than necessary. His boots echoed heavily against the hardwood as he crossed the room, yet even then your attention never left the book.
“Hey.”
You lifted one finger. “One second.”
Frank blinked.
One second?
His jaw shifted.
He had waited outside warehouses in the freezing rain for six hours without moving. He had spent days tracking men across three states. Patience wasn’t foreign to him.
But waiting for a damn smutty novel?
That felt personal.
Frank trudged toward the kitchen, hoping you’d at least say something more, but you remained engrossed in your reading, lost in magical, obscene words. It was insulting that your attention was drawn to some unreal fairy man and not to him, not to your man.
It was absurd. It wasn’t as if Frank was jealous; he was simply annoyed that… you weren’t paying him any attention.
With that thought, Frank quickly washed his hands to remove the blood. One rule Frank Castle had was that he wouldn’t touch you with dirty hands, not with the remnants of the executioner’s justice. He couldn’t defile his sweet girl like that. You didn’t deserve that.
But once his hands were clean? That was another matter.
“Lemme get this straight…” he muttered, stopping beside the couch. “That damn thing’s got more of your attention than I do?”
You smiled to yourself at something you’d just read. “I’ll answer in a minute.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, will ya?”
There wasn’t any real anger in his voice, only a rough sarcasm that barely concealed something much softer. If anyone else had heard it, they might’ve mistaken it for annoyance.
You would’ve recognized it immediately.
Frank wanted your attention.
Every last bit of it.
“Hey,” he called you again, trying not to seem interested, but there was still no response from you beyond a giggle, probably due to one of those obscene scenes that you liked so much.
He let out a low grunt and snatched the book from your hands. His dark gaze was fixed on you completely, because everything about Frank now belonged to you, down to the smallest particle of his miserable being, which bore your name. It was pathetic, truly pathetic, that part of him was getting annoyed because his girl couldn’t put down her fairy-tale romance novel for a few seconds, but Frank, in this moment, was beyond all logic. Not after a long day where all he’d wanted was to be in your arms.
“That crap’s really more interestin’ than me, darlin’?” he muttered, looking disdainfully at the book cover for a few seconds and then returning his gaze to you.
Your reaction was instantaneous; you clearly didn’t want to interrupt your reading, the very thing that had kept you awake while you waited for Frank.
“Hey!” you exclaimed, getting up from the couch and letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I was at a really good part of the book!” you said. “Give it back, Frankie,” your tone was the same one you used when you didn’t care about getting into trouble, that same tone that drove Frank crazy in different ways.
Oh, you were really in the mood to annoy him. Not only was your priority a book and not him, but now you were standing up for yourself instead of throwing yourself into his arms.
Frank let out a derisive snort, his nose wrinkling as he caught the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to his jacket. He didn’t care about the plot, the characters, or whatever flowery bullshit was written on those pages. All he cared about was the fact that your attention was somewhere else when he needed it.
“Good part, huh?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register.
He approached you with decisive, strong steps. His presence was overwhelming, dominant in the space you shared, but you didn’t move away; instead, you remained planted in your place, letting him press closer, his broad, strong presence crowding your space.
You didn’t hold back or erase that mischievousness so characteristic of yours from your bright eyes; on the contrary, you let Frank present himself to you as the man who filled a room simply by being there, but who was reduced to a disaster because of you.
“Lemme guess. Some pussy-ass poet’s goin’ on ’bout how soft some girl’s lips are... or some poor bastard finally got lucky, huh?” he grunted, staring at you.
He looked at the book again; the cover was a man clearly designed for people whose fantasies lay elsewhere, perhaps for people who didn’t have a man like him to fulfill their desires. He didn’t read the title; he didn’t give a shit about reading now. He simply tossed it onto the coffee table like it was yesterday’s trash. His hands, calloused and rough from years of gripping triggers and breaking bones, slid to your waist, gripping you possessively. He needed to remind you exactly what kind of reality you were dealing with.
“Real shit don’t happen in books, sweetheart,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of gunpowder and cheap coffee. “You want somethin’ that’ll actually stick with you? Somethin’ that actually fucks with your head?” His grip tightened just enough to be commanding, his dark eyes boring into yours with a raw, hungry intensity that no romance novel could ever replicate. “Look at me.”
Frank was usually the kind of man everyone would think was a beast in bed—and he was—but the truth is, he was generally the kind of man who adored your body, who fucked you with a rhythm that wasn’t lethal in the sense of roughness, but rather in precision. For Frank, exploring your body wasn’t a task, but a reality, as natural as breathing. His calloused hands always roamed your body not with the gentleness of a prince, but with the devotion of a knight errant returning to his lady’s arms.
Frank fucked you like no one ever had, but very rarely had he done it in a way that turned adoration into possession.
And you, at this very moment, wet from a silly smut romance novel, wanted to feel under the power of your beloved Frank. You needed to feel the other side he tried to keep buried most of the time.
You looked at him as he instructed, the blush involuntarily rising up your neck to cover the tips of your ears and decorate your cheeks as your eyes locked onto his intense gaze.
Frank noticed the flush creeping up your neck, staining your cheeks a deep crimson. He wasn’t stupid; he could read your body language better than he could read a target through a scope. That blush wasn’t from offense, it was arousal. The way your pupils dilated, the way your breathing hitched just slightly it told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t reading about some noble knight saving a damsel; you were reading about something filthy. It’s not like he didn’t know it before, but your reaction? Yeah, that confirmed it.
A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The cornerstones of his irritation crumbled, replaced by something far more dangerous: genuine interest.
“Fuck,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he realized what you’d been up to. “So that’s what this is, huh? Reading about some fantasy cock while I’m standin’ right here bleeding from my knuckles. You’re really gonna ignore your man for some made-up asshole?”
He didn’t give you time to deflect or make an excuse. His large hand slid from your waist, moving upward until his palm pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the rapid flutter of your heart beneath the fabric of your clothes. He leaned down until your noses brushed, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin.
“You want to read about what it feels like to be fucked properly?” he asked, his words dripping with crude provocation. “You want to know what it’s like when someone doesn’t write about it with pretty fucking metaphors, but actually takes what they want?” his free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. “Tell me. Was the book better than what I’m going to do to you tonight? Does that imaginary cock feel better than mine, princess?”
A gasp escaped your lips when he tugged on your hair. It felt good, the way his firm hand held you and reduced you to this, to a moment in which he took complete control of the atmosphere.
But of course, you were you. You were the one who won Frank Castle over; your attitude didn’t just disappear.
“I don’t know,” you murmured, a defiant smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know if you could fuck better than him,” you said, staring intently into his eyes; a gaze locked, without a flicker of blinking.
Frank’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The sarcasm died, replaced by something far more primal and volatile. That challenge hung in the air between you like gunpowder before a shot, and Frank Castle never backed down from a challenge. He knew you were playing with fire, poking at the beast just to see if it would bite but he wasn’t about to let you win this round. Not today at least, not when he completely needed your attention.
“You really think some ink on paper’s got a shot against me?” he growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert dominance, forcing you to meet his darkened gaze. “You think some made up bastard could make ya scream like you actually mean it? Some made-up son of a bitch who ain’t even real?”
His free hand slid down from your chest, past the curve of your waist, to your crotch. Frank’s calloused, large hand cupped your pussy through your pajama shorts. Firmly, but gently, he squeezed while two of his fingers moved along the covered slit of your intimacy, making sure you felt the length of his fingers caressing that area.
“Yeah... got you all worked up, didn’t it?” he said, with a smile that wasn’t playful, but rather a warning. “Over a damn book, uh? You got turned on reading about a nonexistent cock? Were you plannin’ to plunge your fingers into your pretty pussy while ya waited for me?”
A husky laugh escaped his throat when he saw your blush deepen, and he shook his head, almost as if your dampness were an insult. He didn’t cause it, but an idiot dressed in silk with ears like Legolas’s.
“That book can’t touch ya. It can’t make your thighs shake or make you beg for it like I can. It can’t fill your pussy over and over again, princess, that little bitch can’t even eat your pussy like you deserve,” his lips brushed against yours as he spoke, his words filthy and direct. “I’m gonna make ya forget every word that asshole writer ever wrote. By the time I’m through with ya, you won’t remember a single word that sorry bastard wrote.”
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black military jacket. “Prove it then, Frank,” you whispered, your voice a challenge wrapped in silk. “Show me I’m wrong.”
Frank didn’t need permission. He growled low in his throat and claimed your mouth in a kiss that tasted like desperation and possession. This wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a collision. His tongue invaded your mouth with crude urgency, claiming your territory as he backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the couch.
His saliva mingled with yours, his tongue conquered yours, and your teeth clashed in a dance born of a primal need to remember. To remind you, rather, that you could only get wet thinking about him.
“Jesus... that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” he muttered against your lips, his hands working feverishly. He yanked your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the room. His eyes raked over your soft skin, dark with hunger. “...Christ, you’re beautiful.”
He knelt between your legs, his calloused thumbs rubbing circles into your inner thighs, deliberately working your arousal. When his fingers finally found your slick, swollen clit through your panties, you gasped, your back arching off the cushions. “Frank,” you sighed.
Frank didn’t hesitate to carelessly pull your pajama shorts off. He didn’t care where the fabric fell; at that very moment, he could throw all your clothes out the window just to have you naked and presented to him.
“Shh,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Listen to yourself... already losin’ it” He hooked his fingers under the lace, tearing it aside to expose you completely. He leaned down, his stubble grazing your sensitive flesh as he buried his face between your thighs. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft folds made you cry out, your fingers tangling desperately in his short hair.
Frank drank you in, his tongue working with precise, punishing accuracy, tasting every drop of your arousal. He wanted to hear you unravel, wanted to hear that angelic voice break into something filthy and undone.
Your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth, your legs shaking as Frank’s tongue swirled around your clit with brutal, focused intensity. He was emphasizing his point, the inherent ideal within him that you belonged to him completely, even in fantasies.
“Oh fuck, Frank yes… just right there,” you cried out, your head tossing back against the couch cushions. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks through his shirt as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.
Frank didn’t stop. He wanted to push you further, to drain every ounce of control you thought you had. He swirled his tongue faster, sucking harder on your swollen clit until you were sobbing his name, your cunt milking his tongue with involuntary spasms.
“Look at you, pretty girl” Frank grunted, momentarily pulling his face away from your crotch and using his free hand to run two thick fingers along your wet slit. “A mess…” he chuckled huskily. “Now tell me somethin’... this all because of me…” he asked, his voice dropping lower, “...or that dumb son of a bitch in your little book?”
Frank’s fingers parted your labia, becoming wet with the essence of your arousal and causing the hairs on your body to stand on end at the mere touch.
“F-Fuck off,” you cursed, letting out a trembling sigh as you were denied the sweet sensation of his tongue as you had done moments before.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” his words were accompanied by a firm slap against your pussy. Not hard, but enough to make a gasp of surprise and pleasure escape your lips. “Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.” Two of Frank’s fingers wandered along your slit, pressing near your entrance to tempt you with the idea of being filled, at least, by his fingers now. “Tell me... was it me…” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, “...or that sorry bastard you’ve been readin’ about all night?”
You swallowed hard, the blush that had spread violently across your face being empirical evidence of the mess you were, all because of his tongue, fingers, and words. Even though you were the type of person who didn’t like to back down, the idea of missing out on your orgasm wasn’t something you wanted to think about.
“It’s for you,” you murmured, exhaling shakily. “Only for you, Frankie.”
You saw him smile briefly before burying his face again at the source of your wetness. You moaned loudly as his large hands gripped your thighs and pressed you against him, as if he wanted to merge with you.
His tongue moved with precision, the same precision of a man of slaughter and punishment, but now focused on making you feel the pleasure only he could give. His fingers were hard, strong, digging into your soft flesh, marking the insignificant area while his lips sucked your clitoris and then his tongue circled that spot. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to imagine his jaw dripping with your pleasure because, at that moment, you didn’t have the strength to keep your vision focused, and you let the sensation of his tongue traveling from your clitoris to your entrance be enough.
His tongue was heavy, precise, and strong as it first circled your entrance and then fearlessly plunged inside. It was almost embarrassing how you disarmed yourself under this man, under the rhythmic touch of his passion for you.
“C’mon, princess. Gimme the first one,” Frank murmured, collecting your fluids with two fingers and then plunging them into your entrance. He soon began to move it, fingering your pussy as he lowered his mouth again to focus on your clit.
When you finally climaxed, your body convulsing as you screamed into the empty apartment, Frank didn’t pull away. He stayed there, tasting the salt and the sweetness of your release, savoring the way your pussy pulsed against his lips.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?” he growled, pulling back to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with a hunger that was almost frightening. “That pathetic little story didn’t make ya come like that, did it?”
Before you could even catch your breath, he was stripping off his own clothes with impatient, jerky movements. Precision in escaping the fabric prison didn’t matter now; he just needed to fill you completely. When he freed his cock, it was angry and thick, throbbing with need. You reached for him, your eyes glassy and unfocused with lust.
“Frank... fuck me. I need you,” you whispered breathlessly, but without shame, because there was no such thing in the world that was just you and him.
“Hell yeah, you do,” he said, pushing your hands. Frank grabbed both your thighs, hauling you to the very edge of the cushions so you were spread wide open for him. “Open up for me, baby.” He guided the head of his cock against your dripping entrance, pausing for one agonizing second to watch your expression. “Tell me what ya want, princess. Go on... say it.”
“I want your dick inside me,” you whined, your hips lifting off the couch instinctively. “Show me how wrong I was.”
Frank didn’t make you wait. With a guttural growl that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, he drove himself home. He buried his thick, throbbing cock deep into your soaking wet pussy in one relentless thrust, bottoming out against your cervix.
You let out a strangled cry that was half sob, half moan, your eyes rolling back as your body stretched to accommodate his sheer size. The sensation was overwhelming the fullness of him filling you completely, stretching your walls until you felt like you might split apart. “Fuck, Frank oh god, you’re so big,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his scarred arms as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was bringing.
As you dug your nails into his skin, you felt a trace of his blood, a small cut he’d likely gotten earlier that day, and something twisted in you, rather than feeling worried, you found yourself even more aroused because Frank prioritized fucking you over tending to his wound. Even if it wasn’t a deep cut, he preferred the idea of being inside you to caring for himself.
“Yeah? You like that?” Frank grunted, his voice rough with exertion. He didn’t give you time to answer before he began to move. His rhythm wasn’t tender; it was punishing, each thrust a deliberate strike meant to claim you. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the quiet apartment. “This better be better than that fuckin’ book.”
He reached up, his large hands cupping one of your breasts. His thumbs raked roughly over your nipples, which were already peaked and sensitive from your arousal. He squeezed it hard, his callouses grinding against the soft flesh as he leaned down to bite at your throat. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Fucking drippin’ all over me. My fucking mess.”
You were beyond words. Each thrust sent waves of electricity through your nervous system, your pussy clamping around his dick in desperate, involuntary pulses. You felt the raw power in his hips, the way his muscular frame dominated every inch of your space. “Yes... yes, fuck me like that,” you whimpered, your hips rising to meet every punishing stroke. “Harder, Frank. Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you gasped between breaths that sought the normal rhythm of the air, but you weren’t going to allow it, not when agitation was synonymous with pleasure and union at this moment.
The friction was building toward something catastrophic. Frank could feel it too the way your cunt was milking him, the heat intensifying between you. His own climax was clawing at his throat. He shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your knees to push them higher toward your chest, opening you up even wider so he could fuck you deeper, harder, more viciously.
“Just me. We clear?” he growled between thrusts. You could feel his balls slapping against your ass, the force of his movements making every fiber of your being tremble, from the physical to the emotional.
The friction became unbearable, a white hot lightning storm building between your joined bodies. Your vision was blurring at the edges, the only thing anchoring you to reality being the crushing weight of Frank’s body and the relentless, rhythmic pounding of his cock inside you. Every time he slammed into you, you felt it in your teeth, in your bones, a raw sensation that stripped away everything except pure, unadulterated need.
“Frank, I’m—I’m gonna,” your voice broke into a high pitched keen as your climax began to build like a tidal wave. Your internal muscles began to spasm uncontrollably around him, milking his cock with desperate, rhythmic squeezes that drove Frank to the brink of madness.
You heard him moan your name in a desperate escape of pleasure. “Go on,” Frank growled, his own composure fracturing. His movements became less controlled, more feral. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore; he was trying to claim your soul. “Come for me, baby. Scream my fucking name.”
He accelerated, his hips moving in a blur of motion, each thrust faster and more violent than the last. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your juices being churned by his dick. Your hips bucked wildly as you finally broke, your body stiffening as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. “Frank! Oh fuck, Frank!” you shrieked, your legs locking around his waist as you convulsed around him.
The way your pussy tightened around his cock seemed to mimic a mold tightening around a sword; it was as if you wanted to melt every detail of it inside you, from the tip to every vein that decorated the cock that remained throbbing and restless inside you.
He was surrounded by you, by the fluids of the orgasm that he himself caused and that bore his name, only his.
Seeing you unravel was the final trigger. Frank’s vision went dark, his entire body tensing with primal force. “Fuck!” he roared, his voice raw and guttural as he gave three last, devastatingly deep thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt, his cock throbbing violently as he unloaded. He could feel his cum pumping into you in hot, thick jets, filling you up while his own climax wracked his muscular frame.
For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was your ragged, desperate breathing. Frank collapsed forward, his sweat slicked chest pressing against your heaving breasts, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to regain your senses. The violence of the act left you both spent, drained, and utterly connected in the aftermath of the storm.
Frank stayed pressed against you for several long seconds, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. His cock remained buried inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, each pulse sending a warm trickle of cum between both of your bodies.
Slowly, Frank shifted his weight, rolling off you just enough so he could prop himself up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, sweat slicking his forehead, and his eyes, usually so cold and guarded, were still dark with the residual haze of lust. He looked down at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, seeing the flushed glow of your skin and the way your lips were swollen from his kisses.
A slow, possessive smirk spread across his face. The satisfaction wasn’t just physical; it was a victory.
“So,” he rumbled, his voice gravelly and thick with satisfaction. He reached out, his rough thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip before dragging down to the damp hollow of your throat. “You still thinkin’ ’bout that damn book?”
You could only manage a weak, breathless laugh, your fingers curling into the sheets as you tried to catch your breath. Your body felt heavy, boneless, and completely undone. “I think... I might need a new book so you can show me how good you are,” you managed to whisper, your eyes half lidded.
Frank let out a rough chuckle, leaning down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your temple before biting lightly at your earlobe. “Yeah? You can throw that shit in the trash,” his hand slid down between you, feeling the slick mess where you two were still joined. “’Cause I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I just proved I’m better than any bastard written on those pages.”
He nipped at your neck again, his tone dropping to that dangerous, possessive growl you loved. “Next time ya want somethin’ that’ll keep ya up at night, sweetheart... just ask me. Ain’t no book gonna beat the real thing.”
notes: i think this is the first time in years i've written anything smutty about frank lmao, i hope it meets the expectations of whoever is reading this ahaha.
summary : when frank comes home late from a mission after being hit by a suspicious powder, he wonders why he can't bring himself to take his hands off of you.
warnings : SMUTTTT !!!!!, minors please dni, somnophilia (oops), size kink, praise kink, needy!frank, desperate!frank, rough!frank (the list goes on honestly), p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, some angst.
word count : 16 k (oops ?)
a/n : based off this gem of a rq and not proofread (as always what do yall expect) also yes this is an au where frank alr works with the avengers sue me
The warehouse is quiet.
Too quiet.
Frank knows better than to trust quiet.
He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.
Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.
Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.
Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.
"He's over there!"
"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four.
All down.
His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.
"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.
"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.
Too late.
The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.
He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.
"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.
Frank waits.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.
"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.
It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.
"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.
His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.
The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.
Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.
Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.
The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.
You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.
The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He should go to the bathroom.
Turn on a cold shower.
Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.
He knows this, logically. He knows it.
But his body doesn't care about logic.
His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.
His fingertips make contact.
It's a mistake.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.
'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.
He should go.
Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.
But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.
But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.
You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.
He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.
The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.
“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.
“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.
“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.
“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.
“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.
“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.
He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.
You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.
He doesn’t stop.
He’s not going to stop.
You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.
“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:
“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.
He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.
His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.
The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.
“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.
“Frank, what-”
“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.
Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.
The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.
You try to reach for him again.
“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.
“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”
“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.
“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.
“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.
“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.
“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—
“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.
“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.
You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.
You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.
“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.
“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.
He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.
He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.
“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.
“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.
“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.
“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.
“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.
“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.
You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.
Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.
You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.
“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.
“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”
“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.
“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.
You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”
He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.
He’s in pain. You can tell.
He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.
“Frankie-”
“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.
“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.
“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.
“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”
“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.
“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.
“Frankie-”
“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.
“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.
“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.
“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.
"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.
His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.
It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:
“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.
You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.
He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.
He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.
The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.
You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.
He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.
He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.
The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.
“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.
He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.
He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.
“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time.
Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.
You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.
You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.
He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.
“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.
“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.
“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out.
Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.
“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.
“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.
Bruises.
Bite marks.
The indentation of his fingers.
You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.
You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.
You could sleep forever.
Or die.
Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.
Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.
He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.
“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.
"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.
"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."
"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.
"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.
"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."
"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.
"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.
"No. No fucking way."
"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."
"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.
"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."
"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.
"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.
"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.
"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.
"Frank—"
"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.
"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."
"I'm not."
"You should be."
"I'm not."
"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.
"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."
"You were drugged."
"I did that."
"It wasn't your choice."
"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.
"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."
"You were."
"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."
"No."
"I do."
"Frank."
"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm coming here."
"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."
"Frank."
"I'm filthy."
"No."
"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.
"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.
"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.
"That doesn't make this disappear."
"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.
Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.
Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.
Gone.
He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.
"I'm so tired," he whispers.
"I know."
"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.
"Why?"
"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.
You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.
You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.
"It's okay," you whisper.
He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.
-------
Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.
One arm is around your waist.
The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.
One leg is hooked over yours.
You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.
"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.
"No, I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm protecting you."
"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.
"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.
"Frankie."
"Hm?"
"I need circulation."
"You've got circulation."
"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.
"That's because you're dramatic."
"Oh, I'm dramatic?"
"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What hurts?" You sigh.
"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.
"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."
"Frank."
"I'm so—"
"Frank."
"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.
"Ow."
"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.
"You flicked me."
"You were spiraling."
"I wasn't."
"You apologized three times in six seconds."
"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."
He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.
"I'm sore," you admit.
"I know."
"But I'm okay."
"I know."
"You look like you're about to throw up."
"I might." You roll your eyes.
"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.
"You'd miss me."
"I would."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."
"Maybe."
"Definitely."
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.
"I'll make coffee."
"And pancakes."
"I'll make pancakes."
"And bacon."
"I'll make bacon."
"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.
"Now you're pushing it." You grin.
"There he is."
"Who?"
"My grumpy husband."
"I was always here."
"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.
"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.
"We're still here." He nods.
"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.
"It betrayed me."
"You forgot to push it down."
"I was distracted."
"By?" He glances at you.
"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.
"…Excuse me?"
"You winced."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I tripped."
"You tripped while standing still."
"I was thinking."
"You were limping."
"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.
"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.
"Thoughtfully."
"Exactly."
"You've got a hitch in your step."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.
"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.
"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." You reach across the table.
"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.
"I've never…" His voice trails off.
"I know."
"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."
"You never did."
"I almost did."
"You came home because you trusted me."
"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."
"And that's okay." He nods slowly.
"Still hate that you're hurting."
"I'll survive."
"I know."
"I've survived your cooking."
"The toast wasn't that bad."
"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."
"It was artisanal."
"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,
"…Sweetheart?"
"What?"
"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.
"The… freezer bags?"
"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"
"I'm not touching that stuff."
"You literally fought an entire warehouse."
"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.
"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.
"He says one word—"
"He'll say at least twelve."
"I'll leave."
"You can't."
"I absolutely can."
"You need him."
"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.
"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.
"…Don't even joke."
"I'm serious."
"He'll make a PowerPoint."
"He'll make merch."
"He'll name the chemical after me."
"'Castle Syndrome.'"
"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"
"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I hate all of you."
"You haven't even left the house yet."
"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.
"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.
"You sure you're okay to go?"
"I'm sure."
"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"
"I will."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.
"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.
"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.
"…I'm driving."
"You say that like it solves the problem."
"It solves my problem."
The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.
"You okay?" You nod.
"I'm okay." Five minutes later—
"You sure?" You smile faintly.
"I'm still okay." Another red light.
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"You nauseous?"
"A little." His grip tightens.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You've asked me twenty-three questions."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.
"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.
"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.
"…Frank."
"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.
"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.
"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.
"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.
"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.
"…Good?"
"I wasn't touching 'em."
"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.
"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.
"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.
"They were clean."
"They're definitely not anymore."
"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.
"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.
"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.
"You alright?"
"Yep."
"You just made a face."
"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.
"Thoughtfully?" You glare.
"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.
"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.
"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.
"It's… not exactly what I expected."
"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.
"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.
"In English." Bruce sighs.
"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."
"…English."
"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.
"So…" Bruce clears his throat.
"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."
"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.
"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."
Silence.
Frank rubs both hands over his face.
"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.
"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"
Tony.
Of course.
He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.
"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.
"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.
"I called it!"
"You weren't here."
"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,
"I absolutely did not tell him."
"I have ears."
"You have surveillance software."
"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.
"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.
"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.
"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.
"Tony."
"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."
Bruce looks back toward the monitor.
"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.
"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.
"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"
"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.
"Stark, I swear to God—"
"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"
"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.
"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.
"Tony, for the love of God, stop."
"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.
"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.
"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.
"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.
"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.
"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.
"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."
"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."
"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.
"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.
"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"
"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.
"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.
"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.
"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.
"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.
"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."
"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.
"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.
"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.
"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."
"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."
"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.
"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.
"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.
"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."
"I hurt you."
"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."
"It felt like me," he says quietly.
"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.
"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS
farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader [26.2k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival; reader uses jamie a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.
A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy!
series masterlist
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES
Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.
Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.
And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.
You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.
Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.
“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”
Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.
Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.
He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.
You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”
Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”
Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.
You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.
“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”
No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.
Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.
Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?
Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.
The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”
You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.
Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.
There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.
Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.
“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”
You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.
“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.
The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.
Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.
“Watch your head.”
You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.
As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.
“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”
You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.
“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”
Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.
In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.
“You look lovely tonight.”
That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.
The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.
His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.
“There’s my pretty girl.”
Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.
“I missed you so much, baby.”
You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.
His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”
You nod eagerly.
“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.
Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.
“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”
You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.
Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.
“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.
“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”
When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.
“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.
You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.
“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.
From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.
And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.
“You wearing the brown boots today?”
You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.
“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE PICTURES TOGETHER
The local coffee shop is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.
You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.
In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.
It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.
The contrast is cute rather than discordant.
You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.
You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.
“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.
You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.
“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”
It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.
So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.
The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure.
“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”
His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.
“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”
His brows draw together. “Went off how?”
Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.
“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”
You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.
“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.
You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”
“The art teacher.”
You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.
“Yeah.”
He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.
“I remember.”
“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.
“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”
You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”
Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”
“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.
“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.
For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.
Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.
“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.
“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.
“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”
You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”
That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.
“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.
You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.
“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”
You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.
“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”
Bucky’s expression softens instantly.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”
He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.
“C’mere.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward his lap.
“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.
The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.
Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.
“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.
“I’m not.” You insist weakly.
Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.
“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”
Your face burns.
“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.
“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”
The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.
The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.
A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.
“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.
You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.
“They came out pretty nice, huh?”
You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.
“Thank you, Jamie.”
The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.
“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”
Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.
“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.
You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.
You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.
The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.
“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.
A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.
“Send me those pictures later.”
You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”
That earns you a look.
“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”
You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.
Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.
Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR HIS CLOTHES
Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.
The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.
The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.
There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.
With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.
You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.
For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.
“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”
Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.
On his flannel wrapped around your body.
His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”
The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.
Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.
“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.
Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”
“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.
“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”
“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”
“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.
Your eyes widen. “What—no!”
A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.
“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”
You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.
“You’re exaggerating.”
A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”
Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was simply checking how it fit.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.
“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.
“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.
“Ain’t.”
“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.
“Not anymore.”
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.
“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”
Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.
He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”
“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.
“Mhm.”
“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.
“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.
“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.
That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”
You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”
His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.
“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”
You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”
“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”
“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.
“Means I make the laws around here.”
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.
“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.
“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.
You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”
At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.
Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.
His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.
Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.
“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”
Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.
“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.
The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.
“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls.
“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.
“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.
“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze.
Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly.
First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.
“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.
“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses.
You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.
“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”
“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.
Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.
“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.
When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.
“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”
You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.
Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.
“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?
Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”
“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”
You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy.
“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.
It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.
“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.
“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.
Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.
It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.
His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair.
“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”
Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”
He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.
“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”
“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”
Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.
“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?”
Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.
“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”
Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.
Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.
“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK
By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.
You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.
Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.
And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.
And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.
It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.
Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.
Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?
So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.
But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.
Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.
You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.
“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.
You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”
Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.
“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”
“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.
A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.
“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”
“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.
That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.
“Baby—”
“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”
Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.
“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”
“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”
His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.
“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.
His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”
There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.
“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.
“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”
“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”
He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”
“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”
“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.
“That’s anxiety.”
“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”
“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”
You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.
“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”
Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.
“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”
“To who? A bowling ball?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.
A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.
“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.
You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.
“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.
His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”
And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.
Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.
Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.
And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.
You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.
His large, warm palm tilted upward.
Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?
Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.
Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.
Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.
Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.
Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.
You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.
His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.
“What?”
Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.
“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”
The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.
A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.
You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.
From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.
“Steve!” He whispers sharply.
The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.
“What.”
“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”
Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST
Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.
One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.
And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.
“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”
His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.
“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”
Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.
By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.
Eat something besides crackers today.
This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.
At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.
“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”
“I know you can.”
The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.
“Then why are you doing all this?”
That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.
“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”
“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”
Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”
“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”
Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.
“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.
You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.
“This is tea.”
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.
“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”
Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”
The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.
“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”
And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.
Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.
There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.
By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.
You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.
Already driving
12:22am
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.
“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.
And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.
“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.
His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.
“You ate dinner?”
The hesitation on your face answers for you.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.
“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”
There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”
Your shoulders visibly lower a little.
“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”
And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.
You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.
“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.
Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”
“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”
“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.
Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw.
“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.
“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”
“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”
You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.
Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.
“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”
“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”
“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”
His grin only grows as he reaches you.
“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”
Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.
“Bucky!”
“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.
“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.
“I know you could.”
His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.
“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.
This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.
“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.
“I know you can, baby.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.
He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.
You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.
“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”
Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.
The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.
“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”
You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.
“C’mere, baby.”
And just like always, you go.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD
For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.
Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.
His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.
“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.
“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.
“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”
His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”
You step closer without thinking.
“You wanna help?”
You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”
The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.
“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”
And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.
“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.
You nod silently.
“Then stay.”
Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.
After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.
“Hold this for me.”
“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”
“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”
At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.
One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.
“I’m fucking useless.”
Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.
“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”
You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.
“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”
You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.
Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.
The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.
Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.
His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.
Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”
Bucky snorts softly without looking up.
“I’m working , sweetheart.”
“Mhm.”
He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”
You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.
“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.
Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.
You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.
“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”
This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.
“Oh, so that’s what this is?”
You try to appear unbothered. “What?”
“You being a needy girl.”
Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.
“I am not needy.” You insist.
His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend.
“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.
The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.
“Oh, you’re trouble today.”
You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.
“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”
You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.
“You’re playing with fire, doll.”
You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”
His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.
“I need you, Jamie.”
And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.
“Jamie—”
“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.
Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.
“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.
“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing.
“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed.
See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.
And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.
By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further.
Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.
You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.
The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.
Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.
“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”
“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.
You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”
“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.
“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”
There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.
“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”
You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.
Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.
“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”
Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.
You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”
He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.
“Mhm.”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”
The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.
“You need ice.”
“Mhm.”
“And water.”
“Probably.”
“And you should sit down for a minute.”
At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.
“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.
You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”
That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.
Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.
“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.
“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.
Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.
“…Little bit.” He decides finally.
Your eyes widen. “You do?”
“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.
You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”
“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”
“You don’t have a concussion.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.
He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”
Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.
“Too cold?” You ask softly.
“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”
You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”
“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.
“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”
That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.
“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.
This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.
“Keep spoiling me like this.”
The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.
“There,” you murmur. “Better?”
Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.
“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND MORNINGS TOGETHER
The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.
You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.
So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.
Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.
“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”
His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.
Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.
“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.
You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.
And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience.
Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.
“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.
The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.
Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?
Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.
Your eyes fly open.
Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.
Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.
Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”
“For falling asleep here.”
“You were tired.” He frowns.
“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.
“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”
You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”
Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.
“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”
Your lips part slightly. “Well—”
“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”
It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.
“I liked waking up next to you.”
The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.
“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.
“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.
“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”
“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.
“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.
“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”
The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.
“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.
“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”
Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.
And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”
The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.
“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it.
Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.
He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.
Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.
“Morning, baby.”
His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.
Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.
“What happened?”
You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”
Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.
“Show me.”
You turn in surprise. “What?”
“Show me what you gotta do.”
“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.
“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”
So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.
“This all for one class?”
“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.
Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.
At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.
“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”
You blink once. “Yes?”
He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”
“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.
Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.
“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”
You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.
“Is that a frog?”
You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”
“He encourages them.”
Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.
“Good for him.”
After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.
By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.
“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.
Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”
He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.
A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.
“Oh no.”
The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.
“No, no, no, no—”
Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”
He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.
“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”
But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—
Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”
Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“Sweetheart.”
You barely hear him.
“Where are my tights? Fuck—”
The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.
“Sit down for me.”
The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.
“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.
“You got thirty seconds.”
“Bucky—”
“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”
And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.
Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.
“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“What about bottoms?”
“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”
A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”
“They’re different.”
“Mhm. I’m learning.”
He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.
“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”
Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”
“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”
And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.
By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.
“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.
“Bucky—”
He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.
“C’mere.”
You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
“You need protein.”
You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”
“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”
You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”
That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”
He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.
He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.
“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.
Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”
“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”
The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.
“A little.” You nod reluctantly.
“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.
“You got everything?”
You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”
“That usually means no.”
You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”
He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.
“You forgot to fill this.”
“Oh.” You frown.
“And your portable charger.”
“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.
“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”
Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.
“Why won’t this stupid thing—”
Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.
“There.”
Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.
You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.
You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.
“You did good.”
You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”
“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”
He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.
He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.
“Now go teach your little gremlins.”
“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.
His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”
“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.
“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”
You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME
Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.
That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.
You don’t even think before stepping in.
“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”
One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”
He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.
“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”
You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”
That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”
He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.
And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.
Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.
The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.
“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”
The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.
“Try again.”
Silence.
Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”
The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.
His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.
“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”
You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”
Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“He’s still a student.”
His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”
With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon.
“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.
“Didn’t look like you did.”
The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.
Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?
You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.
“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.
Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove.
“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”
“I did help.” You frown at his back.
“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”
That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.
“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.
Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.
“I didn’t say you don’t.”
But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.
You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.
“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.
“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.
He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.
“C’mere a second, baby.”
You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.
Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.
But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.
“We’re not doing silence, okay?”
Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”
“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs.
“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”
The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.
“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”
“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.
“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”
You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”
Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer.
“Then help me understand.”
Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.
And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.
“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”
You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”
“But I still made you feel that way.”
That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.
Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.
“C’mere, babygirl.”
You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”
“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.
“You still flinched.”
The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.
“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”
Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh.
“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter.
“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart.
“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you.
Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.
“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little.
“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”
Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.
“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”
You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.
The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.
“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”
Your arms tighten around him at that.
“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”
A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.
Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”
You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”
“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.
“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”
You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.
“That sounds very therapist of you.”
Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”
A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.
“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”
You nod slowly. “I can do that.”
“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.
“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.
His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his.
“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.
He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.
“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”
Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.
Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.
“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.
“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.
“You alright?”
The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.
“Were you scared of me?”
You almost flinch back. “What?”
“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”
You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”
“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”
You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.
“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”
You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.
“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”
“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.
“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”
You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”
His expression softens at the full name.
“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you.
“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.”
“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”
He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.
“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.
That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER
You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.
“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”
Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.
Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.
He pretends to find it deeply offensive.
“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.
“She sees you every day.”
“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”
Tonight is no different.
“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.
“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”
From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.
“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.
“You say that like you’re any better.”
The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.
“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.
“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”
“Mmh, that’s not true.”
“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”
You frown. “She was sick.”
“She had dust on her nose.”
You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.
Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”
“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”
“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.
“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”
You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”
Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.
“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.
“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.
Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”
His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.
“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”
Your breath catches quietly.
“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.
“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”
You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.
Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.
“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”
Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”
Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.
“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.
“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.
“Any future is right if you’re in it.”
Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.
“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”
You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.
“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.
And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.
Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.
“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”
— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
Warnings: sex pollen and therefore DUB CON, use of restraints, dirty talk, descriptions of previous injuries/blood/violence, masturbation, unprotected p-in-v, oral (m and f receiving)
Summary: When Loki is drugged on a mission , he begs you to restrain him because he knows he won’t be able to keep his hands off you—but the restraints don't hold.
Notes: Thank you to my bestie that suggested this alternate version of Unfettered😁 Have fun !
You were sitting on a chair in Banners lab tagging all the jars he asked you to , when the door opened suddenly . You knew it was Loki returning from his mission . He doesn’t said a word , so you didn’t bother looking up from your task when he strode into the lab .
He slapped the control on the wall and kept his hand pressed firmly to the panel, frozen in place, as the door closed slowly. You caught the limited movement in your periphery while you worked, thinking vaguely that he must be exhausted.
“How’d it go?” you asked, rubbing the dirty jar you was holding before putting the tag on it .
Loki didn’t respond. No sigh, no grunt. Nothing.
That grabbed your attention. Loki was never talkative, often relying on one-word rejoinders, but he always answered direct questions, especially from you. Lately, he was even initiating conversations during the times he met you around the tower .
You looked up and were surprised to see that there was none of the other Avengers in sight—it was just Loki standing by the door , his hand still pressed to the control panel like he couldn’t bring himself to move. He looked… agitated. You could read the tension in his body; the fist hanging by his side was clenched and his shoulders were drawn up.
“Loki ?” you asked, the confusion apparent in your voice, as you set the jar down and got to your feet.
“No.” Without moving from his position, he whipped his head around and held up a palm to halt your advance. “Don’t… Don’t come any closer.”
“What—?”
He pointed a threatening finger at your chest. “Stay. There.”
You were so shocked by his unexpected command that you obeyed, staying rooted to the spot.
That’s when you really took in his appearance: he was shaking, the hand pointed at your chest trembling slightly. His armor was dirty—smeared with what was unmistakably blood. His chest was heaving as if breathing alone was a herculean effort.
When he saw that you were listening to him, he nodded stiffly and wrenched his hand away from the wall. With leaden steps, he walked over to the storage crate and dragged it into the middle of the floor. Each of his mechanical movements looked like it required every ounce of his control to execute.
“Why—?”
He grunted, ignoring your question again. You watched in stunned silence as he stripped off all of his daggers, even his cape and spare ammo, with stunted, jerky motions and dropped them on the floor .
He took 4 thick heavy chains and the collar that Tony created to prevent him from using his powers and without a word he got out the lab and went straight to the interrogation room .
He put the collar around his neck , then started to chain his own ankles , one by one .
You followed him , watching him in complete shock.
“Loki , what the fuck are you doing ?!”
He whipped his head up to look at you and commanded: “Help me with this.”
You scrunched your eyebrows together: “Why?”
“Just do it!”
“WELL IM NOT GOING TO CHAIN ….”
Before you could even finish your sentence, he snarled: “Just shut up and fucking help me.”
You stood there, dumbstruck, and cycled through several emotions in rapid succession. Your initial shock was immediately replaced by irritation as you registered his rude words. Anger flickered brightly across your consciousness, but it was quickly supplanted by confusion: he had never spoken to you in that tone of voice, let alone told you to shut up. Finally, fear settled in, thick and weighty, like a fog threatening to choke you.
You approached him slowly, kneeling on the other side of the tangle of chains.
“What happened to you?” you asked gently, reaching out to touch his arm.
He jerked away immediately, so quickly that he almost lost his balance. He thrust out an arm to steady himself on the wall behind him.
“Don’t—don’t touch me. Please.” His voice was suddenly small, almost quavering.
Your heart rate kicked up again.
“Lo, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”
He looked up at you, voice slightly softer but still firm and urgent. “Help me with this, then I’ll explain.”
You stared at him and said nothing for a long moment , not sure what to do next .
“Please, Y/n” he repeated
He was begging you. That was when the real fear sank in.
Without another word, you helped him get the wrist cuffs in place. Then, standing beside him, you followed his directions as he instructed you to secure the ends of the four chains: two to bolts on the wall, and two to bolts on the floor. The two on the wall were affixed to his arm restraints, the two on the floor to his ankles. Initially, you left slack in the chains, plenty of room for him to move, but he insisted that you tighten them enough so that his back was almost flush to the wall and he couldn’t extend his hands out any further than the natural reach of his long arms.
He sighed, shoulders slumping in relief, when you clicked the last restraint in place.
You looked up at him. Loki was strung up against the wall , arms hanging by his sides, suspended about a foot away from his body, and his legs were splayed slightly in a wide stance, boots a couple feet apart.
It was quite a sight.
If you weren’t so worried about what was happening, you’d definitely be having some… ideas. They were completely inappropriate ideas, especially considering the stark reality that the two of you were nothing more than colleagues .
“Th-thank you,” he breathed. “Now, p-please, step away from me.”
You reluctantly complied, taking several careful steps backward, keeping your gaze trained on his eyes .
“Okay, I did what you asked. Now tell me what happened.”
His breathing was still labored. “H-hit with a bio-dart, aphrodisiac drug. Strong… Heard of them before, but never encountered one until now.”
You gave him a skeptical look, raising one eyebrow, “…An aphrodisiac drug as a weapon? I thought that was a myth.”
“Apparently not.”
You surveyed him again as the reality of the situation washed over you.
He continued, words spilling out of his mouth in a rush like he was running out of time to explain : “H-had to get back to the tower . Didn’t trust myself. Left everybody there. I’ll go back later if they’ll still need me . No-no time to... I had-had to—before I—”
His whole body tensed suddenly, cutting off his own sentence, and he threw his head back as an ugly, feral sound tore from his chest.
You stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Fuck, are you okay? Does it hurt?”
You panicked, desperately trying to think of some way to help him as he flailed.
He writhed for another moment then thankfully stilled, slowly raising his head to look at you again. He sounded wrecked when he spoke again: “No, no. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. Not yet at least. It’s—it feels like…” He trailed off, glancing toward the floor.
You prompted him: “Like what?”
Before he could answer you, another wave wracked through him, and he thrashed against the restraints. You fought the urge to cross the space and soothe him. Even in the most stressful, life-threatening situations, Loki was always the picture of composure: calm, collected, calculating. So, it was unnerving to see him like this—overcome and out of control. You were itching to touch him, to ease his discomfort somehow. After another moment, he recovered.
When his eyes found your face again, he rasped: “It feels like if I don’t fuck you right now, I’m going to die.”
His words hit you like a slap in the face. You swallowed hard, staring at him… all thoughts suddenly gone, mind completely blank.
He filled the fraught silence, straining forward slightly, his voice dipping an octave: “I want to fuck you so badly, baby.”
Your heart dropped at the unexpected pet name, a wave of wetness unapologetically gathering between your thighs.
Fuck. This was not at all the situation you had imagined—Loki drugged and chained up—but you had definitely dreamt of him saying some version of those words to you… on a regular basis, like maybe every night you ever spent in the tower since the day you met him .
He spoke again, trembling as he said: “This is fucking torture, you standing there, looking like that. And I can’t even fucking touch you. Shit. Shit. Shit. I want to—I want to touch you.”
Without your explicit permission, your feet moved you one step forward.
Loki shook his head back and forth violently, head jerking like he was trying to clear unwelcome thoughts by sheer force. “Odin’s beard , this is really fucking with my head. I’m-I’m sorry—I’m not myself.”
Only one question came to mind, one thing you were desperate to know.
“So…it’s just the drug?”
You waited, holding your breath, hoping he knew exactly what you were asking him.
He snapped his head up, meeting your gaze. He sounded surprisingly sober for a moment. “No. It’s not,” he stated bluntly. “I always want to fuck you. It’s just now I… I can’t control that urge.”
Suddenly, the room felt hot, suffocatingly so. You inched forward again.
His confession flooded you with courage. “What if… what if I want you to fuck me?”
Loki whined, body convulsing, shoulders collapsing forward as far as they could against his arm restraints. You were so shocked by the foreign sound that you actually took a step back—you’d never, ever heard him make a noise remotely close to that. You’d cauterized gaping wounds for him, removed a jagged blade from deep in his thigh, witnessed him take a sword the side, sutured countless lacerations with no local anesthetic… but you’d never heard him whine. It was high and needy, desperate and pathetic .
“Don’t-don’t say that, please don’t fucking say that to me right now… please… I c-can’t handle it.”
The chains creaked ominously, the links clanking together as he shifted against them.
“But, I mean it. I always want you to fuck me too,” you continued, ignoring Loki’s feeble requests.
You squeaked and flinched back again when he suddenly lunged forward, hands gripping the chains and pulling hard. His arms and legs were immediately wrenched back, his torso straining toward you. He panted: “Gods, you don’t know how long I’ve dreamt of you saying-saying that to me, kærasta.”
Even through his situation , his stare was scalding, his gaze scorching your skin as he surveyed you, his eyes trailing all the way down and back up your body.
You stepped toward him.
He jerked his head to the side suddenly, tearing his gaze away, and whined again—more quietly this time, more resigned. When he said the next words, you could hear how tightly his jaw was set: “Not like this. I-I won’t fuck you for the first time like this. I-I won’t forgive myself if I hurt you.”
You took another, much larger step forward.
“You won’t hurt me.”
He whipped his face up to watch you again. His voice was dangerous now, menacing, as he growled: “Yes, yes—I will. You don’t understand what this feels like. I can’t control myself—it’s a fucking miracle I didn’t take you the moment I walked back onto the lab and saw you sitting there—so fucking gorgeous—and it’s only gotten worse.” He let out another frustrated growl, then continued: “I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to wreck you, I want-want to wreck you until you can’t walk and then fuck you again. I want to tear you apart. Ruin you with my cock.”
He said those words like a threat, but you couldn’t help the way they sent heat coursing through your veins, a shiver down your spine. You stepped toward him one more time. You were almost within his reach.
“DON’T,” he ordered, voice deadly serious. “Really, I can’t control myself. S-stay back.”
Even as he told you to stay away, though, he reached a hand out for you, legs and arms straining forward, trying to get closer to you. His mouth was saying one thing, his body begging for another.
You stayed where you were, just out of his reach, and asked: “How long will this last?”
“I don’t know… I hope no longer than a few hours. It’s already been at least an hour since I got hit. But it’s-it’s gotten worse.”
You could hear the exhaustion and exertion in his voice. He was barely holding it together, and you knew you needed to do whatever you could to make this easier on him, not harder. So, you shoved down your own selfish desire and with great reluctance, stepped away from him. You sat down on the floor across from him and said, “Then, I guess… we’ll wait it out.”
He nodded vaguely, leaning against the wall behind him with a loud sigh.
You sat in uncomfortable silence for several long minutes. You busied yourself by playing on your phone . Every so often, the restraints jangled loudly when Loki was wracked by a brutal surge of need and struggled violently. You tried your best not to flinch every time it happened.
Eventually, he disrupted the silence by saying your name.
Before you even looked up at him, though, you knew—you knew that the Loki you’ve known was gone.
His voice had dropped several octaves, and it sounded different… honeyed, charming, drawling, depraved. It was fucking sultry. When you looked up at him, you immediately noticed his body language. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what exactly had changed, but something about him was off.
All you knew was that, suddenly, a dangerous stranger was standing across the room from you. For the first time, you were truly grateful for those thick fucking chains.
His voice was smooth and calm when he said: “I need your help, sweetheart.”
You looked away from him, playing back on your phone instead. The way he rasped the word sweetheart would be burned into your brain for the rest of your life. It made your whole body feel hot.
“Come over here, beautiful,” he coaxed. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and now I know you want me too—you can’t hide from me anymore, princess.”
Princess. You didn’t answer. You just sat in silence and shrieked internally.
He said your name again—this time more urgently—then abruptly changed his tack : “Gods, this hurts so much now, it burns—I need you to make it stop hurting. Be a good girl and help me.”
You bit down on the inside of your cheek and shifted on the floor , pressing your thighs together.
When you didn’t respond, he tested a third approach, his voice pitching low and sensual: “Please, kæraata, don’t you want me? I’m so fucking hard for you right now. I’ll make you feel so, so good, make you cum again and again. Just-just let me touch you. Let me show you.”
You stayed quiet, trying to remember how to breathe. He was playing all the angles—appealing to your conscience and your libido. The second strategy was harder to ignore.
“Come here and feel how hard I am for you.”
Fuck..
His voice was pure sin, purring and growling for you. He was fucking luring you in with it, and he seemed to know it. He said your name one more time, and your resolve cracked a little.
You looked up at him, setting your phone down beside you.
Loki seemed encouraged by the eye contact, trying one last tactic. He cocked his head and rasped, “Are you wet for me?”
Your eyes widened, but you somehow managed to keep your lips pressed together.
Yes. You fucking were.
He continued as if you’d answered aloud, as if he already knew you were: “Show me.”
You stared at him, unmoving.
“Come on, sweet girl,” he nodded down at your lap, his voice suddenly much lighter, as if he was thrilled to have identified this loophole. “You don’t even have to touch me. You can keep your clothes on. It’s completely safe—just-just touch yourself for me...and I’ll tell you all the things I’ve imagined doing to your body.”
Sweet fucking hell.
Every part of you was screaming to listen to him. You wanted this. You wanted this just as much as he needed it.
“Please,” he whined, rolling his head to the side as if the thought alone made him burn.
“I don’t know—”
He fixed his eyes on your face again. “I need—I need this, kærasta . And so do you. It’ll help. I know it will. Don’t you want to help me? And don’t you deserve to feel good?”
Fuck… yes.
And he was right after all: what was the risk? It would be completely safe. He was powerless and shackled to the wall for fuck's sake.
You nodded dazedly, fairly sure this was somehow still a bad idea but struggling to find the will to care.
Loki was thrilled. “Fuck, yes, go on,” he encouraged, straining forward against the chains. “Feel your pussy for me.”
You surrendered to the rasping command of his voice immediately: you scooted back on the floor to lean against the wall, your legs crossed and knees open, and slid a hand under your waistband. Loki’s eyes followed your movements like his life depended on it. You could hear the pull of his labored breath through the room. When your fingers found your clit and you whimpered and looked up at him, he let out a stuttering groan—a filthy, orgasmic sound that echoed through your ears,adding to your arousal .
“That’s right, show me how wet you are.”
Before you had the chance to think too hard about what you were doing, you swiped your fingers through your soaked folds and extracted your hand carefully, holding it out in front of you, so Loki could see—even across the room—how your fingertips glistened wetly under the lights. He surged forward at the sight, the chains creaking threateningly, and hummed deep in his chest.
“Mmmmm,” he purred, slumping back against the wall. “I can’t wait to taste you. Make yourself cum for me now, and later, I’ll taste you and make you cum again. And again.”
You shoved your hand back into your pants and shuddered when you started rubbing slow circles over your clit, your eyes fixed on the hungry look into Loki ’s gaze. He wrapped his fingers around the thick chains and clenched his fists tight. Every single muscle in his body seemed taut, his spine perfectly rigid as he leaned forward again to watch.
He quirked his head to the side suggestively and spoke softly while you touched yourself, painting you a picture: “Later, when you let me down from here, I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to strip you bare and spread you open so I can kiss every inch of your body. I’m going to drag my tongue through your wet cunt and suck your clit until you come apart for me.”
The links squeaked as Loki shifted, slowly struggling further and further forward.
“I’m going to make you cum on my tongue so hard it hurts, and then I’m going to kiss it better.”
You whimpered, your fingers feeling like an inadequate replacement for his mouth, but his words were making up the difference. He was shoving you towards a climax without even touching you.
“Are you going to let me fuck you after I make you cum on my tongue?”
You nodded, too overwhelmed to scrape together a verbal reply, your fingers slipping wetly over the peak of your throbbing clit.
“Good... because I’ve thought about fucking you on every surface of this tower, beautiful. I’ve made myself cum thinking about bending you over the living room sofa and making you take my cock from behind. I’ve imagined fucking you up against the windowed wall from Stark’s archives room with your legs wrapped around my waist. And whenever we’re in any room alone ,together, I always think about pulling you onto my lap and letting you ride me right there in the spot.”
You whined and squeezed your eyes shut, all those images too much to take. You moved your fingers faster, and you could feel Loki’s restraint slipping the closer you got to orgasm.
“Yes, just like that—I need it,” he panted. “I need you. Look at me when you cum.”
Your eyes snapped open at that, and you saw that he was actively fighting his way forward now, pulling until all four of the chains were taut, his boots slipping over the floor, his voice getting louder and louder as he talked you through it.
“I want—I want to see it. Cum for me.”
You were so close—your head lolling back against the wall, your eyes falling closed as your body started to tense—when an angry metallic whine and the pattering of several small objects hitting the floor made you freeze and snap your eyes open. Your hand was still shoved down the front of your pants, your fingers paused against your clit, as you watched the durasteel panel that Loki’s right wrist restraint was fastened to began to peel away from the framework , several of the bolts already missing.
The piercing sound seemed to jolt Loki out of his drugged haze. As you watched, he seemed to turn back into himself again. He stepped back against the wall, putting as much distance as he could between the two of you.
“Y/n, run”
You withdrew your hand in a quick motion. “But I—”
“Do it,” he growled, his chest heaving. “Now. The secure cell . The one designed for The Hulk . Lock the doors behind you—the manual emergency lock, so I can’t override it.”
You stayed rooted to the spot, trying to work through a storm of conflicting emotions in the space of a second. You didn’t really want to run; you wanted to stay, you wanted to cum, you wanted to help him. You wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt himself breaking out of those restraints.
Mostly, you wanted him to fuck you.
“Go”
Even as he ordered you to leave, he grasped and yanked the chain connected to the loose panel, twisting his torso and leaning forward to make full use of his body weight. The durasteel barely put up a fight. It fell away from the wall almost immediately, crashing to the floor.
In the tense silence that followed, Loki lifted his head to look at you. You could see the worry in his eyes.
In a ferocious voice you didn’t recognize, he roared, “RUN.”
Adrenaline seemed to take over then. You jumped to your feet and ran on the corridors as fast as you could, flinging yourself into the ultra secure cell and slamming your palm against the control panel to shut the heavy doors behind you. Your heart pounded while you waited for them until they shut with a satisfying click, then with your back against the cold glass of the doors, you slid to the floor. You knew the story of this room -designed by shield and stark technology to hold the hulk in case he lost control , but ended being used by Loki before when he was kept hostage - the cell was suspended high above the ground ; within the open framework of the tower.
It had a reinforced floor pannel with a trapdoor mechanism: if the prisoner became too dangerous or tries to evade , the floor could open and release the entire chamber, sending it plummeting hundreds of feet to the ground. The walls were made of a clear but incredibly strong polymer . Once in - you couldn’t get out. The only way to get out was to ask Jarvis to free you , mentioning the protocols and say aloud the password and code.
You were completely safe here .
You waited there, taking deep breaths to calm your pounding heart, and looked around the dimly lit room .You could hear Loki’s ongoing struggle down in the room: a series of grunts, bellowed curses, loud metallic scrapes and whines.
After several minutes, there was one final crash, and a victorious roar rang through the tower . Then, silence fell.
He was free .
Some combination of relief and excitement overwhelmed you, sending a heady cocktail of adrenaline and desire skittering through your veins. You waited with baited breath, every inch of your skin tingling with exhilaration. He was coming for you.
A fresh surge of arousal flooded your core, your eyes falling closed as you rested your head against the doors.
After all the time you’d spent pining for him, after all those hours you’d watched his big hands work expertly on any tasks, after all days you’d admired those damned beautiful veins on his hands , after so many nights of sleeping feet away from him, your skin on fire just thinking about him… he was finally coming for you.
And now you knew the truth: all those times you’d thought about him, he’d been thinking about you too.
Some rude, insistent voice decided to remind you then that no matter how much you wanted to—fuck, you wanted to—you couldn’t let him in. He didn’t want you to
No, that wasn’t right. He thought he shouldn’t. That was completely different.
He definitely wanted you to let him in. He'd wanted to fuck you long before the bio-dart. And that’s what mattered, wasn’t it?
The quietest sound—the unmistakable scrape of a boot over metal—made you snap your head up, your eyes wide. He was on the other side of the doors. Every nerve in your body seemed to be on high alert, positively humming at his closeness. You were separated by only a few inches of glass.
“Baby..”
Your pussy clenched at that one word.
“Tell Jarvis to open the doors,” he murmured, his voice all silk and solace.
You didn’t turned to face him , but you could hear subtle movement on the other side of the doors, the hollow clank as he rested his head against the glass.
“Don’t you want me?”
Yes
You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep the word from bursting out of you. There was an answering smack and a sudden reverberation against your back, and you knew Loki had slammed his clenched fist against the outside of the doors. Your silence was killing him.
“The drugs have plateaued. I promise you: I’m not gonna hurt you. I’ll make you feel good—so good—I swear. Open these doors, and I’ll show you.”
You were fully aware that it would be absolutely absurd to trust him in this moment. It made no sense whatsoever to take him at his word.
And yet …..
“I’ll turn these lights off , knock down the CCTV so I can taste you—so I can taste every part of you,without any audience ” he purred. “Don’t you want that?”
YES.
Suddenly, every light in the room was extinguished, and the viewport blackened, the glass becoming completely opaque, until darkness consumed the entire room, leaving only the security button throbbing with a menacing red light. Then, the clang of a heavy metal object echoed through the oppressive silence. He had taken out the surveillance camera so Tony wouldn’t see certain things. Loki was a man of his word after all.
You were left in the pitch black, thinking about Loki .The thought of his mouth threatened to sink you: the heat of it on your neck, on your lips, on your cunt… all over you. It threatened to erase every trace of logic or restraint that had ever resided in your brain. It dragged over every part of you, promising care and pleasure and him. It was overwhelming enough to spur you to your feet. Before you knew it, you were standing, facing him .
As if he somehow knew, as if he could read your mind, Loki spoke then.
“I’m ready when you are,tell me the codes ” came the rasping whisper from the other side of the doors.
“Tell Jarvis to release the prisoner. Mention Protocol Athena, the password Tonystarkthebest4ever, then enter the code 914583 on the device next to the door lock.”
You’ve told him what needs to be done, and you’re not sure if you did what was required—but you certainly did what you wanted. With him beside you. To touch him. To feel him, and to be felt.
He smirked contented and purred a “Good girl” as he did the steps you mentioned .
Your heartbeat seemed to crescendo when you heard the hissing sound of the heavy doors opening and instinctively scampered backward as they creaked open. You expected Loki to rush inside, to flip the lights back on, to be on you right away.
He didn’t turn on all the lights in the room, just a single monitor that cast a dim glow, allowing you to barely see each other. You watched him enter slowly through the door, his gaze fixed on yours , and you instinctively took a step back.Your heartbeat ratcheted up impossibly higher, a spastic staccato against your ribcage. Your voice seemed to catch in your throat, unable to express any of the questions that were rattling at your consciousness.
He eyed you head to toes , then smirked as he leaned against the doors , watching you closely.
After all that build up, all that waiting, he was toying with you.
The audacity of this man..
Well, fuck, if he wanted to play games, you were more than happy to oblige.
Some innate, long-dormant prey instinct seemed to awaken in you then, and you backed further into the glassed cell . You paused, braced against the wall behind . When every single hair on the back of your neck stood at attention, and you saw he was closing in,almost reached you , you took a risk.
You pushed him and sprinted past him, and Loki roared.
You dodged his grasping hands, feeling the faintest brush of his fingers on your arm as you slipped around him and threw yourself out of the cell , slapping the door control as you went. The doors clanged shut behind you, cutting off Loki ’s frustrated grunt, and you barrelled forward, hoping your memory of the layout of the Stark Tower was good enough to serve you in complete darkness as Loki used his magic and put the whole tower into complete darkness ,and then you knew that he removed the device from his neck . Your hands found the handle of a door blindly and you managed to get it open , desperately trying to type in the code in complete darkness and you hissed a “yes” contented that you managed to get into Tony’s offjce ,knowing the closed doors would buy you mere seconds.
Just as you dropped down onto the floor of the office, you heard the doors from the cell slide open again. You scurried to the far end of the room and slipped behind Tony s huge desk. You weren’t even really sure why you were still evading him. Hiding was pointless when he had the advantage of his magic, but if he insisted on playing, you weren’t going to be the one to surrender first.
A grunt and a flash of green announced his arrival—then, nothing. Complete darkness
For several long moments, he let your blood pressure tick ever upward.
But eventually, the faint creak of the floorboards gave him away . He was close—somewhere off to your right. You edged to the left, certain that you had a vague idea of where he was. You backed up slowly, relieved when you bumped against the wall.
You waited there, straining to hear the tiniest movement.
Nothing. Silence—heavy, oppressive silence blanketed the office , making it hard to breathe. You couldn’t make out a single sound in the darkness, and the sheer anticipation was starting to make you sweat. Loki must be frozen too, somewhere out there in the gloom, waiting for you to make a move.
Was he even breathing?
Your stubbornness was quickly giving way to horniness. Your determination to outlast him deteriorated, and you opened your mouth to call out to him.
Instead, you let out a scream of terror when the wall behind you shifted, but the shriek was immediately muffled when a large hand clamped firmly over your mouth. Loki wrapped his other arm around your middle, pulling you completely back against him. You whimpered against the tight clutch of his hand , eyes widening and your heart threatening to burst from your chest.
The way he used magic was insane and he almost gave you a heart attack but you must admit he was a talented magic user .
You closed your eyes when his lips touched your ear when he whispered, “It’s just me, sweetheart.”
You let out a quiet, needy whine in response, the icy fear in your veins melting into something warmer, something thicker. You tipped your head back, resting it against his shoulder and ground your hips against him in silent invitation. He purred , and rolled his hips once against your ass in response. The temporary hot, tight press of his hard cock against you made you moan into his hand.
“Are we done playing, love? You want me to fuck you now?”
He lifted his hand away from your mouth just long enough for you to gasp, “Yes, please.”
His fingers closed over your lips once more, and he kept you there, fitted tightly against his chest.
You gonna take my cock like a good girl?”
As he spoke, he rolled his hips against you again, and you nodded frantically against his hand.
Approval rumbled through his chest—you felt the satisfied reverberation against your back as much as you heard it. The arm that was curled around your middle like an unyielding iron bar loosened then, and that hand wandered down your body, the touch of his hand dragging over your shirt—slow, weighty, distracting. You whined in disappointment, writhing weakly against him, when it didn’t dip under your waistband, instead continuing its path over your pants until it settled at the apex of your thighs. You parted your legs reflexively, and he shoved his fingers between them.
He stopped there, his palm cupped over your clothed cunt, his fingers poised so fucking close to where you were throbbing for him, unmoving.
A threat. A promise.
“Then beg for it” he purred in your ear
You involuntarily clenched your thighs together around his hand, unintentionally increasing the pressure on your aching clit, and your jaw dropped open just as the hand over your mouth disappeared again. The words spilled from your lips before you even knew what you were saying.
“Please, Lo , I want it—I need your co—”
You were cut off by your own surprised squeak when you heard his growl . You held your breath—stunned into complete silence—as you prayed mentally that you hadn’t done a mistake .
The complete darkness meant there was no chance of seeing his face, but just knowing he was that close to you… his lips, his tongue… after all the things he’d promised? After he’d admitted all the things he’d thought about doing to you? It was a lot to take in. And you couldn’t shake off the thrill of adrenaline that surged through your body.
You shuddered when his exact words came back to you.
I’m going to make you cum on my tongue so hard it hurts, and then I’m going to kiss it better.
For a moment, all you could feel was the rise and fall of his sturdy chest behind you and his humid exhale against your cheek. His mouth was inches away from yours. Your tongue darted out flit across your lower lip.
If you turned your head and angled it just so, you could probably—
With a low growl, Loki interrupted your train of thought. He dipped his head and dragged his tongue up the side of your neck—one slow, languid pull of velvet that melted away any and all of your coherent thoughts. Your head lolled to the other side, giving him all the space he needed to taste you. He took the invitation gladly, greedily laving his tongue over the expanse and sucking hard kisses into your skin.
Hot. Wet . Bliss
Somewhere in the back of your hazy brain, you knew you were supposed to be doing something.
What was it he’d asked you to do?
Loki worked his way up the column of your neck at a leisurely pace, blazing a searing trail across your sensitive skin, and you sagged in his arms, muscles weakening as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure. All the while, you were painfully aware of the insistent pressure of his unmoving hand on your cunt, the press of his hard cock against your ass through so many layers of fabric.
When he reached it, he sucked your earlobe between his teeth, the teasing scrape somewhere between delicious and ticklish.
His lips ghosted over curve of your ear, and he whispered, “Beg for my cock, and I’ll bend you over and fuck you right here.”
Desire flashed up your spine. His voice was sexier in this moment than it normally was . It was warmer, fuller, rawer—ten subtle shades of red, as opposed to the one monotone hue. It was Loki with no restains , unadulterated in all his low, rasping glory.
It set something off inside you, obliterated what little composure remained.
You had no excuse—there was no incapacitating drug coursing through your veins, no bio-dart to explain your desperation—and yet, you felt that same exact urgency that Loki had described earlier when he was still in chains.
You felt like if he didn’t fuck you right now, you might die.
“Please, please fuck me. I want you to. Please, I need it,” you pleaded. Something commanding seeped into your tone then—that urgent feeling made material—and when you continued, your voice was unyielding: “Now, I need it now. ”
He snarled, rendered wordless by his own need reflected in your voice, and shoved your pants and underwear down your thighs in one rough movement. He ripped them down your legs until you lifted one foot, then the other, tossing them away into the darkness. Your shirt followed suit. When you were completely bare, he flipped you both around without warning.
“Hands out,” he said, his voice all authority.
You obeyed immediately, your hands flying out to brace against the cold wall as one of his large hands slid up your back, following the line of your spine, to rest between your shoulder blades and press you forward. You folded, and he nudged your feet apart and gripped your hips, pulling your ass up and back—manipulating your body into the exact position that he wanted it: open and ready.
You heard him unbuckle his belt behind you, the metallic clink sending a hot shiver down your spine. Your jaw fell open, a quiet, pained moan slipping from your lips, when the blunt head of his cock was rubbed up and down—it slipped so easily up and down—against your soaking wet cunt. You pressed your hips back, and finally, he fitted the head against your entrance and eased himself forward—stretching you slowly, agonizingly slowly. He was thick and long, so he worked you open with shallow thrusts, one hand on your shoulder, the other on your hip to hold you in place as you parted slickly around his girth. You both moaned when his hips met the plush of your ass.
“Fuck me, Lo. Please, fuck me hard.”
Letting out a low growl, he pulled his hips back and obeyed.
The only sounds that filled the room were the obscene slap of skin against skin and your panting breaths. In the complete darkness, it was easy to get lost in the rhythm, in the slick push and pull, in the deliciously tight fit. The hand gripping your hip wandered inward, seeking out your clit.
Loki curled himself forward then, fitting himself along the curve of your back, and pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. He paused to say, “Let me feel you soak my cock.”
You moaned in reply, reaching back to tangle one hand in his messy hair . Somewhere in the back of your hazy brain you registered this new piece of information, and it made your heart squeeze: his hair was so soft , and you don’t think you can ever get enough of feeling it between your fingers .
With his fingers moving deftly over your clit, his cock filling you perfectly, it took less than a minute to reach your peak. His thrusts faltered when you spasmed and tightened around him—letting out a keening moan as the pleasure washed through you—and you knew he was close too.
“Inside—” you panted. “Cum inside—”
He snarled and pressed you closer to the wall , forcing you both upright. The wall was cold against your boobs while his skin warm against your back , his forearm braced against that wall inches from your face. He kicked his pace up higher—a punishing slap slap slap—as he impaled you again and again on the rigid length of his cock.
When he came, his teeth threatened to break the skin on your shoulder, and you whined at the sensation, at pleasure tinged with pain. He let out what would have been a shout had his jaw not been clenched tight and canted his hips in an achingly slow motion—once, twice, three times—as he worked out his orgasm, releasing inside you.
Even after he’d finished, after he’d slumped his weight against you, pressing you into the unforgiving hardness of the wall, he was still hard—throbbing hot and insistent inside you as you both attempted to catch your breath.
Eventually, he eased out of you, and you turned in his embrace. Immediately, his hands found your cheeks, and he crashed his lips against yours, his bold tongue finding its way into your mouth right away. The kiss was messy and hot, a tangle of tongues as you swallowed each other’s moans.
Your eager hands wandered down his body and settled on his hips, and you pulled away from him to sink to your knees. He let out a groan when he realized what you were doing and leaned heavily against the wall, throwing his head back , as you wrapped your lips around his cock. He shuddered at the heat of your mouth engulfing him, one large hand coming down to cradle the back of your head as you swallowed him down.
His hips bucked forward, and he grunted, “Fuck—yes—”
And time passed like that, in a darkened blur—everything was a hazy cloudburst of arched spines and bruising grips, a riot of golden sensation, warm and syrupy and tactile. You worked your way through Loki’s layers until he too was stripped down, discarding clothes throughout the room.
Loki was fanatical in his pursuit of your pleasure, a devoted acolyte at the altar of your body. You came three times for every one of his orgasms. It was like a fractured dream: hot, sweaty limbs tangled together; broken moans and heaving sighs; pleasure sharpened to a euphoric peak by small, deliberate doses of pain.
His hand closed loosely around your throat while you rode him right there on the desk . His feet slipped across the smooth wood as he braced himself to cant his hips up and up, stunted thrusts in time with the movements of your hips. You could tell your nails were going to leave scarlet half-moons on the undersides of his biceps when you tightened around his thick cock. The rhythmic slap of sweaty skin against sweaty skin rang throughout the echoing room. Words fled you both, and you were left with purrs and cries, with shaky keening and thundering pants.
The burning urgency—the fire and the fog—of the drug slowly wore off of him: you could tell by the way his movements became less desperate and more measured, by the way words eventually returned to him. He was completely himself again: your Loki. Time slowed, and the pleasure became leisurely, luxurious.
But even without the drug sharpening his need, the mutual hunger remained.
Some time—and innumerable orgasms later—you had finally made your way into his room, and you were flat on your back at the top of his bed, legs spread, his head buried between your thighs, your hands tangled in his hair . He was making good on his promise to taste every part of you, and even in the dimly light , you could see and even hear how much he was enjoying it. He was moaning as he worked his tongue over your puffy, slick lips, circling the aching peak of your clit. You could feel the way he was humping the mattress, his hips stuttering, shaking the bedframe.
“Gods you taste so good,” he slurred and you met his gaze bitting your lower lip .
You whined when he slid two thick fingers inside the hot clutch of your cunt, hooking them up in time with the flicks of his tongue. When you came, blood rushed loudly in your ears, cutting off the sound of your own cry of pleasure. You were vaguely aware of the fact that Loki was also cumming: his hips thrusting frantically, jolting the mattress , and he groaned against your pussy in an unmistakable way, spilling against the surface, entirely untouched. Your own orgasm rolled through you, tensing and arching, seemingly endless. When it finally ebbed, your grip relaxed, fingers slipping from his hair as every muscle in your body went limp.
He was panting when he pulled back, and you slumped against the bed, rolling onto your back, limp and sated and exhausted. He collapsed somewhere below you, his head resting on your thigh, and the two of you lay like that—completely spent and incapacitated.
You felt lazy and sedate, like a cat who’d slept too long in the sun.
Eventually, you felt Loki stir and back out of the bed , his weight shifting the mattress, but you were too close to the verge of sleep to reach out for him or ask him where he was going. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a warm, damp cloth in his hand. He shuffled up beside you and ran it over the sensitive parts of you, over the sweat and the slick, gently cleaning you up, and to your sleepy delight, he followed the trail with soft kisses, pressing his lips to every part of you—retracing each step of the night, retreading the pleasure like a familiar path.
Kissing it better.
You hummed at the sensation, at the comfort. At what they promised.
After placing a final kiss on your temple, he disappeared again.
But he returned minutes later, this time with a full water bottle, coaxing you to sit up and drink before he let you settle back down on his bed . When he was satisfied that you were comfortable and cared for, he crawled up next to you and pulled you into his side, dragging a blanket over both your bodies and draping a heavy arm across your middle.
“Thank you,” you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. You felt him smile.
“Sleep,kærasta ,” he whispered, his calloused fingers stroking your cheek.
“Mmm,” you replied, your eyelids drooping closed, a drowsy smile on your lips. “Night, Loki.”
“Night ,y/n.”
“Lo…? What …. What means …. Kær….?” You said , trailing off almost completely but still curious to find out the meaning
He smiled , as he softly answered
“Soulmate.”he said quietly ,and you smiled contented before you fell into a deep , satisfied sleep.
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