[quinloki]

I'm on my hormones time and I need to vent because...

Why doctor play and Law/Marco makes so much sense, just like, it starts soft, innocent normal check up to make sure everyone on board has their health on top and it's just small things, like the way they look at Quin/reader/whatever you want to call it, the way their voice sound softer to them, the touches that reminds similarity to the previous night, especially on genital checks

I'm going to shower in the corner of shame, bye

No cone, or corner, of shame needed.

I feel like I did something similar... or maybe just talked about it... hang on.

Apparently I just talked about it, or tagged it poorly and I can't find it right now xD but I did do something like this for Hongo

I know I've at least talked about playing doctor with Marco and Law before. My head canon is that Law isn't a fan, but would indulge you a time or two at the least. Marco's a little more okay with it, but he's not looking to make it the crux of your time together.

I know I talked to @kazieai about Gyno!Marco and the "meet cute" of getting turned on during one of your regular checkups, and that leading to admitting you think he's hot, and getting his number adn maybe by the next time you need a check up the doctor has you booked 3 appointments back to back and is taking Deep and Focused care of you for an hour in his office. >.>

<.< Don't be too loud now, those walls are pretty thin...

[kazieai]

Because of this I reread this and just….

I really think that was my downfall into Marco >.>

[juniebjonesin]

ꜱᴛɪᴄᴋʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.

[shin-i-ko]

[lolalov3s]

Fine Wine

Leon Kennedy (Re9) x Fem!reader

Summary: Hitting the big 3-0 feels like an existential crisis when society has convinced you your desirability will officially expire. Fortunately, your 51-year-old neighbor is more than happy to prove that sex appeal only gets better with age.

Content: Smut (fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie), slightly insecure reader, and so much fluff it’s actually sickening

Word count: 6.5k

-

“What are you doing out here?”

The scent of cedar and gunpowder hits your nostrils before a pair of polished boots comes into your line of sight, stopping inches away from your toes.

Your complete lack of awareness is exactly why embarrassment warms your cold cheeks. Too consumed by mourning your current predicament, you hadn't even caught the subtle displacement of the evening air, nor the heavy crunch of Leon's stride closing the stretch of lawn between your two houses.

You should’ve, considering you’ve always been attuned to his presence, to the low timbre of his voice—heard it across the street while he’s bent over the hood of his car, felt it vibrate through the air when he offers a polite good morning that lingers long after he’s gone.

But that same voice currently carries a note of concern as he finds you at your absolute lowest, shivering in a low-cut party dress and smudged eyeliner right on your doorstep.

Your composure slumps even lower. “I’m locked out.”

The polished leather of his boots shifts. "Locked out," he repeats, “from your own house?”

“Lost my keys,” you explain, sounding as pathetic as you feel. You can feel his gaze tracking the line of your neck, kissing the field of goosebumps blooming across your skin. Leaving the house in nothing but a slip of silk suddenly seems like the worst decision of your life.

"I see," he says. "You don’t have a spare key under one of your plants?”

Your nose wrinkles in a small, self-deprecating scrunch as you glance up at him.

“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”

“Obvious is often better than shivering in the dark.” His eyes sweep gently over your collarbone, noticing the way the thin straps of your dress dig slightly into your skin as you hunch over. “How long have you been sitting out in the cold?”

“Long enough to lose feeling in my toes.”

He frowns at the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. Fragile little thing. “Come on.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to let you freeze to death on your own porch," he says, extending a hand towards you. "And I’m certainly not going to watch you turn blue from across the street while I have a perfectly good spare room.”

You stare at his large hand, contemplating whether stepping into the lair of the neighborhood’s most eligible (and most intimidating) bachelor is actually a safer bet than hypothermia.

Is it a good idea? Probably not. But the alternative is another hour of trembling in a thin slip while the wind bites harshly at your skin.

So you reach up, and under the disguise of a curiosity on what lies beyond his walls, you let his hand engulf your smaller one. His skin is a shock of warmth against your frozen fingers, and he pulls you up with an effortless strength that makes you feel momentarily weightless.

“Just for tonight,” you mumble, trying to reclaim a shred of your dignity as you wobble on your numb feet. You pointedly ignore the sharp pain in your heels as you find your balance. “I’ll call the locksmith first thing in the morning.”

“There’s no rush.” He lets go of your hand, palm sliding from your fingers to the small of your back. “The locksmith can wait until you’ve actually had a few hours of sleep.”

“I look that bad, huh?”

“Bad isn’t the word I’d use. Tired, maybe.” He gives you a once-over, looking a little bashful. “Still unfairly pretty.”

You let out a shaky breath, your legs feeling like lead as you navigate the curb. “You’re just being a good neighbor. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. The dress looks good on you.”

You look down at the soft material that clings to your damp skin, feeling suddenly very exposed. “Thanks.” Unconsciously, you find yourself leaning a fraction closer to him, seeking his body heat. “But it’s doing a terrible job of keeping me alive right now.”

And unconsciously, his palm skims around the curve of your waist. “Inclined to agree, unfortunately.”

“It was aesthetics over survival, felt like a fair trade for a celebration.”

“Yeah? What was the occasion?”

You let the silence linger a little longer before slowly answering, “My birthday.”

There’s a slight, reflexive squeeze of his hand on your waist. "Today's your birthday?"

“Yesterday, technically,” you correct him, noting that the hour has long since bled past midnight. "But yes."

"Well, happy birthday."

"Mhm."

He stops just inches from his front door, turns his head to peer down at you. You notice his brows pulling together in an observant line. "Don't sound too happy about it."

You let out a long sigh, letting your weight slump against the cold wood of the doorframe. The exhaustion is finally winning. “Birthdays are depressing,” you hum, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “Another year of expectations you didn’t meet, another reminder that the clock is ticking. Don't you find them a bit… grim?”

He looks at you for a long beat before shaking his head, a single lock of silver falling across his left eye. "No. Not really," he says, turning the heavy brass handle and pushing the door inward. "But I’ve already had fifty-one of them to get used to the idea."

“So what you’re saying is I have to wait another twenty years to finally stop feeling like the world is ending?”

He catches your gaze, his expression softening into something dangerously close to a smile. “I’m saying that by the time you hit fifty, you realize the expectations were the only thing making it grim."

"That doesn't sound encouraging," you note as the house’s heating begins to thaw your frozen skin. "Twenty years is a long time to spend being disappointed."

His lips twitch. "It's not about the wait. It's about the perspective," he explains, guiding you further into the amber warmth of the foyer. "And you’re far too young to be this cynical."

"I wouldn't call myself young anymore."

"Fifty-one minus twenty. That makes you… what? Thirty-one?"

You try not to flinch, but a small, involuntary wince escapes you at the overestimation. "Thirty, actually."

"That’s still fairly young."

You throw him a dubious look. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. "It’s young," he insists, kicking off his shoes. You follow suit. Then he reaches out, catches your elbow, and guides you toward the living room where a long couch waits for you in the shadows.

His space is exactly as you’d imagined, steeped in warm masculine tones of deep walnut and charcoal. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s the scent of old paper, expensive tobacco, and something clean like rain-washed cedar.

You also catch a faint, woody sting of bourbon, which you expected, but as you sink into the couch, you're surprised to notice a lone glass of red wine sitting on the coffee table.

"You drink wine?" You ask. "Never pegged you as a wine kind of guy."

He reaches for a heavy throw blanket draped over the back of an armchair and drapes it over your shoulder. "What do you peg me for?”

“Straight bourbon,” you admit, huddling into the wool. “Neat. Probably a double."

“I do have my few shares of bourbon.”

“Then I rest my case.”

He tilts his head in contemplation. "I suppose I've earned that reputation."

"You've earned a lot of reputation in this neighborhood."

“Don’t think I want to hear the half of it. Would you like a glass?"

You ponder if it’s a wise move. You’d spent the last four hours drowning in cocktails that were far too sweet, and the fuzzy warmth in your chest is a precarious balance against the exhaustion. Adding a glass of wine to the mix might be the final nudge your brain needs to completely shut down.

But as you look at him, standing tall and massive against the backdrop of his endless books with the fluorescent light tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the idea of a quiet glass of wine with your hot neighbor suddenly feels much more appealing than any of the neon shots you’d endured at the bar.

"I probably shouldn't… but it is my birthday.”

“Not trying to pressure you.”

“Not pressured. I’m actually curious what kind of wine a fifty-one year old bachelor drinks.”

“So I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Take it as a hell yeah.”

He disappears into what you think is a kitchen, and your bravado disappears along with him, replaced by a sudden spike of nerves. Now that he isn't standing directly over you, the reality of the situation settles over you like a heavy blanket draped over your frame.

You’re sitting on the couch of a man who is as intimidating as he is handsome, and you’re about to spend the first hours of your thirty-year drinking expensive wine in his lair.

The rug tickles your bare feet as you nervously tuck them under your thighs, trying to make yourself as small as possible in the vastness of his cushions.

“Here,” he announces himself again, and you notice that he’s pushed the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are corded with muscles and mapped with a faint dusting of hair.

You try not to blatantly stare at the prominent veins tracing down to his wrists as you reach out to take the glass from him. “What is it?”

“A Stag’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon,” he says, settling into the opposite end of the long couch. He drapes one arm over the back, turns his body toward you. “From Napa. This one’s got a bit of ripeness to it. Black cherry, maybe a touch of vanilla.”

You hum, bringing the glass a little closer.

“Gets better with age too,” he continues, eyes lifting to yours. Then with the faintest hint of a smile, “Though it'd be perfect for the occasion.”

You can’t stop the flutter in your belly.

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“It does have a touch of sweetness if you let it sit.”

“No, I mean you, Leon.” You finally gather the nerve to meet his gaze, and find yourself tracing the tiny, crystalline specks of silver that radiate from his blue orbs. “Trying to make me feel better, offering me shelter when I was half-frozen on my doorstep.”

The air in the room seems to shift the moment his name leaves your lips. His shoulders visibly drop an inch. “Yeah, well, you’d do the same.”

You would. Although, as you look at the unshakable size of him, you could never imagine a man like him sitting pathetically out in the cold, mourning a nonexistent tragedy while spiraling over a birthday. Still, you’d have opened your door for him in a heartbeat, even if he weren't half-frozen—maybe especially if he weren't.

And you’re not sure what to make of that.

It’s a thought that feels a little too dangerous to hold onto while sitting this close to him, and you find yourself suddenly, helplessly distracted by the sharp curve of his lower lip.

“Here’s to saving Neighbors in Distress, then,” you offer absentmindedly.

He reaches out for his own glass on the coffee table. Hones his eyes on you with a sincerity that feels tangible as the room falls to the quiet space between his gaze and your breath. The silver specks in his irises seem to ignite in the low light, pinning you to his cushions.

“And to aging like fine wine,” he adds.

A soft burst of laughter bubbles out of you. “That is so corny.” Then angle your head to the side. “And such an old saying.”

“I’m half a century, what did you expect?”

There’s no trace of forced humor in his voice, and that lack of irony makes his delivery even more amusing. The smile on your face lingers as a warm pulse in your cheeks. It blooms as a genuine spark of comfort in your chest, prints over the rim of your glass as you take a sip.

“Wow,” you say appreciatively. “That’s really good wine.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s also incredibly dangerous, I think I need to pace myself,” you admit, placing your glass on the coffee table. “Thirty is supposed to be the age of moderation, isn't it?”

“According to who?”

“Everyone,” you answer, a little too quickly. “Social media, podcasts, people who suddenly start playing padel and structured routines.”

“I think moderation is something people reach for when they’re trying to feel safe,” he observes, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Less risk. Fewer surprises.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s… reality catching up?”

His gaze shifts, catching that subtle change in you. “You don’t sound convinced.”

You shrug. “I just thought by now things would feel more... settled. Or clear.” Your fingers trace the intricate, frayed embroidery at the edge of the blanket around you. “Instead it kind of feels like I’m aging out of things without ever really being part of them in the first place.”

“Aging out of what?”

You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “Being… wanted, I guess.” A quick, self-conscious laugh follows. “Or at least effortlessly so. Like there’s a point where you stop turning heads and start blending in, and you don’t even realize when the moment of being undesirable happens.”

“You really think that’s already happened to you?”

You don’t answer right away, and that probably answers enough. His glass meets the table with a soft thud. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

“More dangerous than the wine?”

“Much. Because it’s wrong.”

You’re not sure whether to laugh it off or deny it outright.

“Desirability isn’t about being the loudest thing in the room,” he continues. “Or the youngest. It’s not about catching everyone’s attention for five seconds.”

“Then what is it about?”

The room exhales into silence. The lone lamp spills a muted glow, its light stretching into uneven shadows that breathe along the walls while somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticks softly as each second threads itself through the sudden quiet.

“Presence,” his voice finally settles into the stillness. “About knowing yourself well enough that when someone does notice you, they don’t forget it.”

“And you think that just… gets better?”

“I know it does.”

The certainty in his voice makes your chest tighten. You look down, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders under the blanket, the thin fabric of your dress, the way you’d felt so exposed stepping into his house.

He leans forward then, just enough to close some of the distance, the sheer presence of his broad frame grounding in a way that makes it harder to retreat into your own thoughts.

“Look at me,” he urges softly.

Hesitation flickers through your posture before you finally lift your chin. There’s a quiet warmth in his gaze, something unguarded that softens the harder edges of him that turns all his intensity into something almost unbearably kind.

“You're worried about becoming invisible, but I can tell you right now, there is not a single thing about you that is easy to look away from."

Your breath shatters in your throat as he reaches out. His hand is large, the skin calloused, but his touch is incredibly light as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Caresses your cheekbone with a thumb.

“So no,” he adds, quieter but no less certain, “I don’t think you’re becoming less desirable.”

If you weren't sure what would finally wreck you on this milestone birthday, what would be the thing to finally break the surface of your spiraling thoughts—you are now, and it’s the magnetic pull of wanting to kiss a man twenty-one years your senior.

But age is just a number, isn't it? Leon has obviously made it clear that he doesn’t view the passage of time as a problem, and looking at the way his eyes are currently tracing the shape of your mouth, you’re starting to believe him.

The gap between your ages feels like an invitation to a level of intensity you weren't prepared for at twenty-nine.

“You really think so?”

“Sweetheart, you’re the most desirable thing I’ve had the privilege of seeing in my entire life.”

You can’t believe you’ve resisted his charm for so long.

You’ve imagined similar scenarios, of course. Living right across to a man who carries himself with so much lethal grace made it entirely impossible not to.

The men you’ve dated in your twenties were mostly just boys still trying to figure themselves out. You were used to clumsy hands and rushed fumbling, to guys who barely knew how to hold a conversation.

Leon is different. Maybe it’s his age. Confidence, agility—it’s obvious he doesn't possess the frantic energy of a younger man, instead moving with an authority that commands your attention without him even having to try. As a result, countless lonely nights were spent of you lying awake wondering what it would actually feel like to have his solid weight pressing you down.

Not that you would ever dare to admit that to anyone. No, thinking it in the privacy of your own mind is already embarrassing enough.

Although the gratification of having him kissing you obliterates any sense of shame. And the way his hands are exploring every corner of your curves proves that he’s spent just as much time agonizing over the exact same thoughts.

You’re uncertain when the blanket fell off your shoulders, but you can feel the rough friction of his palms everywhere. Your arms, your knees, your thighs. You’re aware of him bunching the skirt of your dress upward until it’s gathered at your waist.

You also sense a slight desperation in his touch. A monumental inkling of need bleeding through a composure that suggests he’s been holding himself back for so long, and it is as staggering as the deceptive softness of his lips to realize the sheer force of his hunger.

It isn’t until your lips are swollen and stinging and wet from the relentless pressure of his that you finally fill your lungs with air.

And to your chagrin, he momentarily pulls away. “Maybe we should slow down.”

“Why?” you whine, a little pout hanging on your puckered lips. “Thought I was desirable.”

“You are,” he grunts. His nose grazes the high curve of your cheek. “Believe me, you are.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He levels with your concerned gaze. “Don’t want you waking up thinking this was a mistake.”

Yeah, right. As if a few sugary cocktails could be the sole reason of a desire this potent.

Sure, there’s a sweet haze effectively numbing your usual inhibitions, but alcohol didn't carve the hollow ache in your chest every time you watched him pull into his driveway. Nor did it plant the heat that pooled in your belly whenever he caught your eye over the property line—more times than you could admit, less than what you truly craved.

In retrospect, the tension had always been there. Unconsciously. Even if you were stone-cold sober you would still be here.

The morning light couldn't possibly undo the rightness of finally having him in your vicinity.

You reach a palm towards his face. “The only mistake," you whisper, soft words against the rough scrape of his jaw, "would be making me wait another second."

He’s quiet for a moment, but your pretty eyes tip whatever restraint he’s holding onto. Has him tracing the supple skin of your breast with a newfound zeal.

“You sure?”

“Why don’t you take off my dress and find out?”

You feel his amusement radiate against your skin. “Glad your confidence is back.” Then he hooks a finger under the thin silk of your dress, slides the strap down your shoulder. “Because you are beautiful.”

The cool air hits your skin. Two sensitive peaks beg for his attention.

“So goddamn beautiful. Look at these tits.”

There’s amusement laced in your smile. “Also didn’t peg you with such an abrasive vocabulary.”

“Politeness won’t cover what I want to do to you right now.”

Soft strands of hair thread between your fingers as his mouth wraps around a nipple.

Plays with it eagerly, lapping around in circles with agonizing precision before drawing it back as if trying to make the sensitive point swell even larger in his mouth. Repeats the motion far longer than you anticipated, searing a path that sends a rush of hot blood to your core until every atom of your being is vibrating.

You’re convinced the room is spinning as he gives the same attention to your other breast, painting your areola with a slickness that is as heavy as the dampness between your thighs.

He seems to sense the change in your breathing, lets a hand travel down your hip before draping one of your legs over his lap. Bends your other knee, fingers hooking into the crook of your leg to draw you apart.

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod limply. He kisses the side of your throat.

“Undesirable,” he tuts, large hand moving to the wet patch on your panties to map the exact shape of your arousal through the silk. “Do you realize how ridiculous that is?”

You try to form a response, to make some self-deprecating excuse about the depressive weight of your birthday or the slow decay of your youth, but the air simply vanishes from your lungs. The pressure he applies over you sends an electric shockwave of sensation through your nervous system.

He watches the words die on your lips. Watches the way your hips hitch upward. Observes the shallow rhythm of your chest with every rhythmic circle he rubs into your aching little clit.

His mouth ticks up into a smile that softens the weathered lines of his devastatingly handsome face.

“Should I show you myself then?”

“Show…” The supple grain of the couch bites into your shoulder blades as your toes curl into the material. “…what?”

His fingers slip under your flimsy lace. “Exactly how desirable you are.”

“Ahh—” Your hazy mind goes into an absolute sensory overload. One second the room is a blur of amber light and red wine, the next heartbeat you are violently aware of the viscous heat of your own arousal as he gathers it on his fingertips. “Leon—”

He sweeps upward, smearing that glistening moisture across the swollen outer folds and pressing it deep into the delicate flesh of your labia, and you are acutely aware of the aching bead of your clit trapped beneath the abrasive swirl of his fingers, feeling it throb in perfect synchronization with your racing heart.

Leon feels it too. The sharp rhythm of his breathing stutters as he watches you squirm.

“Gorgeous girl.” The blunt tip of his middle finger presses against your slick opening, testing the tight ring of muscle before slowly sinking in. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Le…on… oh!”

The addition of a second finger pulls a high keening from your throat.

Two fingers and you feel impossibly full. You can barely fathom the weight of taking his actual cock, and your walls pulsate at the thought. He groans, pulls his hand back almost to the entrance before driving his knuckles deep inside you again.

In and out, back and forth, turning your entire world into a blur of pleasure and the heady scent of him. Incredibly, unapologetically male.

The only thing consuming your mind right now, rightfully so. The pleasure-induced haze that clouds your brain parts just enough for you to breathe in his musk, to watch the absolute concentration on his face as he dedicates himself to your pleasure. At the quiet lines carved beside his eyes. The faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The hard flex of his chiseled jaw, dusted with fine hints of gray.

Maybe aging isn’t so bad after all. You’re suddenly grateful for every single year that carved him into the man who’s currently dismantling you with his bare hands.

Because you feel it. The ongoing swell of an orgasm gathering at the base of your spine. Your breath fractures into a wordless sob and Leon feels your undoing the second it begins. Helps you through it. Massages the deep, aching knot of tension inside your cunt, using the volume of your own wetness to press the base of his palm against your puffy clit.

Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones.

Legs parted instinctively wide, it is one of the strongest orgasms you have experienced in a very long time. You’d argue it might be the strongest one ever, but the thought of cumming onto his cock seemed like the only thing that could possibly top the rank.

Your satiated limbs melt into the cushions as he kisses the sweat dripping down your hairline. “Lift your arms up for me.”

You obey wordlessly, and he starts to undress you. Slips off the once delicate lace down the length of your legs. You’re still drifting in a post-orgasmic haze, but your focus snaps back the second he peels his shirt over his head. The flex of his thick biceps and broad shoulders completely rewires your sluggish brain that you find yourself leaning forward as he makes quick work of his pants.

And then it’s genuinely hard to believe that the Leon Kennedy—intimidating, sweet Leon who lives right across your house—is sitting spread out with a raging hard-on that demands your attention.

Which, obviously, you give to him without needing to be asked. The second your fingers fully encircle and squeeze his impressive size, his head falls back against the couch, exposing the strained column of his neck.

You also give your attention to the erratic pulse at his throat. Pressing your lips against a scattering of sun-faded freckles beneath his jaw, swallowing the deep vibration of another groan.

Leon, you’ve come to realize, is not ashamed of being loud. A delightful knowledge that this formidable man is perfectly willing to let his voice gravel with each motion along his shaft. You experimentally tighten your grip and drag a thumb across the weeping slit of his cock, and feel your heart swell with giddiness the moment he comes to cradle your cheeks and groans straight into your mouth.

The power you hold over him is intoxicating. Addicting. Very, very dangerous. Whatever excuse you initially gave yourself about tonight as a symptom of being touch-deprived and horny on your birthday is rapidly dissolving. You can already see yourself easily basking in the undivided attention he's so far given you.

Granted, it is nearly impossible to worry about the long-term consequences when he’s panting directly into your open mouth, failing bid to keep his control intact.

You decide to offer him some grace, slowly loosening your grip. Let your nails graze the soft hair at his base, trace the dark trail up the firm ridge of his stomach until your hand settles on the hard plane of his chest.

He pulls back and pins your hand over his heart. “We should move to the bedroom.”

The heat of his skin is too comforting for you to even consider the effort of standing up.

“Why?”

“Condoms," he huffs. "Don't have any on me."

Your nose curls. It really is hard to worry about the long-term consequences when all you can think about is the desperate need to feel him raw. Surprising, considering safe sex is a practice you've always adhered to.

But Leon really does have a habit of pulling completely new things out of you. Effortlessly dismantles your depressed thoughts, unravels your usual guarded boundaries, and is now rewiring your entire view on intimacy.

There’s a tiny lull of silence before you gather the courage to ask, “How much can I trust you without using one?”

His heartbeat kicks under your palm, and you watch as his brows draw together before the harsh lines on his face soften. “As much as you’re willing to give.” His thumb drags over the back of your hand. “You sure ‘bout that?”

It surprises you how easy the words slip past your lips, devoid of the usual overthinking that has haunted this day so far.

For the first time in a long time, the air in your lungs feels clear.

“I want you to go without,” you confirm.

“C’mere.”

He tugs you closer and sits you right on top of his lap, back firmly flushed against his chest.

“Lift your hips a little.”

You brace your hands against his thick thighs, let him guide the blunt tip of his cock right to your slick hole. The keening sound you make vibrates in the room as gravity slowly takes over, allowing your wet muscles to swallow the first few inches of him.

It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t any less intense. He fills you with a burning heat.

“Ah—ngh… Leon…”

“Breathe,” he drawls. You feel his lips on the crook of your neck, gooseflesh rising up when you feel the tip of his tongue. “A little more, yeah?”

Your head bobs in a nod. Lungs expanding, lungs deflating—diaphragm relaxed. You count to three and let your body melt against his chest.

It takes him a full minute, filled with soft whines that rumble in the back of your throat and little strokes coming from his hips. Your eyes are unfocused when he gives a final jerk, feeling the coarseness of his hair grind against the slope of your ass.

“Oh, fuck.”

“So fucking warm,” he grunts, pulling open your thighs wide across his lap, knees hooked over his sides with your bare feet dangling in the air. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” you slur. There’s no pain to speak of but the strain of him pressing against your sensitive flesh. “Just… full.”

At least, full is the only word your overstimulated brain can offer.

No amount of previous longing could have prepared you for the way his pulse drums in tandem with your own, thudding so violently against your internal nerves. Perfectly snug inside you, as if your very anatomy is fundamentally shifting—melting, molding. Making room to seamlessly map every thick ridge of his shape until there's no space left between your bodies.

But sitting perfectly still is its own kind of torture. The throb in your cunt is spiraling into a desperate itch, and simply having him seated to the hilt is no longer enough.

Friction is what you seek, and friction is what you ask, rolling your hips in a needy grind, doing your best to wiggle against his lap just to coax out even a fraction.

"Christ." The sound he makes vibrates through your entire back, dragged out with sluggish words you have trouble making sense. "...embarrassing this old man.”

You tilt your head back in confusion, try to parse his meaning through the thick haze of pleasure.

“Won’t last long tonight," he explains, slowly rolling his hips that draws another groan. “Not even a good ten minutes.”

A giggle interrupts your keening whine. You let your head fall to the side, resting your temple against the sweaty curve of his throat.

“It’s okay... you can fuck me again in the morning.”

The breathless laugh he wheezes sounds partly wicked.

“You’re goddamn right I will. Take you in my bed.” He drags his hips backward. “The shower.” Then languidly thrusts forward. “Even the kitchen.”

He takes the full weight of your breasts in eager hands.

“Fuck you in the back of my car like rabid teenagers.”

You choke on a moan and reach behind, fingers finding the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t think our bones can handle the lack of legroom.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

You feebly smile at the confidence in his voice.

Somehow, you don’t doubt him. Anyone with a conscious mind would agree that Leon is a man of absolute competence. You might not know the secret he keeps behind closed doors, or the full depth of his life, but you know the way he commands the space he occupies. And you'd expect nothing less from him when the space he's currently residing in is yours.

Physically, sure. He's sheathed impossibly deep within your cunt.

Metaphorically, too, when he’s been threading in your thoughts with a steady persistence. Lingers between looks, between breaths. Settles deep into the unspoken gaps of your everyday life, anticipating your needs long before you do by offering things without excess.

A roof over your head. A glass of wine in your hand without expectation. Heartfelt words that reach you even when you hadn’t realized you needed to hear them.

You wonder if you asked for more for the sake of your own comfort, he would give that too.

For your pleasure, at least. The stretch of him fucking you in slow ceremony is already delicious as it is, but a fierce hunger still gnaws at your neglected clit. You try to guide the hand on your right tit down to the slope of your stomach, drawing it directly toward the spot where your bodies meet.

Fortunately, Leon is more than happy to oblige.

“Right here?"

You nod silently, let your body do the talking. And talking it does in a language of erratic breaths and arching hips. Pliant to his touch, yet greedy for his fingertips. The sheer volume of slick, overheated syrup that instantly coats his skin has him inhaling sharply.

"Fucking drenched,” he grunts, feeling the rigid length of his cock disappear completely between your glistening folds. "Gonna eat this pussy next time."

Crude and abrasive. You like this version of him. So much so that your internal muscles respond before your voice can, milking him with a series of desperate clenches that has his jaw locking tight.

“Next time, sweetheart,” he promises, rubbing circles over the hard knot of your clit. “Taste how sweet this pussy is.”

That seems to do it. Your entire frame tenses, toes curling in anticipation of the sensation climbing up in your leg. Even breathing seems like a secondary concern, a distant chore your lungs are struggling to remember how to perform when you’ve succumbed so completely to the intensity.

"That’s it. You gon' give me another?”

You hiccup through a frantic chorus of “Fuckfuckfuckfuck” and wail helplessly.

“Go on. Let me feel it."

“Shit,” you heave, right before you shatter, squeezing your eyes shut.

You collapse with a satisfied smile, reveling in the ecstasy seeping deep into your bones. But that quiet hum is cut abruptly short when his hands suddenly hook under the backs of your knees, hoisting your legs up and peeling you open.

Starts fucking you for the sake of his pleasure.

You find no mercy in his rhythm, pistoning force that has your breasts bouncing with every jarring strike. Limbs shaking, bones rattling. The room shuddering with echoes of wet, heavy slaps.

It’s nothing you can’t take when you seem to be enjoying it yourself. You realize, staring down at the clotted, white fluid foaming around his cock, that you would gladly give him anything he so much as looked at. He’s already given you plenty of attention that you’ll let him take whatever he needs in the name of gratitude.

A token of appreciation, if you will. A thank you for being the perfect neighbor—the perfect man, capable of melting your resolve with kind gestures before proceeding to rearrange your guts.

Although thinking this is solely for his benefit seems foolish when he's ruining you oh-so-good. Fast and precise, hitting right where you love it, touching exactly where you're tight. 

A harsh jerk of his cock has you blubbering incoherent words, "HolyfuckLe—Leon!"

You're answered with a row of grunts, of squelching noises that increase the more he thrusts in. You feel like a carved pretzel as he pins your legs to your chest, locking you firmly in place. Drilling hard, erratic, pushing all the strength he possesses into your pliant body.

There’s a hot tension in your lower belly. The muscles slacken in your neck—throat closing in as your mouth opens in a scream that doesn't quite make it through.

The silence punched out of you is finally rewarded.

Your third orgasm is gut-wrenching when it happens. It twists your insides, wringing you dry. You’re a mess of tears and drool and Leon makes sure you aren't left completely empty. With two final strong thrusts, he pumps a flood deep into your cunt in exchange for every drop of liquid he’s drained from your pores.

Overstimulated and exhausted, you slowly let your heartbeat settle. So does Leon. His breath tickles the crook of your neck, and there’s a thick, gravelly edge in his voice as he drawls, “I should’ve pulled out.”

Not exactly regret, but an acknowledgment of his complete loss of control. Not that you particularly care.

Lifting a lazy hand, you gently stroke the corded muscle of his arm, soothing down the dusting of silvered hair.

“You don't see me complaining," you whisper, voice utterly sated.

“Yeah? Let me see you.”

The smell of sex is so pungent and sweet as he slips you off his thighs. Lays you gently on the empty space of the couch beside him. Parts your legs for the many times tonight, and marvels at the sight of his cum making its way down to your puckered hole.

He spreads your spent, swollen folds with his thumb. “Gorgeous girl.”

You offer him a tired smile.

Surprisingly, you do believe him.

In a physical sense, yes, that’s true. The way he’s imprinted himself inside your body is proof enough of exactly how fiercely he desires you. But the weight of his words carries a gravity that pulls at something far deeper than your skin. Past the pulse at your throat and the ache in your thighs, settling heavy in the hollow of your chest.

Society has a way of making you feel like you’re meant to diminish with time. Expected to survive in barren soil, pouring yourself out while trying to bloom from roots that wouldn't even bother to water you. Grown accustomed to a slow drought from an environment that convinced you were fading out of focus as the years ticked by.

The way he looks at you defies that logic. The blue in his eyes suggests time has only made your harvest sweeter.

Any insecurities you harbored evaporate under the pads of his fingers as he maps the rise of your belly. All the self-criticism and nagging fear of becoming invisible dissolve the same way he smoothly glides through the valley of your breasts.

The frantic noise of the world goes completely silent when he palms your cheek. His body is hot atop yours, and his gaze holds genuine comfort of being truly, unconditionally seen.

For the first time tonight, you discern the affection decorating his eyes.

And it’s certainly not for the last.

His smile is warm and tender as his breath kisses your lips. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Your birthday is happy indeed.

[clarks-letterman]

in my head, they are closely related

[plutotheplum]

Take All My Love

leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: to your chagrin, you get partnered with an irritating DSO agent who happens to take an interest in the case you're working on.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, re9!leon, fbi!reader, age gap, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blow job, p in v, spanking, choking, finger sucking, brat taming, praise kink

wc: 10k

a/n: obsession's gotten so bad i started having dreams about him <3

also on ao3!

There’s a man sitting at your desk. 

You’d arrived at work a little before 9, steaming cup of coffee in hand and a stack of case files tucked under your arm haphazardly. It was only until you’d heard the curious, hushed whispers that you’d realized your desk was currently taken, occupied by an unfamiliar man clad in a leather jacket. 

Were you being relocated? Promoted? Demoted? 

A barrage of thoughts flits through your mind as you approach your desk slowly, mentally preparing yourself to give the man a piece of your mind. The man doesn’t even flinch when the case files drop onto your desk loudly, your coffee cup following soon after as you set it down roughly before crossing your arms over your chest.

“Can I help you?”

His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk. 

His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth. 

“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”

He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.

“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”

You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.

“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”

“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”

“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”

The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”

“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”

“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”

Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.

“I’ve already read it.”

“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”

“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”

“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.

“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”

Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.

“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”

Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”

“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–” 

You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”

You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it. 

The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up. 

Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable. 

“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”

“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.

“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him. 

“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest. 

The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult. 

“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”

A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently. 

When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly. 

–

“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”

“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”

“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”

“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”

You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.

Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him. 

“Fuck me.”

You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”

“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”

You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”

“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes. 

“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”

Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”

“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”

“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”

“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.

“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”

“A chair is close to your heart?”

You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”

“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”

“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.

Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”

He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.

You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”

Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”

You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak. 

“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.

“Yes!”

Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile. 

“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”

“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back. 

Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.

“You gonna let me out?”

“What?”

When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.

You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–

You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.

“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”

“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”

His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”

“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.

Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.

“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”

“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”

“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”

“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy. 

“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”

He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”

“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”

Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”

“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”

“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”

It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him. 

“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”

“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”

“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”

You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.

He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve. 

Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.

“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.

“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”

“I happen to be full of those.”

“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.

His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.

“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly. 

He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.

You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.

“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing. 

His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly. 

“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.

“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”

The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.

“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”

“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”

“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy. 

“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”

You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.

“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”

“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.

“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”

A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek. 

“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.

“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.

“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”

“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”

You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.

“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”

“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.

“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”

“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”

“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”

“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”

“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.

“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”

You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.

“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”

“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.

“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”

“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch. 

“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.

“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”

“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out. 

“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.

Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.

“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”

He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit. 

“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”

Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right. 

“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.

His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”

You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.

“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”

Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air. 

“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”

You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”

“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.

“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy. 

“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”

“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”

“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.

You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”

A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back. 

You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.

“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”

“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure. 

His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.

“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.

“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”

You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.

“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.

Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”

“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”

He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath. 

“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”

You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.

“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.

“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.

“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”

You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”

You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.

“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.

“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.

His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.

“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”

“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down. 

Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.

“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”

Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”

You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.

“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”

You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock. 

“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”

You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white. 

“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”

“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.

When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.

“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.

Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap. 

Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.

“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”

“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”

You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.

“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.

Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.

“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”

Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”

“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”

“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”

“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck. 

“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”

You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size. 

“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat. 

“Atta girl.”

Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”

You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.

“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”

“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”

He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips. 

“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass. 

Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock. 

“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”

You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit. 

“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”

“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at him when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”

“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”

Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.

You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.

“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.

“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”

You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls. 

Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.

“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.

Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.

“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.

“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back. 

You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.

“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”

“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”

Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.

Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.

“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”

“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”

“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.

You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”

Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”

He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.

You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.

“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.

“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”

“I aim to please.”

He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”

You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”

“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.

When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.

You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.

“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.

“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”

You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”

He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec. 

“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”

“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.

“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”

Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.

“I’d like that, Leon.”

[pinksplace]

now playing…

Starring: Bucky Barnes as the masseuse!

Synopsis: you need to relax and your new (large-handed) masseuse has a few ideas.

Director’s Commentary: my first feature in a special collaboration with @spdrveil !

Warnings: semi-public sex??? I guess, fingering, Bucky has a boner and wears linen pants, gratuitous use of italics.

Word Count: 2.2k

Lifting the Pink Veil | Playlist

It had started like a normal massage. 

Bucky's familiar, gentle hands wandering your back, roaming over shoulder blades and vertebrae. 

You had booked a full hour and a half, a rare treat after an especially grueling week. 

Except it wasn't working.

Nearly a half hour in, your shoulders were still up to your ears while Bucky worked your lower back. 

Flat on your stomach, you can't see his face, but you hear him huff in frustration above you. 

"You're still tight as a drum." He says, kneading into your tailbone. "What's going on that has you so worked up?"

He's spot on, always is. That weird masseuse sixth sense. Except there is no reason, no good answer. Your brain just won't stop.

Did I send that last email?

Is he wearing the grey pants that make his ass look so good again?

Did I put on deodorant?

I haven't shaved in three days, oh god should I ask him to skip my legs?

I'm pretty sure I sent that email. 

Do I have time to go to the pharmacy after this? 

Is the pharmacy even open on weekends?

What if I accidentally called her a bitch in the email?

His hands are so big and warm, I want him to cup my cheeks.

I want him to-

"Where'd you go?" Bucky snaps you out of it, running his palm up the entire length of your back. 

"Sorry." You offer, voice muffled by the head rest. "Just can't get my brain to shut off."

Bucky hums above you, moving his hands so one is on either shoulder. "My poor girl." He says, digging a thumb into a particularly tough knot.

You make an appreciative sound into the cushion, body keening into his touch as much as it can in your position. 

Then his hands are gone, pulled away without warning.

"Do you trust me?" Bucky asks.

You've been getting massages with Bucky for nearly three months now, an hour every other week spent in his company. 

You know he's a former solider. A little rough around the edges, but a complete an utter sweetheart. He has a rescue cat and a best friend named Steve. That he still thinks of the Dodgers as New York team even though they moved to LA before he was born. 

You know he has the friendliest smile and dreamiest eyes you've ever seen. 

And he has the best hands you've ever felt. 

You're so comfortable with Bucky that you're completely bare beneath the thin sheet separating you. 

"I trust you." You surrender. 

Bucky's hands rub a reassuring path down your spine, stopping right at the folded edge of the sheet on your lower back. You hear his smile when he answers, "Good." 

He rests his hands over the fabric, gently placing his weight on the curve of your ass cheeks. It's not the first time he's touched you there, but his thumbs drift further into the divot between them then ever before. You feel his fingers curl, ever so slightly into the plushness of it. 

"Remember to breathe." He reminds you. 

Before you can recognize that you had in fact actually stopped breathing, Bucky's palms begin to massage your glutes. 

He works them with slow but firm squeezes, fingers trapping the nerves between them and slowly melting their tension. You resist the urge to clench under his touch, to jolt in surprise. Instead you utter a single, impossible to miss-

"Oh!"

For the first time in all your sessions, the feeling in the room changes. From cozy and calm, to taut and near suffocating. It's sexual, impossible to miss in its obviousness. 

Yet you're not uncomfortable, no. In fact as Bucky's palms work over the skin and gently spread the globes of flesh, you're quite the opposite.

"Does that feel good?" Bucky asks. He sounds different, stilted almost. His easy, carefree, loose demeanor out of sight. No this Bucky is strained.

You hum, nodding into the table. As if to prove your point, you unconsciously push your hips up into his hand. "Yeah, that's-" you swallow down another moan. "That's good."

The music begins to disappear, the soothing waves and harp drifting far, far away.

You can feel the heat of his touch through the sheet, his hot hands and their incredible size. It would make you dizzy if you weren't already laying down. 

"You can move the sheet if you want." You offer before you even hear what you're saying. "If that would make it easier I mean." You tack on the second half, rushing to save face. 

Bucky is silent, his hands stilling as he considers what you've said. That or as he considers pressing the help button to escape. With your view of the floor it's hard to be sure.

"Okay." He agrees. 

Then there's a chill, not quite a breeze but enough to send a goosebumps up your spine.

He refolds the sheet about half way down your thighs, grabbing your ankles from where they rest at the bottom of the table and pulling them apart enough that you feel the same coolness ghost over your cunt.

Then his hands are back, only this time they touch like a lovers. A possessive gripping of flesh as he pulls your cheeks apart again, only this time it's more purposeful, no longer hiding behind the excuse of massage.

"Oh Honey," Bucky coos. "You're so worked up." He says, voice dripping with sympathy. His thumb dips down to your folds, dragging the tip of it between them and feeling at your slick.

You're wet, embarrassingly so. You can feel it on your inner thighs, but that's no surprise. While you hate to admit it, you leave every massage with ruined panties. 

Bucky doesn't seem to mind, "Poor thing, how long has it been since someone touched you?"

You keen, a high pitched noise in the back of your throat as you once again push back into his touch. "So long Bucky." You breathe out, desperate for his finger to drag just a little lower, to reach down and find your throbbing clit. 

"Wasn't talkin' to you." Bucky says under his breath, continuing his exploration of your cunt. He doesn't go where you want, but instead he holds your folds apart with two fingers, and presses the pad of his thumb over your entrance. 

"Its okay," Bucky soothes, pressing just enough for your cunt to swallow the tip of his finger. "I'll take care of you."

He pulls his fingers away, and as if to prove how wet you are, Bucky rubs his fingers clean on your lower back. 

You hear the sound of the oil again, the way it slides against his skin as he rubs his hands together then they're back on you. One hand back at your cunt, sliding between your folds. This time pressing the pads of his pointer and index finger directly against your clit.

His free hand goes to the stubborn knot in your shoulder, pressing two fingers into the center of it.

Like a tactical strike, he applies enough pressure to the knot to make you gasp, and when you do he seizes the opportunity to slide his other fingers knuckle deep into your cunt. 

The relief is overwhelming, your walls clamping down around his fingers as he drives further into the center of the knot. You can't help but cry out.

"God Bucky!"

He shushes you, calm and sturdy as he begins to curl his fingers. As if working the knot from inside of you, he copies his movements on your shoulder while pressing his fingers against the walls of your cunt. 

His experience as a solider is visible to you for the first time as he searches for your g-spot. Scoping every part of you can reach and exploring each ridge until finally it caves under his touch.

The moan you patch is crass, high pitched and unlike anything you've ever heard come out of your mouth before. Your entire body reacts, lifting off the table as if shocked by electricity. 

Bucky's right there, pushing you back down with his hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you chest flat as your hands claw into the plush cushion. 

"That's it." He says, massaging both spots with matching pressure. "Just let go, let all that tension go."

You choke on a response, gasping into the head rest as Bucky pulls you apart with his expert touch.

"You've needed this for so long haven't you baby?" He asks, voice teetering on that tortuous line of condescending and teasing. "I see the wet spot you leave on the table every week."

You couldn't be embarrassed right now if you tried, too busy blinking away the stars he keeps putting behind your eyes. 

"Shoulda done this a month ago." He admits, and something in his voice changes, more gravelly than before.

You turn your head, trying to get any sight of him, a glimpse of his expression, a chance to gauge if he's as needy as you are.

You're at his waist, the table lifted at least three feet off the ground. The perfect height to see his hard cock straining against the waist band of his thin pants. He's pressed himself against the edge of the table, hips absentmindedly grinding into it.

Your body must react, his breath hitching above you.

"God baby, soaking me down to my wrist." He groans, hips jutting an inch closer to you. The light catches the fabric and you can just barely make out a wet spot growing. 

You can hardly see it but his size is obvious and already intimidating. 

My god, you think, he's fucking huge. 

Another gush and Bucky's breathing gets even heavier, like he can hardly believe what he's seeing. Not far removed from you, who can hardly believe what you're feeling. 

"Softest thing I ever felt." He whispers, nothing short of awed. 

Your orgasm builds faster than every before, sneaking up on you with a sudden burn in your belly that leavings you with nothing but the ability to pant his name as you write on the table.

Bucky continues his assault on your g-spot, relentlessly applying pressure and moving his fingers in a slow circular motion over it. His other hand has yet to leave your shoulder, still applying pressure to the knot. 

Then he shifts it, move to press alongside the nerves and suddenly everything gives way. 

Your orgasm crashes into you as the knot releases, a wave of two very different kinds of relief washing over with the force of a tidal wave. 

It lasts longer than you knew was possible, a whole minute of blinding pleasure as Bucky works you through it. His hand splays between your shoulder blades, rubbing comforting circles with his thumb as his (soaked) hand helps you ride out the after shocks of your orgasm.

You try to speak, mouth moving without sound, just pathetic squeaks and gasps. 

Bucky shushes you, gently pulling his hand from between your legs. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his shadow as he brings it to his mouth. 

All you can do is whine, face pressed tight to the table with exhaustion.

You eyes close, without you even realizing it, you start to surrender to sleep. 

You're barely coherent when you feel Bucky rubbing a warm washcloth between your legs, carefully avoiding where your cunt is still twitching.

It's tossed onto the counter when hes done, abandoned in favor of being able to pass you a towel. 

"Sit up." He says gently, guiding you onto the edge of the table. Bucky reaches into the basket where you had folded your clothes. Slowly, he begins to help you get dressed. 

He slides your bra straps up either side of your arms, even clasping it in the back for you. He follows with your shirt, carefully placing it over your head even though you're sure your hair is already wrecked.

"What're you doing?" You ask, voice broken and groggy.

Bucky grabs your panties, helping you get each leg in and then pulling them up to your knees, he repeats it with your pants. 

"Gettin' you dressed for dinner." He says, as if it's obvious.

"Dinner?" You croak.

"Yeah." Bucky says, "You need to eat after that." 

As if on cue, your stomach growls and Bucky fixes you with a look that says see.

"I could eat." You agree. 

Bucky nods, standing and holding you steady while you finish dressing. 

"Good." He turns and grabs an oil off the counter, slides it into his pocket. 

You raise an eyebrow, watching as his expression turns sheepish, cheeks dusting themselves with pink. 

"For after dinner." He says. "If you want."

You nod, small but certain. "I want."

His smile returns, eyes gleaming as he reaches for the door knob. "Let's get out of here."

Bewildered, but for the first time in weeks, relaxed, you follow.

Something tells you that you that you'll be getting your next massage a lot sooner than usual. 

thank you for reading!!!! I love you soooooooooo much!

collab masterlist

main masterlist

[slutdier]

we know Bucky’s a cocky little shit but he definitely whimpers while he talks you through it, send ask

﹙ ❤︎ ﹚OH HEEE DEFINITELY FUCKING DOESS that man does NOT hold back

You’d been dancing around this tension with Bucky for weeks, snarky comments in the Avengers compound, lingering stares during missions, that cocky smirk he always flashed when he caught you checking out the way his tactical suit hugged his broad shoulders and metal arm. He knew exactly what he did to you, the bastard. Always strutting around like he owned the place, teasing you with lines like, “Doll, if you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might have to do somethin’ about it.”

Tonight, though? You’d had enough of the games. After a particularly grueling training session where he’d pinned you to the mat one too many times, his body pressed flush against yours, breath hot on your neck, you dragged him into your room, slamming the door behind you.

“You’re such a cocky little shit.” you gasped as he backed you against the wall, his flesh hand sliding up your thigh while the vibranium one gripped your hip with just enough pressure to make you shiver.

“Cocky? Always baby. Little?” His voice dropped to a dark, teasing growl. “I don’t think so.”

His mouth crashed onto yours, all teeth and tongue, devouring you like he’d been starving for it. He tasted like sin, coffee and something uniquely him and you moaned into the kiss, fingers tangling in his dark hair.

He didn’t waste time. Hands yanked at your clothes, stripping you both down until skin met skin, his hard length pressing insistently against your stomach. Fuck, he was huge, thick and veined, already leaking at the tip as he ground against you. “Look at you,” he growled, voice rough with want. “So fuckin’ wet for me already. Been thinkin’ about this pussy all day.”

You shoved him toward the bed, climbing on top to straddle him, but he flipped you effortlessly, super soldier strength and all, pinning you beneath him with a wicked laugh. “Nah, doll. Tonight, I’m takin’ what I want.”

He spread your legs wide, settling between them, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. You arched up, desperate, but he held your hips down. “Patience, sweetheart. Gonna make you beg for it.”

Slowly, torturously he pushed in, inch by thick inch, stretching you deliciously. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “Shit… so tight. Takin’ me so well.”

Once he bottomed out, he stilled, letting you adjust, but that cocky smirk was back. “Feel that? All mine now.” He started moving, deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every spot inside you, building a rhythm that had you clawing at his back.

But as he picked up speed, pounding into you harder, something shifted. His breaths came in ragged pants, and soft, needy sounds escaped his lips, whimpers, high and broken, mixing with his dirty words.

“That’s it, baby,” he whimpered, voice cracking as he thrust deeper. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so good… gonna make me lose it.” His metal hand gripped the headboard, knuckles white, while the flesh one slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit.

You moaned loudly, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. “Bucky-”

“Shh, I got you,” he whined softly, hips snapping erratically now, chasing his own edge while driving you toward yours. “Come on, doll… let go for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock… please, fuck- you’re so perfect, takin’ every inch like you were made for it.”

His whimpers grew louder, desperate, as he talked you through it,,filthy praises spilling out between gasps. “God, yes… just like that. Milk me, baby. I’m so close… wanna fill you up, mark you inside- ah, shit-”

The combination of his cock hitting that sweet spot relentlessly, his thumb on your clit and those pathetic, whimpering pleas undid you. You came hard, walls fluttering around him, crying out his name.

Bucky followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a broken whimper that sounded almost like a sob. “F-fuck… yes, take it all…” Hot spurts filled you as he shuddered, collapsing on top of you, face buried in your neck, chest heaving.

For a long moment, the room was nothing but heavy breathing and the faint hum of the compound’s AC. His weight pinned you deliciously to the mattress, metal arm loosely caged around your waist like he never planned to let go.

Then you felt it, another tiny, involuntary sound muffled against your skin. A soft, needy whimper as he shifted slightly inside you, still half-hard and sensitive.

You couldn’t help it. A slow, wicked grin spread across your face.

“Bucky” you murmured, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp hair and tugging gently so he’d lift his head.

He did, sluggish and sated, blue eyes hazy. That trademark cocky smirk tried to form but it wobbled when you raised a brow.

“What, doll?”

You dragged a nail lightly down his spine, just to watch him shiver. “You whimpered.”

His smirk froze. A faint flush crept up his neck. “I did not.”

“Oh, you absolutely did.” You clenched around his softening cock, drawing another helpless little whine from his throat before he could stop it. “Multiple times. High, desperate little sounds, like a puppy begging for more.”

Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. “Jesus, woman…”

You laughed softly, wrapping your legs tighter around his hips so he couldn’t escape. “Big bad Winter Soldier, pounding me into the mattress, talking all that filthy shit… and then whimpering while he comes.” You nipped his earlobe. “Kinda ruined the whole intimidating assassin vibe, Barnes.”

He lifted his head again, eyes narrowed in mock glare, but the blush was undeniable now. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll flip you over and fuck you ‘til you can’t remember your own name, smartass.”

“Promise?” You grinned wider. “Or are you gonna whimper through that too?”

Bucky growled, low, playful and silenced you with a messy, possessive kiss. But right before he pulled back, you caught it again: the tiniest, betrayed whimper against your lips.

You broke the kiss just to whisper, “There it is again.”

He buried his face in your neck with a muffled curse, metal fingers digging into your hip. “You’re gonna pay for this, doll.”

“Looking forward to it,” you said, still laughing as he started trailing biting kisses down your throat.

But you both knew the truth now.

The cocky little shit absolutely whimpered when he lost control.

And you were never, ever going to let him forget it.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

[aquaticmercy]

Siren

Summary : Bucky is obsessed with you. He is insanely, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Grumpy x Sunshine, Wife!reader, sweet!reader, sex references. Love taken to an extreme. A lot of cursing, Congressman!Bucky, threats, obsessive love bordering on stalking, possessive love. Overprotective!Bucky, Jealous! Bucky, dark!Bucky, dark!you, Overprotective!you. You are Sam and Sarah’s childhood best friend, canon-typical violence. I feel like I have to disclose that Bucky does not hurt you at any point in this story. Let me know if I miss anything! 

Word count : 8.9k

Note : This is probably my most cursing-heavy story. This is fictional story, so please do not get into an unhealthily obsessive relationship irl. I will also be posting a new part of Super Soldier Support Group tomorrow! Enjoy!

It started with a casual gathering at the Wilson Family home. Nothing fancy, just good food, loud music, and a backyard full of people laughing. 

It was warm, the kind of sticky Louisiana heat that made the air feel weirdly refreshing— the perfect day for Sam to throw one of his famous family cookouts.

Bucky hadn’t wanted to go, not that day anyway. He had not been sleeping well that week, and that made him grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual. 

He wasn’t sure if he could handle the crowd, or the small talk. 

But Sam had insisted, and somehow a sleep-deprived Bucky found himself standing in the corner of the docks, watching from a distance while the party went on without him.

Then he saw you.

And suddenly, everything stopped.

You were laughing, standing next to Sarah and helping with the food. You had this bright energy about you, like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud.

From the very first moment he saw you, something inside Bucky snapped. It wasn’t attraction—it was possession. His brain, his soul, whatever dark, broken part of him that was still capable of love— latched onto you like a parasite. You were too beautiful. Too sweet. Too—fuck, what was he thinking?

“C’mon man,” Sam’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Don’t just stand there looking like you’re planning a murder. I want you to meet someone.”

Bucky frowned but let Sam drag him forward anyway. His stomach twisted when he realised Sam was leading him straight to you.

“This is my childhood best friend,” Sam introduced you, “Be nice to her, Buck.”

You turned from your conversation to face him, and…Jesus Christ.

This was even worse up close. You had such a pretty smile, and the most wonderful eyes. You didn’t even have to try to brighten up the room.

“Hi,” you greeted, offering your hand.

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t like touching strangers—hell, he barely liked touching people he knew—but then you looked at him again, and—fuck.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his flesh fingers wrapped around yours.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way people so often did when they realised who he was. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” you said softly. “Sam’s told me a lot about you.”

Bucky’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. All he could manage was a stiff nod.

Sam, standing beside you, cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes at Bucky. “Be civil, okay?” He was already overthinking this, assuming this could go sideways fast. Sam wanted you two to get along more than anything in the world— he would at least want his childhood best friend and his work best friend to be able to stand in a room together without ripping each other’s head off— but he wasn’t counting on it.

Confused, you scrunched your nose. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Bucky wanted to know the same thing.

“Because,” Sam said, exasperated, “you’re polar opposites. You’re too damn nice for your own good, and Barnes here is all doom and gloom. He hates people. You love people.”

You turned your eyes back to Bucky, considering the former winter soldier before smiling, and subsequently melting Bucky’s heart. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” you said. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

—

Bucky kept his distance throughout the day. 

Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

You were too much. Too sweet, it felt like he was getting a sugar rush just looking at you. 

It was overwhelming. 

And it wasn’t just that he liked you. It was worse than that. 

In the short time he had known you, he had already begun craving you.

But you made it worse.

You sought him out, found excuses to talk to him, tried to make him laugh.

And god help him, but he liked it.

He liked the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him. He liked the way you said his name. He liked the way your hand traced his metal arm when you spoke to him.

“Bucky,” you called at one point, while Sam worked the grill, “Try this.”

He glanced down at the spoon you were holding out to him, brows furrowed. “What is it?”

You chuckled like you already knew you had him wrapped around your finger. “Just try it.”

He sighed, and then you pressed a hand to his chest, steadying yourself as you lifted the spoon to his lips.

He froze, and before he could even process what was happening, he was opening his mouth, letting you feed him.

You watched him, waiting for his reaction. “Well?”

Bucky blinked, chewing slowly. It was… good. Really good.

But admitting that felt like surrender, so he just shrugged. “It’s fine.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. “Liar.”

Then, you laughed. 

He didn’t just want to hear it again—he needed to. It was like a drug, a high he had to chase. 

Fuck.

That was it.

That was the moment he was done for.

Because you had no idea what you’d just done. No idea that you had ruined him.

No idea that he had just decided— you were his.

—

Later, after the sun had set and most of the guests had left, Bucky sat at the edge of the porch, elbows on his knees, watching you.

Or, more accurately, he was staring at you.

You were a few feet away, laughing as AJ and Cass ran circles around you, their small hands grabbing at your arms as you playfully tried to catch them.

Bucky couldn’t look away.

He knew you were going to be his downfall, and yet he didn’t even want to fight it.

“What’s up with you, Buck?” Sam asked, sitting beside him.

Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even respond. He barely even registered that Sam was there at all.

Sam followed his line of sight, and then groaned. “Oh, hell no.”

Still, Bucky said nothing.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Yo. Terminator.”

Bucky blinked. He only just realised Sam was there. “What?”

“What?” Sam repeated, voice rising. “Don’t what me! What the fuck was that?”

Bucky frowned. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Sam chuckled, teasing. “You’ve been staring at her like you’re about to drag her off to a cabin in the middle of nowhere and keep her there forever.”

Bucky’s muscles tensed. The idea did sound appealing.

“She’s nice,” Bucky said flatly.

Sam let out an amused laugh. “Nice? Nice? Barnes, you look like you want to fucking eat my childhood best friend—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Sam was joking, but he wasn’t wrong.

Bucky did want to devour you. He wanted to claim you, protect you, make sure no one else ever got the chance to touch you the way he wanted to.

It was bad.

Because for the first time in decades, Bucky wanted.

Mine, he thought. Mine, mine, mine.

And god help anyone who tried to get in his way.

—

At first, Sam was just relieved that you and Bucky got along.

And before he knew it, the four of you—you, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin—started hanging out regularly. When she was available, Sarah was there too, usually when the get-togethers happened at her place. It wasn’t anything official, just casual. You’d grab coffee, go on late-night walks along the docks. Sometimes, the five of you spent lazy afternoons at Sarah’s while Cass and AJ tried to rope you into whatever game they were playing.

On the surface, it was just friends spending time together.

But Bucky was always a little bit too possessive.

No one really noticed.

Like when Joaquin would make a joke and you’d laugh a little too hard, Bucky would step in, resting his arm on the back of your chair. When you and Sarah got into a playful argument, and Bucky would subtly shift between you, his body positioned like a barrier.

Or when someone at a bar got a little too interested in you, and Bucky would just stare at them until they backed the fuck off.

You didn’t seem to notice.

You just smiled at Bucky. You reached for his hand when you were deep in thought, leaned into him when you laughed, gave him hugs without him even having to ask.

And he let you.

Because if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then he’d settle for this—for now.

—

One day, you heard a knock on your door late at night. 

When you opened it, you found Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky standing there—bruised, bloodied, and looking entirely too pleased with themselves for three men who had clearly just come back from a rough mission.

You sighed. “Come in, boys.”

They filed in, Sam  grinning as he collapsed onto your couch. Joaquin gave you a sheepish ‘sorry’ look before following. Bucky just hovered near the door.

“Sit,” you told him, already grabbing your first aid kit.

He hesitated, then dropped onto the chair closest to you. you knelt beside him.

His knuckles were raw, a few cuts marred his face, and there was a forming bruise on his forehead. You worked on him, dabbing antiseptic onto his wounds.

“Hold still,” you whispered when he shifted under your touch. When you finished, without thinking, you pressed a fleeting kiss to the bruise on his forehead. “For good measure,” you said sheepishly.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

But before he could say anything, you moved on to Sam and Joaquin, fussing over them with the same level of care.

He felt his stomach twist in dread. 

Bucky knew this was irrational. He knew you were just being a good friend.

And yet, as he sat there, watching your hands tend to them—watching you murmur reassurances, watching Joaquin grin at you and Sam chuckle under his breath— with bated breath.

He shouldn’t be jealous. He shouldn’t. You were also Sam’s friend. You were also Joaquin’s friend.

After all, you had taken care of him first. That had to mean something… right?

—

The bar was alive with noise, filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional thud of a pool ball being sunk into a pocket. It was one of those rare nights when there were no missions to worry about, no need to be on high alert. Even Sarah managed to get a babysitter for the kids. 

Sarah and Sam stood near the pool table, casually sipping on their non-alcoholic beers. Bucky nursed his whiskey— not that it would do anything to his enhanced metabolism. You had your mocktail, sweet and bright, just like you.

And then there was Joaquin.

He had spent the last hour or so flirting with the bartender, grinning as she giggled and slid him free drink after free drink. He, of course, took every single one without hesitation.

Now, he was absolutely sloshed.

“Joaquin,” Sam teased, arms crossed as he watched your drunk friend lean against the pool table. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”

Joaquin shot him finger guns. “Gracias, hermano.”

“No,” Sarah scowled, shaking her head, pointing to the blonde behind the bar. “He’s lucky she thinks he’s pretty.”

“Let’s be honest, everyone thinks I’m pretty,” Joaquin declared, before missing his shot so badly that the cue ball bounced off the table.

Bucky rolled his eyes and let out a small laugh. 

You were next, so you stepped up to take your shot. “If anyone fucks up my shot, I am going to scream.”

And then, like a fucking menace, Joaquin swatted your pool cue mid-shot.

You gasped. “You little shit!”

Joaquin cackled.

“That’s it,” you huffed, shaking your head as you set the cue aside. “I’m getting you some water to sober up before you do something actually stupid.”

Sarah took her turn next, and Bucky… felt happy. He was among friends, leaning against the table, watching the game.

Life was good, right?

That bliss lasted all of three minutes before he realised… you were taking too long.

It didn’t take that long to get a glass of water.

He glanced up, scanning the bar for you. 

His stomach dropped. 

You were leaning against the bar, smiling up at some guy. Some asshole who looked way too interested, who was saying something that made you laugh.

Bucky’s chest burned.

Mine, he thought. 

But no. No, no, no. He had no right to feel like this. You weren’t his. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was just a friend.

Then why the fuck did he want to break that guy’s fucking ankles for being too goddamn close to you?

Bucky knew you were beautiful. But that fucker didn’t get to look at you like that. He didn’t get to act all high and mighty, like he even had a chance—

Bucky’s grip on his pool cue tightened.

CRACK.

The cue snapped clean in half.

Sarah’s head snapped toward him. “Man— what happened?”

Sam raised a brow. “You good?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His breathing was all messed up. 

“I gotta go,” he said hastily. 

Sarah blinked. “You just crushed wood like it was a damn breadstick.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and left.

—

When he got back to his hotel in the heart of New Orleans, he sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twitching.

Then, he texted you.

Got an emergency. Had to go early.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Oh okay!!! Hope everything’s alright <3!

You were so fucking sweet. So fucking clueless.

You had no idea that the emergency… was you.

And that if he hadn’t left, he would have smashed that guy’s face in. 

—

That night, Bucky couldn’t sleep.

It was driving him insane.

The second he closed his eyes, all he could see was you, laughing at the bar, that asshole touching you, and your body leaned just a little too close—fuck.

The obsession burned in his chest. He needed to know. Needed to be sure.

So, like a fucking lunatic, he found himself outside your Louisiana apartment at four in the morning, perched on your fire escape like a creep.

The window was dark, and there didn’t seem to be any movement inside. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe you were— No. No, stop. Fuck.

His metal fingers gripped against the railing. If you had taken that guy home—if that motherfucker was in there, in your bed— he didn’t know what he’d do.

"Whatcha doin’?" 

Bucky jumped, damn near slipped right off the fire escape. His heart nearly stopped.

He whirled around, ready to fight, only to see you, standing behind him.

The fuck—?

"Jesus Christ," he rasped, staring at you like you’d just teleported out of thin air. "Why are you on the fire escape?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Why are you on the fire escape?"

Bucky scowled. “I asked you first.”

You shrugged, completely unfazed, and just climbed through the window. "I forgot my keys."

Bucky blinked.

You turned to look at him expectantly. “Well? Are you coming in or what?”

…What the fuck was wrong with you? Why weren’t you scared?

Still, he followed you inside.

—

You made him tea.

He sat on your couch, cradling the mug in his hands while you curled up beside him, watching him with curiosity.

“So,” you started casually, “what was the emergency?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Nothing much,” he lied. “I fixed it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why were you lurking outside my apartment like some weirdo?”

“I wasn’t lurking.”

You hummed, unconvinced, and sipped your tea.

Bucky let out a deep breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “I was just… checking on you.”

Your lips curved up. “Why?”

He hesitated. He couldn’t tell you the truth. Couldn’t tell you that he’d nearly lost his fucking mind at the thought of you with someone else.

But then, as if he could read your mind, you said, “If you were worried about the guy at the bar, don’t be. He’s just an old friend from high school.” You tilted your head reassuringly. “And he’s gay.”

Bucky blinked.

Oh.

Oh, he was a fucking idiot.

Embarrassment flooded his chest in waves, but it did nothing to ease the gnawing possessiveness coiling around his ribs. It didn’t matter that the guy wasn’t a threat. It didn’t change the fact that Bucky had wanted to break him in half for so much as looking at you.

You set your mug down, shifting closer. “Bucky,” you murmured, “what’s wrong?”

He clenched his teeth. “I have to say something.”

You tilted your head, adorably waiting.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words felt dragged out from his throat like he’d been choking on them.

You took a deep breath. “Oh?”

Bucky let out a huff of air, fingers twitching at his sides. “I think—I know—I love you.”

There it was. The confession he could never take back.

Your eyes relaxed as you put your mug down. 

That’s it. This was your rejection. Bucky was sure. 

But then, without hesitation, you cradled his cheeks gently and pulled him down in a bruising kiss.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, hands fisting in your skirt, pulling you closer.

And when you whispered, “I love you, too,” against his lips—

He was fucking gone.

Love wasn’t supposed to be this… all-consuming. It wasn’t supposed to feel like madness. But that was what his love was.

He was everywhere—his greedy hands, both metal and flesh. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and Bucky growled, lifting you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding against him in a way that sent his brain into overload.

And when you rocked your hips against his again. when you gasped at him, teasing, taunting—

Bucky snapped.

Suddenly, you were beneath him, pinned to the couch, his body trapping you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped.

You bit your lip, eyes dark. “Then show me.”

And fuck, did he.

—

The next morning, Bucky jolted awake to the ring of your doorbell. 

For a second, he was disoriented, his brain sluggish, mind still drunk on you.

You were sprawled half on top of him, face buried against his chest. His metal arm was wrapped around you, fingers splayed across your bare back.

The bell rang impatiently again. And then— knock knock knock.

"Yo, wake up!" Sarah shouted.

His eyes flicked to the clock— 9:42 AM.

Carefully, he untangled himself from you, doing his best not to wake you as he slid out of bed. He barely managed to pull his sweats on before another knock rattled the door.

He opened it.

“Huh,” Sarah grinned.

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “What?”

“Don’t what me.” Sarah gestured, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky’s chest. “What the fuck is this?”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “None of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is.” Sarah crossed him her arms and almost cackled.

Bucky just let out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still way too tired for this.

Sarah smirked, waggling her eyebrows. “So? How was it? You’re, like, a hundred years old— did your back hold up?”

“Go,” Bucky gritted.

“Relax,” Sarah shook her head, shoving your wallet into his chest. "Your girl left this in my car."

Bucky blinked, but his mind was still buffering on the part when she called you his girl. "Sarah—“

She held up her hand. "Hey, I’m happy for you. Really. But I’ve known her since we were both in diapers, so uh—" she leaned in. "If you hurt her, just know I will kill you."

Bucky huffed. As if. “Yeah, yeah."

"Good talk." She said as she turned to leave.

From the bed, you stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Was that Sarah?”

Bucky climbed back in beside you. “Don’t worry about it.”

You hummed, curling back into his chest. “Mmkay.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Mine, he thought.

And this time, you knew it too.

—

It had been two years since that night when everything changed.

You had since moved to Brooklyn with Bucky, and had since built a home together.

Two years of waking up with you in his bed.

Two years of you stealing his shirts, dancing around the kitchen in nothing but one of his Henleys and a pair of socks.

Two years of Bucky being so obsessed with you it was a goddamn miracle he let you leave out of his sight at all.

His hand was always on you—on your lower back, your thigh, wrapped around your wrist when you got too distracted in public. His eyes always tracked you whenever you so much as moved. 

Bucky knew it probably wasn’t healthy to be this obsessed— but who the fuck cares?

Besides, no one had noticed. Not really.

Sam rolled his eyes when Bucky hovered too close in public. Joaquin just assumed Bucky was overprotective. Sarah thought it was sweet.

None of them knew just how deep it went.

How Bucky watched you when you slept, how he memorised the way your breath hitched when you dreamed. How he could track scent in a crowd, how he could tell the different sounds of your shoes.

How, sometimes, he just stared at you with this feral, carnal need to keep you his forever.

So one night, he did something about it.

It wasn’t a grand proposal. There were no speeches, no flowers, no kneeling at all.

Bucky just slipped a diamond ring onto your finger as you sat curled up beside him on the couch.

"Let’s get married," he said.

It was not a question. It was a statement.

You looked down at your hand and blinked, joy seeping into your chest. You looked back up at him, tilting your head.

“Okay,” you smiled.

Of course you were gonna marry him. Of course.

It was the most obvious thing in the world.

And Buck felt something primal and dark settle inside him. 

“Good girl,” he said, grabbing your chin and tilling them up to kiss you. 

—

The ceremony was small — just a few close friends and family.

Sam stood at the front, grinning like an idiot, though he was definitely in tears. He tried to deny it, but everyone knew when Sarah dramatically announced she was out of tissues and had to make a store run.

You wore a simple white dress, the sunlight making the lace look holy. 

Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you. He wasn’t sure how he could even breathe. You were so goddamn beautiful, and all he could think was mine.

Mine, mine, mine. 

He held your hands tightly, every vow he spoke was drenched in devotion.

When Sam pronounced you husband and wife, Bucky crashed his lips against yours, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you so desperately it was like he thought you'd disappear. Joaquin cheered, Sarah covered AJ and Cass’ eyes, and Sam muttered something about needing another box of tissues.

But Bucky didn’t care. You were his wife. 

His. 

Later, at the small reception, he barely let you out of his sight. His hand stayed glued to your waist, his lips brushed against your temple every other minute. He religiously watched the way you smiled, the way you laughed, admired the sparkle of your wedding ring — a ring he’d spent months obsessing over.

“Mine,” he whispered against your skin more times than you could count.

—

A year after the wedding, Bucky somehow found himself on the campaign trail. Sam had roped him into it, convinced the world needed someone like him in Capitol Hill— someone with a backbone, a heart, and a no-bullshit attitude. And because Bucky couldn’t say no to his best friend (or to you, when you’d smiled and told him he’d be perfect for it), he ran.

And won.

He was now Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

But no matter how powerful or important he became, you were still his priority. You were the first person he called after every meeting, the one who made the stuffy suits and long hours bearable. 

And fuck, did he spoil you rotten. He got a four-bedroom Brownstone when you both moved to DC. For the kids to grow up in, he had told you, when you were ready, of course. The house was under your name.

He bought you designer dresses, diamond earrings, the kind of perfume that smelled like liquid gold. Anything you so much as look at, Bucky was ordering it before you even thought to ask.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you’d say, laughing as another velvet box showed up at your doorstep.

“I want to,” Bucky would grumble, nuzzling into your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “I’m your husband. I want to make sure you have everything you want.”

And he meant it.

Then one day, you asked for something that actually made him think.

“I want a pretty knife.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“For self-defense,” you explained casually. “You know. Just in case.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. “You?” He asked, still trying to make sense of it. “But Sweetheart, you’re—” He paused, searching for the right word. “You’re so… sweet.”

You smiled at him…. And that fucking smile.

Bucky swore you could’ve asked him for the moon and he would’ve tried to lasso it down for you. But a knife? He wasn’t sure whether you could even use it.

Still, you wanted it. So you got it.

Bucky made a few calls, and soon you had a beautifully crafted knife with a marble handle. He even made you practice holding it, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around yours, guiding your hand in slow movements.

You caught on so quickly. He was so proud.

But despite all the lessons, Bucky wasn’t entirely convinced you’d ever actually use it.

“Baby, if anyone even looks at you the wrong way, I’d handle it,” he insisted one night, watching you twirl the knife in your fingers like a toy. “No one’s gonna touch you.”

You giggled, leaning up to kiss him. “Just in case, okay?”

Bucky nodded, nipping at your collarbone, “Okay.”

—

Sometimes, the world forgot Bucky Barnes had always been a dangerous man.

Sure, to the public, he was a polished congressman— the war hero turned politician, a man who fought for justice and all that. At the state galas, he smiled for the cameras, shook hands with donors, and played the role of the perfect politician. And with your radiant and sweet charm on his arm, everyone ate it up. You were the darling wife of Congressman Barnes, the woman who could make the room hold their breath.

But they didn’t realise how violently obsessed Bucky was with you.

He watched every interaction you had at those events. He eventually had a little notepad where he hastily scribbled the name of every man who looked at you too long,  an arrogant politician who thought they could pry you away from him. They thought you were too innocent to be with the former winter soldier— They thought they could whisper something suggestive in your ear or brush their hand along your back without consequence.

But Bucky always noticed.

He’d smile, even laugh sometimes, as if the petty attempts didn’t bother him. But they did. They fucking consumed him. His teeth would grind against each other, his grip on your waist would tighten, and his eyes would darken into a stormy blue— all while the poor bastard standing in front of him had no idea just how badly he’d fucked up.

Bucky had a routine. After the gala, he’d walk you out and hand you to his driver.

He would lean down, whispering softly into your ear.

“Head to the car, baby. I’ve got something to take care of.”

You never questioned it. You’d smile, kiss his cheek, and do as he asked.

And once you were gone, Bucky would… pay them a visit.

The man who let his hand wander a little too low on your back? The one who called you “darling” like he had any fucking right? 

Bucky found him in a secluded corner of the marbled building of Washington DC, his steel-blue eyes cold and calculating.

“You think you can touch what’s mine?” Bucky growled.

He had always been clever. He had always chosen a corner with no cameras. No witnesses. Then, he’d whisper a threat, one that left grown men trembling.

But sometimes threats weren’t enough.

One time, he got fed up with a senator’s son who had too much to drink. He’d cornered you by the bar, his hand grabbing your arm and waist, lips curling into a wicked smirk. 

You’d laughed politely, excused yourself, and found your way back to Bucky. But the damage had been done

Later that night, Bucky found him.

It wasn’t pretty.

The next morning, the senator’s son was seen with a cast on his wrist, stammering about a “bad fall.” 

No one questioned it, 

After all, accidents happen.

That sick, satisfied feeling always found its way to his chest. Though the real satisfaction always came when he hopped in the car. 

He’d find you taking off your heels, waiting for him in the back seat. You’d smile at him, oblivious to the violence he’d just left in his wake. And when you asked, “Did everything go okay?” Bucky would just smile, lean down, and kiss you.

Because Bucky Barnes was a kind person, a great friend, a wonderful husband, and an honest man. But after decades of isolation, torture, and conditioning, he would never truly be a good man again. But for you, he would pretend to be.

—

Still, like any other job, Bucky had bad weeks. And this week had been hell.

Bucky had come home late every night.

Between his work in Congress and the bills he was trying to push through, the DC police department had asked for his help in identifying some vigilante called Siren.

Now, he barely had time to breathe.

You hated seeing him like this. He was always so strong, so put-together, but lately, stress had carved itself into his shoulders, a permanent tightness in his back muscles.

It didn’t help that Senator Mitchell was being a prick, as usual. The man thrived on opposing Bucky’s every move, shooting down every proposal like it was his life’s mission to make your husband miserable.

And then there was Congressman Davis. From what you’ve heard, he was an arrogant, insufferable bastard who had spent the last few weeks blocking one of Bucky’s most important bills.

So when Bucky had muttered “God, I fucking hate that guy” over breakfast one morning, you’d simply nodded.

The next day, Congressman Davis didn’t show up to work.

Broke both legs in a freak accident, according to the news.

Bucky had stared at the article. “That’s… weird.”

“You think?” you tilted your head.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “Honestly, I don’t have time to care. Mitchell is still a pain in my ass, and now the DC police want me to help them identify some masked vigilante tearing through the city.”

That made your stomach flip, but you kept your eyes neutral as he tossed a thick file onto the table.

“Siren?” you asked, watching him flip through the grainy surveillance images. The black-clad figure was barely visible. The only clear detail was the glint of a knife in her hand.

Bucky snorted. “What kind of name is Siren, anyway?”

You shrugged. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

Bucky shot you an amused look.

You shrugged, leaning on the counter. “What do they want from you?”

“They want me to analyse the footage, see if I recognise any combat techniques,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “As if I can ID someone from a couple of blurry images.”

You hummed in response, flipping through the file again. 

“Maybe she doesn’t wanna be found.” you offered.

“No shit.” Bucky frowned. 

—

That night, Bucky sat at his desk, eyes narrowed at the open file in front of him. His fingers tapped against the wood as he studied the images again. Something about her was… familiar. 

You watched from the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe.

He needs a distraction, you thought. 

You walked across the room, slipping behind him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pressed fluttering kisses to his neck.

Bucky sighed, leaning into your touch. “Baby…”

“You’re stressed,” you whispered, biting the lobe of his ear.

“I just— I can’t get a read on her,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “On top of that, I have to deal with Mitchell tomorrow.”

You glanced at the photo he was studying—Siren, breaking the arm of an arms dealer. Poetic justice.

You said nothing, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

Your fingers trailed lower, sliding down his chest, nails lightly scraping against his skin through his shirt. “I think you need a break.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Baby, I—”

When you stepped back, his words died in his throat.

Because you had untied your robe.

And underneath, a lingerie set that he’d picked out for you weeks ago, the one that had him practically drooling when you tried it on.

The chair scraped back so fast it nearly toppled over.

Then, Bucky was lifting you onto the desk, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, mapping out every inch of exposed skin as if he hadn’t memorised everything already. 

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, lips ghosting over your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re tryin’ to kill me, sweet girl.”

You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair. “I just thought my dear husband needed a break.” You batted your eyes innocently.

Bucky’s lips met yours in a bruising kiss. His hands kneaded your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.

“S’not fair,” he muttered against your lips, his lovely Brooklyn drawl slipping out. “I was workin’.”

“Oh?” You smiled innocently, nails raking down his back. “You wanna go back to your case?”

Bucky growled, lifting you effortlessly as your legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck no.”

And with that, he carried you to your bedroom. 

Siren was forgotten, for now. 

—

That night, after you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, you casually said, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Bucky frowned immediately, towel-drying his damp hair as he leaned against the doorframe. “Alone?”

You’d done this before, but never this late. 

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, honey.”

He crossed his arms, “That’s not the point.”

You sighed, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he let you go—reluctantly. At least you had your knife with you. 

—

By the time you got back, you were sweaty, chest rising and falling like you’d just finished a workout.

Bucky, who was sitting on the couch, immediately stood up and walked over to you. He looked at you, studying in the slight flush in your cheeks, the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead.

He tilted his head. “You said you were going for a walk.”

You wiped at your brow. “Yeah, well… guess I went for a jog instead.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you jog?”

You shrugged. “Felt like I had some energy to burn.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, trying to assess the situation, but then you stood on your toes and kissed him.

Suddenly, he wasn’t questioning anything anymore.

—

The next day in Capitol Hill, Senator Mitchell had a black eye.

A nasty one, too. It was swollen and bruised, red against his pale skin.

Mitchell barely spoke all session, and when Bucky had the floor, the senator didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t sneer. Didn’t open his mouth to object.

He just sat there, shifting uncomfortably, trying his hardest not to look at Bucky.

Weird.

—

Before heading home, Bucky had one last piece of business to handle.

An overconfident diplomat from last week’s charity gala had overstayed his welcome in the city, unlucky for him. 

He had touched your arm without permission, his fingers lingering just a little too long on your skin. Bucky had been across the room that night, but even distance couldn’t dull his rage. 

By the end of the night, the bastard had vanished into the crowd.

That had been frustrating. But patience was something Bucky had in abundance when it came to protecting what was his.

So when he overheard a passing remark today that the diplomat was still in town, he found out where he was staying and simply went to the hotel lobby.

Bucky sat comfortably in a leather armchair, looking like just another guest winding down from a long day. He even smiled when his target stepped through the elevator doors.

Bucky stood and intercepted the man, placing himself just close enough that escape wouldn’t be an option. “Nice to see you again,” Bucky greeted, his voice almost pleasant. The diplomat barely had time to register the danger before Bucky leaned in, that same eerie smile still in place.

“If you so much as look at my wife again, I’ll break your fucking nose so badly, they’ll have to rebuild it from the inside out. And even then, it’ll never sit fucking right ever again.” Bucky said, though his tone was conversational. To anyone else, it would look as if he was commenting on the weather. “And that’ll be the least of your problems.”

The man swallowed hard, his overconfidence crumbling.

Satisfied, Bucky patted his shoulder once, before walking away. On the drive home, he pulled a pen from the glove compartment and calmly crossed the man's name off his list.

When he finally stepped through the door, he smiled to see you finishing up dinner. Bucky told you he could just hire a personal chef, but you insisted that you wanted to make his meals, to be his perfect housewife. 

Without a word, he tugged you into his lap, burying his face against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin, “You know you’re mine, right, baby?” he said, his hands tightening around you. “Only mine.”

—

The next morning, you found him in the kitchen, reading over yet another Siren case file.

You pouted, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his back. “Buckyyy.”

He chuckled, placing his hand over yours. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I lost my knife,” you mumbled.

Bucky paused. “Lost it?”

No. No, you wouldn’t be so careless. 

Did someone take it from you? Did someone touch you?

The mere thought sent Bucky into a violent spiral, his fingers itched for blood.

Because if someone had taken it from you—if someone had dared to lay their filthy hands on what was his—they were going to wish they were never alive.

You nodded against his skin. “I think I dropped it during my morning run.”

He turned, relieved that you were just a bit careless. He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gave him your best adorable pout. 

“My sweet girl,” he said. “You gotta be more careful.”

You blinked up at him, a little upset. “I liked that knife.”

He chuckled before letting out a deep breath. He could never be mad at you. So he just exhaled, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ll get you another one, baby. Whatever you want.”

You beamed. “Really?”

“Of course.” His fingers tightened slightly on your chin. “But you tell me next time you go for an early run. Don’t like you out there alone.”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You worry too much.”

—

Within a week, Bucky gave you a new knife— a replacement for the one you lost. But calling it just a knife would be an insult.

It was stunning.

The handle was custom-made, dark metal inlaid with delicate floral, perfectly molded to fit your grip. The blade was wickedly sharp, and yet, it wasn’t just a weapon. It was art.

You turned it over in your hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. “You spoil me," you said, testing the weight in your palm. It was perfect.

Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Darling, I haven’t even started."

And just when you thought he couldn’t get any worse, he handed you something else— a little holster, custom-made to hold your new knife. The leather was buttery soft, made to fit against your thigh or tuck neatly under your jacket.

“Specially made for you,” he said proudly, brushing his lips over your cheek, then your jaw. “Gotta keep my good girl safe.”

Your stomach flipped.

What you didn’t know was that, because Bucky was a completely unhinged, lovesick lunatic, he had slipped a tiny tracking device into your holster—one discreet enough that you’d never notice. But that wasn’t all. The device also had a built-in listening function, so it was silently transmitting your location and every sound around you straight to a hidden app on his phone.

Not because he didn’t trust you.

But because the thought of you out there, alone without his protection— drove him insane.

So he made sure that, no matter where you went, he’d always be able to find you.

So now, if anyone so much as breathed wrong in your direction, Bucky would hear it. 

And he’d handle it.

—

The next morning, Bucky’s phone rang. It was an unlisted number from DC Police.

He sighed, already dreading whatever mess was waiting for him. But before he even thought about leaving, he had to take care of something far more important.

You.

Still hazy from sleep, you barely had time to blink before Bucky was on you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, his lips peppering gentle yet desperate kisses across every inch of exposed skin. Your cheek, your shoulders, the delicate curve of your throat.

"Just reminding you how much I love you before I go to work,” he nuzzled you.

You hummed, tilting your head to grant him better access. He took full advantage, dragging his mouth down your throat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. His teeth grazed your pulse point, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Be good, baby,” he whispered against your lips, still unwilling to leave. 

You smiled, all sweet innocence. “I’m always a good girl.”

Bucky groaned, pressing one last kiss to your lips before reluctantly pulling away.

For now.

—

The moment Bucky stepped into the precinct, conversations halted. Officers froze, whispering behind their hands.

Bucky’s eyes flickered around the room, landing on the open file waiting for him on the table.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

Detective Ramirez, a no-nonsense woman who had been working in DC longer than most high schoolers have been alive, flipping through the folder. “We did a lot of digging last night… and Siren’s been operating a lot longer than we thought.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as she laid out the evidence.

“We traced activity back a couple years. Louisiana. Then Brooklyn. And now, D.C.” 

Huh. What a weird coincidence. Those are all the places you’ve lived in.

She shook her head. “She’s been at this for a long time.”

The grainy surveillance images showed the same shadowy figure— always disappearing before authorities could get close. But it was clear now. This wasn’t just some local vigilante.

“She started with street-level criminals—gangs, traffickers, arms dealers. But lately?” Ramirez slid a new set of photos across the table.

Congressman Davis. Senator Mitchell.

What?

“Both men had been attacked in the last three months. Different incidents. Different locations. But the same signature,” she explained, shaking her head. They’re terrified,” Ramirez continued. “Refused to talk, barely gave us any details because they’re convinced Siren will come back and… finish the job.”

Bucky stayed silent, his mind racing. 

Something wasn’t adding up.

“And then there’s this in the crime scene. We believe it’s hers.” Ramirez reached into an evidence bag, carefully unwrapping something small wrapped in cloth. She placed it on the table and slid it toward him.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

A knife.

Not just any knife.

Your knife.

The one he had given you.

The one you had lost.

He reached for it, turning it over in his gloved hand. It was unmistakable in its design.

Bucky clenched his teeth, forcing his expression to remain neutral.

Because if he let anything slip—if they saw even the slightest reaction—he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this.

—

Bucky came home late that night, his mind clouded and fearful.

The evidence was stacked against you, but he refused to believe it. You couldn't be Siren. No—maybe she had stolen your knife. Maybe someone was trying to frame you. Maybe—

Then he saw the note.

"Went for a run. Be back soon <3"

Bullshit.

His gut twisted with the kind of instinctual, primal warning that had kept him alive for decades. Maybe he thought the handwriting was too neat, or maybe just knew when you were lying to him. He always did.

Metal knuckle curling into a ball, he pulled out his phone and tapped into the hidden tracking signal embedded in your holster.

You were nowhere near a park, or a public road for that matter. Instead, you were in a wealthy neighbourhood on the other side of town.

Then he turned on the listening device.

A second later, your voice crackled through the speaker. You sounded eerily calm. “A little birdie told me you were planning to block the new Veteran Act."

Bucky’s breath hitched. He had told you about that bill he had been spearheading. About how Jones—that corrupt prick—was going to block it before it even had a chance.

And now you must be standing in front of him, threatening him.

He heard the unmistakable whisper of a blade slicing through the air.

Jones hesitated. “You’re insane—”

"Approve it,” he heard you sneer, “Or I’ll come back and finish the job."

Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. He was torn between wanting to go to you—to drag you away from this, to keep you safe—and just listening.

In hindsight, he should have known.

The "walks." The "runs." The way you had picked up knifework too quickly when he had first put a blade in your hands. The first night he kissed you, he had found you on your fire escape—because you had been doing vigilante shit after the pool bar. 

And then you spoke again, this time in a sweet sing-song tone, “If you don’t, I’ll put your head underwater until the bubbles stop."

Jones went silent.

Bucky knew you had taken mixed martial arts as a kid for self-defense, but he had never thought much of it— never imagined you still practiced, still used it.

And then, “O-okay, okay—I will.”

Fuck.

He had to admit it now. You were Siren.

Sweet, innocent you. The woman who pressed sleepy kisses against his collarbone in the morning. The woman who curled up in his lap at night, blinking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

But that wasn’t all you were.

You were this, too. You were a predator hiding in plain sight.

And instead of being freaked out—instead of feeling betrayed or angry—Bucky was… turned on.

His breaths were uneven, chest rising and falling with arousal.

Because he knew this wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t corrupting you.

You were always like this.

Maybe, you were just waiting for someone who would be just as sick as you are.

And you found him.

—

The second you slipped through the back door, you felt his eyes on you.

You had been careful. So fucking careful.

You had changed in the garden shed.  You wiped the sweat and dirt from your skin, slipping into an oversized hoodie, leggings, sneakers that were scuffed just enough to sell the illusion. By the time you stepped inside, you looked like nothing more than a tired, unsuspecting wife coming home from an innocent late-night run.

So you played your part.

You plastered a sleepy smile onto your face. “Hey, honey."

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

He just sat there, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together.

What’s going on?

"How’s Senator Jones?" He said calmly, too calmly. 

Your stomach plummeted.

The room felt like it had shrunk, walls pressing in. Everything was suffocating.

You blinked at him, feigning confusion. “What?"

Bucky tilted his head, the ghost of an amused smile playing at his lips.

"I know you’re Siren."

Your breath stalled.

A million reasons went through your rolodex of excuses, each one weaker than the last. But when you looked at him, at the certainty in his eyes, you knew there was no use denying it.

He knew.

But two could play at that game.

So instead of panic, you kept yourself calm. 

“Oh?” You arched a brow, voice smooth as silk. "And how’s that diplomat from that gala? Heard you took care of him."

For the first time since you came back, Bucky faltered.

“Y-You knew?” He stammered.

You saw the moment it hit him, the way his pupils blew wide.

"Of course I knew, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping closer. You could see the tension in his shoulders, "I know about your list, Bucky. I see your murderous rage every time."

Bucky’s muscles tightened. His breath became shallow, heart thrumming against his ribs.

You sighed, walking past him to a compartment under the island kitchen, pulling out a small, battered notebook. You flipped it open, then placed it in his hands.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around it as he scanned the pages.

What was this?

It was his list—mirrored.

The same names. The same faces. The same fucking targets. So you could keep track of who he was after. 

But alongside them, you had your own notes. Your observations.

Log entries tracking him— where he had been sighted, what areas he had stalked, what time he usually came home. Notes on when he was distracted. When he was asleep. When you could slip out and do your little crime fighting routine. You had copies of all the numbers in his contacts— classified or otherwise.

You even had pictures of him from the goddamn Capitol Hill security cameras. From his usual coffee shops. From his favourite supermarket.

His hands started shaking, because between the scribbled words, between the ink and the scratched-out sentences, there’s something familiar.

Not just in the thoughts.

But in the way they’re written. They were scrawled in a rush, like they were obsessive.

And then, just beneath one of the messier lines, there’s a word—so small, so easy to miss. ‘Mine.’

Sweet, darling, unassuming you, had a dark side.

You were just like him.

A perfect reflection. A mirror image of his own madness.

His throat felt dry. "You—" He swallowed. "You kept track of me?"

You tilted your head innocently. "Oh, sweetheart."

But if you thought that was something—

Bucky moved, crossing the room and yanked open the bottom drawer of the TV stand. His movements were almost aggressive as he pulled out a thick, leather-bound book.

Not his little notebook. 

This was different.

And then he handed it to you.

The second you flipped it open, your heart stopped.

It wasn’t names.

It wasn’t targets.

It was you.

Pages upon pages, filled with cramped, meticulous handwriting.

Your detailed wardrobe, all of your perfumes, observations of what you smelled like after a shower versus after a long day. An analysis of how your voice changed when you were lying. The exact shade your lips turned when you were cold. Your coffee orders in all the cafes you’ve ever been to, your favourite snacks. There was even a paragraph of the way you twirled your fork when you ate pasta. The names and addresses of all of your exes— where they lived, where they work, where they shop.

Your entire existence, laid bare.

A record. A worship. A fucking obsession.

Then, you both realised. 

You were just two absolute fucking lunatics, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with each other.

The two of you had been circling each other like predators for years— watching, tracking, leaving breadcrumbs of obsession in each other’s worlds without even realising it.

You weren’t just people to each other.

You were religion.

You were scripture.

Two minds running parallel, equally deranged, equally consumed— until you inevitably collided. 

You licked your lips slowly, the corner of your mouth curling as you looked up at him through your lashes. You knew what you were doing— of course you did.

With a voice as saccharine as it was wicked, you whispered, "I’m still your good girl."

Bucky fucking shattered.

A wrecked groan tore from his throat. His grip felt like iron chains as he gripped your waist, shoving you against the nearest surface— the kitchen counters. But you barely noticed, too focused on the way his hands clawed at you, like even after all these years, he still needed to mark you, ruin you.

His lips were on you in an instant, first on your lips, then trailing down your throat.

And then he dropped to his knees.

A fucking worshipper at your altar.

A zealot ready to die a martyr.

His hands gripped your thighs, firm enough to bruise, and he tilted his head up to look at you, pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.

He was completely undone. Completely yours.

A satisfied smile spread across your face as you threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper.

"But you’re also my good boy,” you teased, “aren’t you?"

His groan was ruinous.

His eyes were wild, desperate, and fucking feral.

"Yeah, baby," he nodded, voice wrecked, hands trailing up, gripping the curve of your hips. "Yours. All yours.”

And then—

He showed you.

Because Bucky Barnes will never be a good man again.

But for you?

He’d be anything.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings

[aquaticmercy]

Smitten

Summary : Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x hero!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff fluff FLUFF! Joaquin and Sam are in this. Introverted! Reader. Brief mentions of violence. Cursing. 

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 2.3k

Note : This satisfies my need to stay at home all day haha! Enjoy!

Sam had never met Bucky’s girlfriend.

But he had heard of you.

A lot about you, actually.

Nine months ago, Bucky had started mentioning you after you met at a bookshop. You were this hero, who, by all accounts, should have been the most intimidating woman on the planet. You were skilled and ruthless when necessary, even Hydra handlers would probably admire your work. Joaquin had read the files— how you tracked down an entire weapons trafficking ring by yourself, left every single one of the enemy in various states of agony, and managed to leave without any fatalities.

“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”

Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”

“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”

Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.

But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.

It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.

Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you. 

And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.

Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person. 

And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.

“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.

Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”

Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.

But by now, he felt like he already knew you.

And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

—

They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.

Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

Sam paused mid-step. What?

Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—

"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."

Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from  inside the apartment.

“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.

Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?

You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.

This was you? The you?

The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?

You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”

Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”

Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.

Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.

You nodded, stepping fully into view.

And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Oh?

Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?

—

Dinner was homemade.

More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.

Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.

“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.

Joaquin shrugged.

“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”

Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”

The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.

Sam had to rub his damn eyes.

This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.

Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”

Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”

You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”

My love.

Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?

Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.

And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’

Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.

Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”

Joaquin groaned. 

You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”

Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.

And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.

Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.

He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.

—

Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.

“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”

You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”

Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”

Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought. 

“How old were they?” Sam asked.

“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”

Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”

You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”

Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”

You blinked. “Mean?”

“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”

Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”

Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”

You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”

Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”

He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.

You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”

Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”

“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”

Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.

Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”

Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.

Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.

—

By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.

Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.

And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.

“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”

Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”

Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.

Jamie?

The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.

But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.

No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.

Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.

And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.

“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.

Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”

“Just tighten it a little.”

Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.

“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”

Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”

Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”

Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”

You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”

Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”

Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.

“Yeah, you do.”

And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—

Yeah.

He did.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

[aquaticmercy]

Dinner and Diatribes

Summary : Bucky has a crush on you… and your knives. Who knew weapons turned him on? Inspired by this song.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : references to sex, cursing, reader is mentioned to be an ex villain

Warnings/tags : 1.6k

Notes : Hi all! I know I haven’t been active lately, but thankfully I have this drafted! I’ve been very very busy with work and I will try to be more active with replies and messages over the next few days. In the meantime, Enjoy!! 

You had been a part of the team for six months now, and while most of them had warmed up to you, Bucky Barnes was still a tough nut to crack. 

Maybe he was just introverted. But that didn’t quite explain why his eyes always followed you everywhere. That didn’t quite explain that every time you threw a knife in the training room or sharpened them in the armoury, he would look away shyly, as if you were being indecent.

Tonight, though, you weren’t thinking about Bucky’s quirks or the way his human arm flexed under his too-tight shirts. No, tonight you were focused on making an impression at the gala. Dressed in a sleek, high-slit black dress and stilettos that could kill (they had tiny blades hidden in the heels), you were ready to schmooze with diplomats and obtain important information for your new team.

When Sam told you that your next mission would be in a massive auction, you knew it was going to be a night to remember. Even if being an ex-villain turned hero hasn’t been the smoothest transition, even if fancy parties weren’t your forte, the idea of showing up with Captain America and the Winter Soldier on either side of your arm? That was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

When you walked into the gala wearing that sleek, black dress—one that hugged you in all the right places and had a slit that ran so high up your thigh it was borderline scandalous—Bucky swore under his breath. 

He tried to keep his eyes on your face, to focus on anything above the shoulders, but it was borderline impossible.

It didn’t help that every time you brushed against him, he caught the faint scent of your sweet perfume, or that when you smiled at him over your shoulder, his mind drifted to places it definitely shouldn’t have. 

And the knives? 

God, the knives. 

He didn’t even realize he had a thing for them until you came into his life, casually pulling blades from the most unexpected places. He’s been on missions with you before, and he had seen you sliding a knife out of your boot—or worse, a tiny needle-like knife out of your bra— and that sent his mind into very filthy territory very quickly. 

Tonight, you were a walking temptation, and Bucky was barely holding himself together.

He knew he shouldn’t feel that way— having knives on you simply made you feel secure, it made you feel protected.

But damn if he didn’t find it hot. 

—

Walking into the event flanked by Sam and Bucky felt like a power move,

—just as you expected. Sam had this easy confidence about himself, as always, and Bucky, while silent, kept his eyes on the crowd.

It was all going smoothly until you hit the metal detector.  

The security guard gave you a bemused look as the scanner went off like a Fourth of July fireworks display. “Ma’am, you’ll need to remove any metal objects.”  

“Oops,” you said, feigning innocence as you reached into your shoes, your belt, your sleeves, pulling out one knife after another.  

"How many of those do you need?” Sam asked jokingly.

"I’m reformed, not stupid," you replied, pulling another knife from your hair.  

Bucky, on the other hand, was dead silent. When you reached under the high slit of your dress and pulled out a knife strapped to your thigh—your fingers brushing the bare skin dangerously close to a place much more intimate—you heard him suck in a breath, gulping down an embarrassing amount of saliva.

You glanced over, catching the way his neck muscles rippled from the way he was grinding his teeth, his usually sky blue eyes darkening. 

By the time you were done, you had a small pile of blades on the table, and the guard just waved you through.  

Bucky’s voice was low when he leaned in. “You always carry this many?”  

“Always.”  

The rest of the gala passed in a blur, but Bucky seemed distracted all night. You thought nothing of it until later that week when you started catching him staring more often. During training, during briefings—even during team lunch.

—

It had been a week since the gala, but the sight of you pulling knives out of every conceivable place  had replayed in his mind on an endless loop. The way you carried yourself that night had been enough to make him lose sleep. Add in the vivid dreams that followed? Bucky was barely holding it together.  

Bucky wrapped his hands in preparation for a sparring session with a punching bag. 

He tried to focus, tying the wraps tighter around his knuckles, but when the door opened and he heard the telltale sound of your boots against the mat, his entire body stood still.

“Hey, Barnes,” you called casually.  

He turned, trying to keep his face neutral. As usual, you had a knife tucked into your hair, and he was too embarrassed to admit that that undid him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“You tell me,” You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been acting weird around me.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” He forced a laugh, but it sounded fake, even to his own ears. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” You accused, raising a brow and stepping closer to him. “You turn red every time I pull out a knife. And you barely said a word to me all week.”  

He swallowed hard, backing up a step, but you followed. You didn’t mean to corner him, but maybe it was because old habits die hard. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a knife kink or something,” you teased, your lips curling into a joking smile.

He froze for a good five seconds, and oh.

Oh?

You blinked. “Oh my God,” you almost squeaked, “You do.”

His head shot up, his face going crimson. “I—no—I mean—” He ran a hand through his hair in a panic. “It’s not just that!”  

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Come on, Barnes,” you teased, “what else could it possibly be?”

“It’s not–” he tried to deny, but his brain short circuited when your fingers ghosted along the edge of his vibranium arm. 

“You’re really bad at lying, Barnes,” you murmured, subtly batting your eyelashes at him.

Wait. wait.

Were you flirting with him?

“I’m not lying,” he insisted, but you could tell he didn’t really mean it.

Your hand trailed up his arm even further, fingers tracing over the slight grooves in the vibranium. “So, you’re saying you don’t have a thing for girls who pull knives out of... interesting places?” 

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he could block the effect you had on him out. “I’m not talking about this.”  

“Why not?” you asked, tilting your head. “Because you’re embarrassed? Or because I’m right?”  

“I—” he started, but the words got caught up in his throat. He opened his eyes, unable to take his eyes off you for too long.

“What else is it, Bucky?” you pressed. “It’s not just the knives, is it?” 

He swallowed hard. “It’s you,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just... you.”  

For a moment, you stared at him, stunned. 

This just became very interesting. “Oh.”

He looked at you, panicked. “Don’t—”  

“Don’t what?” you interrupted playfully, backing up just a tad bit to give him some space. “Don’t tease you? Or don’t mention the fact that I have a thing for you, too?”  

His breath hitched. “What?” he croaked out, not quite believing what he’s hearing.

“You’re not bad to look at, Barnes,” you shrugged. “And that metal arm of yours? Oh, the filthy things I’d let you do to me.”  

The noise that escaped him was somewhere between a groan and a growl, and you didn’t miss the way his hands twitched at his sides.  

“We could do each other a favour,” you suggested casually, trailing your hand on his heaving chest, heart beating a million miles an hour and breathing laboured.  

“You’re not serious.”  

“Deadly,” you said, “Unless, of course, you’re not interested.”

His hand shot out before you could pull away, gripping your wrist— not hard. Only firm enough to keep you in place. 

“Don’t do that,” he warned.  

“Do what?” you asked innocently, stepping closer again, your chest brushing his.  

“Tease me,” he growled, his grip tightening slightly. 

You smiled, tilting your head. “But I’m enjoying this too much, James.”

That was it. 

Before you could react, Bucky’s hands were on your waist, and without any warning, he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.  

“Bucky!” you gasped, laughing as you struggled half-heartedly. “What are you doing?”  

“Taking you to my car,” he said. “We’re going to my place. Now.”  

Your laughter turned into a hum of approval, but before you could say anything, the door opened and Sam walked in, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of you slung over Bucky’s shoulder. 

“What the hell is this?” Sam asked, his brow furrowing.  

Without missing a beat, Bucky looked over his shoulder and said bluntly, “We’re fucking.”  

Sam blinked. “Oh. Okay,” you could tell he was still struggling to process all of this. “Have fun, I guess.”  

You couldn’t help but laugh, waving a playful goodbye to Sam. 

-end.

General Bucky taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@winchestert101 

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28  @thebuckybarnesvault

@read-just-cant 

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat

@scariusaquarius 

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie

@pono-pura-vida 

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist

@melotyy

January Posting Schedule Taglist : 

@mathcat345 @starsmoonn @my-mind-is-incognito @ailoda

[aquaticmercy]

Swipe Right

Summary : You matched with Bucky Barnes, your teammate, on a dating app.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x hero!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff. Mutual pining. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 2.1k

Note : this was not on the posting schedule because it was only supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away. Also, would anyone be interested in joining a Bucky taglist if I started one?

You had invited Sam, Bucky, and Yelena over to your apartment for a chill evening, the kind of hangout that didn’t require much planning. After a couple of hours playing board games—you found yourselves sprawled across your living room in varying states of relaxation.  

Sam had turned on The Great British Bake Off on your TV, and now all four of you were watching Paul Hollywood give commentary on yet another sub-par Victoria Sponge cake. 

Oddly, a baking show made for soothing background noise.

Yelena had claimed the armchair, draped over it like a queen on her throne. One leg hung off the side as she shoveled popcorn into her mouth. Her muttered commentary—“Why would you even attempt caramel with five minutes left on the clock?”—only made you chuckle.

Sam was perched forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, unironically invested in all of this. “That meringue’s gonna collapse,” he muttered, eyes narrowed. That was Sam—fully committed, even to a televised baking show. That man could not half-ass anything. 

And then there was Bucky.  

He was sitting at the opposite end of the couch from you. His vibranium fingers drummed softly against the armrest, his stare distant, like the show was just white noise for him. 

It wasn’t fair how good he looked, even when he was doing absolutely nothing— no matter where he was, he always managed to make your heart do an embarrassing little flip.  

You sighed, forcing your eyes away from him before someone caught you staring.  

Lately, your hopeless crush on Bucky had been consuming far too much of your mental energy. Months of stolen glances, little moments where his smile sent your pulse racing, and a thousand tiny kindnesses had all built up to this… tingly feeling on your stomach. 

Oh, who were you kidding? 

This wasn’t a crush. 

You were in love.

But it doesn’t matter anyway. He was your teammate— it would be unprofessional. He was your friend. And, most painfully, he was so far out of your league, it wasn’t even funny.  

So, naturally, you’d done the most logical thing to distract yourself: redownloaded a dating app.  

As Yelena gasped at a burnt shortcake on-screen, you fixed your eyes at your phone and started swiping, hoping the distraction might keep your thoughts from drifting back to the super soldier sitting just a few feet away.  

But there was one problem: no one on this goddamn dating app compared to Bucky. 

With a resigned sigh, you swiped left on yet another shirtless gym selfie. Then another. And another. It was a sea of flexing muscles, bad mirror lighting, and an alarming number of men posing with fish.  

“Why are they all like this?” you muttered under your breath, swiping left on someone holding a bass as though it was the pinnacle of his achievements.  

Yelena, still draped dramatically over the armchair, popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “What was that?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the TV.  

“Nothing,” you lied quickly, your cheeks heating.  

Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left.  

It was almost mechanical at this point—until…

Holy shit. 

Name : Bucky  Location : Brooklyn, NY   Occupation : Freelance

Your heart stopped. No way. No. Way.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering above the profile picture. It was unmistakably him.  

You looked across the room at the man who was on your screen and thank fuck he didn’t notice how stiff you’d become.

The first photo was classic Bucky: a candid selfie that looked like it had been taken under order, his lips pressed into a reluctant smile. The next was slightly blurry, probably the result of him not holding still long enough. Then there was a mirror selfie taken in his apartment. The final photo was a photo of Bucky and Sam, the former leaning on a wall while the latter held a peace sign.

Your chest tightened as you scrolled down to read his biography and prompts.  

Hi, I’m Bucky. Not really sure how this works, but my friend Sam said I should give it a try. I like long walks, 40s music, and trying to figure out 21st-century pop culture. Bonus points if you know a good cat café.

Prompt: What’s your go-to comfort food?  Meatloaf and plums. Prompt: What’s your most-used emoji?  Probably the 🤔 because I’m still trying to figure out how to use them. Prompt: What’s your biggest red flag? Sometimes I get stuck in the past. But I’m working on it.

Your stomach flipped. It was so him. Honest, a little awkward, and undeniably charming.

You should’ve stopped right there. You should’ve swiped left, put your phone down, and continued pretending your feelings didn’t exist.  

But your thumb didn’t move.  

He was your teammate. Your friend. This was a line you absolutely couldn’t cross. 

…And yet.  

You were curious— just curious enough to try and swipe right. It wouldn’t mean anything. It wasn’t like he’d even see it, right?  

But you knew you shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t—

Before you could stop yourself, you swiped right. 

A second later, your screen lit up. You matched!

Your stomach dropped.  

Oh no.  

And then, across the room, Bucky’s phone buzzed.

Your stomach plummeted as you watched him pick it up, his movements casual at first—until they weren’t. His eyes flicked to the screen, and he froze.

Slowly, almost painfully, his wide-eyes lifted and locked onto yours.

The two of you stared at each other in mortified silence.

“Uh… you okay there, Buck?” Sam asked, tearing his attention away from the TV for a second. His brow furrowed. “You’re red. Like, really red.”

“M’ fine!” Bucky croaked, the word coming out far too loud and far too fast. He jerked his head back down, staring at his phone. “Just… it’s hot in here.”

Sam gave a shrug, already turning back to the TV. 

But you weren’t watching Sam. Your focus was entirely on Bucky, whose ears were now a vivid shade of pink. Your heart beat out of your chest as you fumbled to unlock your phone, quickly typing into the chat.

You : hey.

His phone buzzed again. 

You watched as his eyes darted to the screen. His grip on the phone visibly tightened. After a moment of hesitation, his fingers moved to type back.

Bucky : hey.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly as you typed again.

You : Soooo… this is awkward. Bucky : I didn’t think you’d swipe right. You : I didn’t think you’d have Tinder. Bucky : Sam made me do it. You : Sure. And I swiped for research purposes only. Bucky : Sure.

You risked a glance across the room. Bucky was staring at his phone with disbelief, like he was a kid caught sneaking sweets in his room past his bedtime. His human knuckles were white, and you briefly wondered if he might crush the device with his vibranium hand.

You : We are in the same room. Don’t look at me. Bucky : Wasn’t planning to. You’re making this worse. You : Oh, I’m making this worse? You’re glaring at your phone like it killed your cat. Bucky : Am not. You : Are too.

“What is wrong with you?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze, and you nearly jumped out of your seat. She turned to you, suspicious. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Uh, I think I’m just dehydrated!” you blurted, the words tumbling out too quickly. You stood up so fast you almost knocked over the coffee table. “I need water.”

You glanced desperately at Bucky, who looked like he’d rather melt into the couch than meet your eyes. “Bucky, you look thirsty too, right? Come with me to get water?”

For a split second, he didn’t move. Then, he stood, his face pale except for the blotches of red spreading across his cheeks. “Uh… sure,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Together, the two of you shuffled out of the living room, leaving Sam and Yelena staring after you with raised eyebrows.

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, away from prying eyes and ears, you spun around to face him, your heart pounding out of your chest.

“Why did you swipe right?!” you whisper-shouted, jabbing a finger in his direction like he’d committed a crime— one that you were also guilty of.

Bucky’s eyes widened, still comically surprised. “Why did you swipe right?!” he shot back.

“I asked you first!” you hissed, your voice climbing ever so slightly.

“Yeah, well, I’m asking now!” His arms flailed slightly, throwing them up in exasperation. It was utterly unfair how his messy hair and blue eyes made him look stupidly handsome, even when he was bickering like a five-year-old.

Your brain was spinning out of control, your thoughts racing so fast you were sure they were about to break the sound barrier. And before you could stop yourself, before you could think, the truth — the big, scary truth — came out of your mouth.

“Because I’m in love with you!”

The words came out in one breathless tumble, like they were trying to run away from your brain. You slapped a hand over your mouth as soon as they escaped, wide-eyed and mortified.

Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, Bucky definitely heard that.

Bucky just stood there. Completely frozen. 

His jaw dropped a little, and his metal arm let out a tiny mechanical whir, like even it was short-circuiting over what you’d just said.

“What?!” he finally blurted, his voice increasing in both pitch and volume.

“Shush!” You lunged forward, clasping your hand over his mouth before he could alert the whole damn neighbourhood. The move was instinctive, but the moment your palm brushed against the stubble on his jaw, your brain screamed TOO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE.

“I need you to shut up or the Bake-Off Twins are gonna hear!” you hissed, jerking your head in the direction of Sam and Yelena, who were in the other room, probably arguing over whether pie crusts were better made with butter or shortening.  

He gave a jerky nod. Slowly, you pulled your hand away, suddenly hyper-aware of how soft how lips felt on your palm.

“S-Since when?” he stammered, his expression a mix of shock and—was that… hope?  

“I don’t know!” You panicked. “Three months, maybe? Since that Alaska mission. When we were stuck in that cabin together?”  

“Three months?!” he demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?!”  

“Because you’re out of my league!” you blurted, as if that were the most obvious explanation in the world.  

The offended noise he made was almost comical, like you’d just insulted his grandmother. His brows knit together, and he looked at you like you’d just confessed to committing arson. “I thought you were out of my league!”  

You blinked at him. He blinked at you.  

Surely, he cannot believe that to be true, right? 

“Oh, come on, Bucky. Look at you!” You gestured wildly at him, as if the unfairness of his existence needed no further explanation. “It’s like Caravaggio painted you to be an angel!”

“I— What?” He choked out. In truth, he would say the same about you, but he lacked the guts to.

But you?

You were all guts and no filter.

There was no stopping you. “You’ve got the jawline of a marble statue, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. It’s unfair! It’s like you just walked out of some Renaissance masterpiece, except instead of holding a harp or a cross, you’re just standing there in a Henley, looking like a sin. It’s distracting, and—”

You didn’t get to finish. 

Without warning, his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks and then— he kissed you.  

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It wasn’t careful or calculating. It was decisive, like he’d been waiting months for this moment and had finally decided, screw it.

You froze, your brain lagging a good five seconds behind reality. But when your mind finally caught up to your body, you melted into his touch, your fingers grabbing his Henley for dear life.  

Was this really happening? 

After all this time pining over him, he actually felt the same way?

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against yours. “Shut up,” he muttered, breaking the silence. He didn’t need you to praise him for being a masterpiece, not when he believed you were the one who belonged in the Louvre. “Just… shut up.”  

And then he kissed you again.  

This time, it was slower, more careful, like he was memorising every second of it. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheek.

Meanwhile, back in the living room, Yelena raised an eyebrow at the faint rustles coming from the kitchen.  

"I bet they’re sucking each other’s faces off," she said, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth.  

Sam shrugged, “obviously.”

-end.

[aquaticmercy]

Armed and Dangerous

Bucky Barnes x reader short fic in which he gets an upgraded arm and it gives you (dirty) thoughts.

warnings/tags : Steamy not smut. Tendril-like vibranium arm. Cursing.

note : I think I wrote this because I have been playing way too much Marvel Rivals oops.

You were seated on the edge of the couch in your shared apartment when Bucky finally walked in. He looked tired but satisfied, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Hey,” you greeted, lifting your head up from your book. “How’d it go?”  

He had been in Wakanda for the last couple of days. They had asked for help and he answered, but little did you know, the mission wasn’t all he was there for.

“It went fine, sweetheart,” He dropped his duffel bag on the floor and kissed the top of your head, shrugging out of his jacket. 

The sight of his muscular arms always did something to you, but… wait a second. 

Your eyes were drawn immediately to the new arm that reflected the dim lamplight.

It was still black and gold but… it was sleeker. It mimicked human muscle tendon better than the last one did. 

“Looks like you’ve got something new to show me,” you smirked faintly, raising your eyebrows curiously. You set your book down on the side table.

“I might’ve… upgraded.” Bucky said, almost shyly, flexing his fingers. 

“Upgrade? How?” you commented, leaning in to inspect it. 

He looked at you for a moment, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “You sure you wanna see?”

The playfulness in his tone had your curiosity piqued. You nodded, “Obviously.”

Without a word, he raised his arm. The metal shifted seamlessly, the plates sliding and clicking into place as something began to… extend.  

Your jaw dropped as the arm transformed into a series of sleek, flexible tentacle-like tendrils, each one writhing independently. They moved with precision, like living metallic vines, coiling and uncoiling around each other in a careful dance.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, staring in awe.

Bucky laughed at your reaction. “Figured I needed to keep up,” he shrugged, flexing the tendrils. “Bad guys these days have all sorts of new tech. Thought this might even the playing field.”  

You took a hesitant step closer and brushed a plate of vibranium with your fingers. The tendrils moved in response, and it was cool but not unpleasant under your touch.

“Careful,” he chuckled, but you could tell he liked it, “They’re sensitive.”

Oh, you thought, sensitive, huh?

“Do you…,” your breath hitched, your gaze flicking between the arm and his face. “Do you control them all at once?”  

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice dropping lower. “It’s almost instinctual. They do what I want.”  

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, your mind flooding with less-than-innocent thoughts.  

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What?”  

“Nothing.” You shook your head quickly, trying to hide the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just… It's impressive. What can it do?”  

“It’s great for grappling,” Bucky shrugged. “Extends my reach, displaces kinetic energy. Also really good for grabbing stuff.”  

Your brain, unfortunately, went somewhere else entirely when he said grabbing stuff. Your face grew warmer than it already has, and you realized your mouth had gone dry.  

“Seems very,” you gulped for a second, voice higher-pitched than usual, “...versatile.”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”  

“Like what?” you said too quickly. 

“Like you’ve got some ideas.” He took a step closer, leaning over you on the couch. The tendrils shifted with him, reaching out subtly, like they could sense your presence. One brushed your arm, feather-light. You gasped at the unexpected sensation.  

“Ideas?” You could barely meet his eyes. “Pfft. No.”  

The tentacle retracted, but your skin shuddered where it had touched you. Your breath hitched as a thousand inappropriate, sinful thoughts overtook your mind.

“Wait,” he said, leaning even closer. The smirk that spread across his face was so unfairly devilish you can't help but squirm in your seat. He knew that you always found his vibranium arm hot (your words not his) to some extent, but this is a whole different ball game. “You don’t find this…?” He did not have to finish his sentence for you to get his point. 

Your silence was deafening.  

“Oh my God, you do,” Bucky groaned, covering his face with his regular hand, but unable to hide the amusement in his face. “Jesus Christ, I can’t take you anywhere.”  

“Hey!” you protested, standing up and shoving his chest lightly. “You can’t just show me something like that and expect me not to have… thoughts!”  

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I get a new arm for practical reasons, and you’re over here thinking about—”  

“Shut up,” you hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could finish. “It’s just... it just looks great for combat, you know?”

Bucky scoffed, stepping closer, closing the distance between you two until you could feel the heat radiating off him. The tentacles moved again, brushing against your waist, curling just slightly around your arm, and tugging you closer.  

“You like it,” he said, his voice dangerously low.  

Your throat went dry, and you still pathetically tried to deny it. “Like what?”  

“This.” he said with a voice too confident to keep your head from spinning. He flexed his arm again, and the tendrils tightened around you, firm but not uncomfortable. The pressure sent an electric jolt through your nervous system.  

“Bucky,” you said, your voice trembling, “what are you doing?”  

The tendrils slid over your hips, your arms. They were deceptively gentle, almost soothing in the way they explored the dips and curves of your body.

“Testing a theory,” he hummed.

When one curled around your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist, his human hand found your chin and lifted it up so you could look straight into his eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered, clutching his shirt for balance. 

Bucky’s wicked smile faltered for a moment. “Too much?”  

“N-No.” You swallowed hard. “Not enough.”  

That was all he needed to hear.

-end.

[starling-in-the-sky]

Take a Byte

A/N: I have never written anything Buckyxreader before, but I had an interesting tech support experience recently and got very inspired. Proofread by only me, so please forgive any errors.

ITGuy!Bucky x corporate!reader

Summary: You’ve never called IT before, but you need help setting up your new work computer. The IT guy is really, really hot. And he might be hitting on you.

Word Count: 14.5k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI) (p in v, oral-female receiving, fingering, light dom-sub dynamics, dirty talk), drinking, some very obvious flirting in an office setting, banana bread

Stupid piece of shit.

You wished you could throw the new work laptop corporate had issued you out the window. Of course, just your luck, it refused to work. You didn’t even understand what had been so wrong with your old laptop that you were being forced to make the switch. Above your pay grade, you supposed.

All of your frustrated googling and limited computer skills had yielded absolutely no results, which left you with no option. It was time to call IT.

Great.

“Thank you for calling Employee IT Services, my name is Bucky, can I start by getting your employee ID?” the gruff voice on the other end of the line recited, seemingly by rote.

You, in turn, recited your ID number, and he punched it into whatever IT ticket program they used up there. He says your name like a question, his tone bored and borderline frustrated.

“That’s what they call me,” you replied brightly, trying not to sound as intimidated as you felt.

“And how can I assist you today?” The fake politeness in his tone was evident.

You pressed the end of your pen to your temple as you answered. “I, uh, I’m trying to get my new computer set up, but none of my programs will download.”

He answered like he had already addressed this same issue a hundred times this week. “It can sometimes take up to five hours for automatic downloads to fully take. How long has it been since you activated it?”

“I cracked it open last Friday, but it didn’t download anything all weekend.”

“Have you restarted it?”

Did he think you were an idiot? He sure sounded like he did. Still, you maintained politeness as you replied. “About five or six times now. No luck.”

There was a small clatter in the background, followed by a belabored sigh. “I’d better come take a look at her. I’ll be down in twenty.”

You breathed your own sigh, one of relief. Maybe you would actually manage to get some work done today. “Thank you so much, you are practically saving my life.”

“No trouble.” Clearly a lie, since he seemed a little put out to be disturbed at his desk. But it was his job to help, so really, it was yours to disturb him. “See you down there.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the midst of a borderline fugue state induced by far too many e-mails, you heard your name called over your shoulder. You swiveled around in your chair, your eyes landing on a very tall, very good-looking man. All broad shoulders and blue eyes, looking quite out of place in the oppressive normalcy of this section of gray cubicles.

It was an extremely confusing sight to behold.

“Uh, hi. can I… help you?” you stammered.

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m Bucky. From IT.” When you continued to stare at him in shock, he elaborated, “We spoke on the phone.”

Holy shit. This guy worked in IT? He looked like he belonged in a Calvin Klein ad or something, not stuck behind a desk answering questions about Excel. He was seriously built, chest and biceps testing the seams of a navy button-down he had rolled up over his forearms and tucked into his slacks. A slight shadow of facial hair was starting to creep in across his jaw, despite five o’clock being more than a couple hours away. And the eyes, god, the eyes. Two icy blue pools that practically pinned you to your seat.

You realized with horror that you were staring. “Oh, right. Yes, sorry. Got sucked into my email,” you explained hurriedly, turning back to your laptop to hide your burning face. “Let me wrap up a couple things here. Sorry.”

To your credit, you seemed just as out of place in this sleek and boring corporate hellscape to Bucky as he did to you. When he had stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button for your floor, he had imagined yet another middle-aged woman with spiky blonde hair and an outdated blouse who could barely navigate a word document, the kind of worker bee that was a dime a dozen in his daily rounds. He certainly hadn’t expected to encounter… you.

You - a sweet, young thing in a delicate, flowery dress and a chunky sage-green cardigan. You, with your hair falling in soft waves around your face and big, round eyes fixed on him. You, with your cheeks turning pink before you had the chance to turn away from him.

Well, this was bound to be a much more diverting ticket to solve than another Barb from Accounting.

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky replied easily. “I can wait.”

“This’ll just take a second,” you murmured as you hastily finished typing up an email.

“Take your time.” As you worked, Bucky leaned on the side of your cubicle and swept his eyes over your desk. It was littered with the evidence of you - cute little succulent plant in the corner, cute little string lights hung above your computer station, cute little stationary set with a matching pen, cute little mug (with a cute little ring of soft rose lipstick smudged on the rim). There were polaroid pictures of you with various friends pinned to a cork board, along with a few glittery cards celebrating various birthdays and holidays. and most notably, no pictures of you with a boyfriend or a husband, and your hands on the keyboard, bearing no ring.

Interesting.

“I saw you’ve been here a couple years now, but I’m pretty sure you’ve never called IT before,” Bucky remarked casually. As a matter of fact, he was positive you had never called IT before, because he definitely would have remembered you.

You shrugged. “Well, I know absolutely nothing about computers, but I’m an expert at google search, so I’ve been managing that way.” Although if you had known calling IT would result in the most gorgeous guy you had ever seen appearing in your cubicle, you would have called much sooner.

You finished your email and sent it off with a flourish. “Okay, there. Sor - uh, thank you for waiting,” you corrected yourself. Right. You didn’t need to apologize.

“Okay, let’s take a look.” You expected to have to get up out of your chair so that he could sit at your station, but instead he leaned over your shoulder, peering at your monitor with unparalleled focus. His right hand leaned on your desk by your mousepad, and his left hand found the back of your chair. His closeness made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Can you pull up your software center for me?” he asked, not even looking your way. “…Okay.” You obediently followed his directions, trying to ignore the effect that his tone of voice had on you.

“Go to applications.” Once again, you obeyed, and when you dared a glance up at him, he was frowning thoughtfully.

“Hm. Let me see something.” You removed your hand from the mouse and allowed him to take control. His other hand left the back of your chair and began rapidly typing, pulling up a program window and doing something complex that you couldn’t make heads or tails of. But he seemed to recognize whatever the problem was.

“That’s what I thought, we’ve been getting this problem with some of these new computers. I think it’s a build issue, but that’s above my pay grade. Software center has been getting stuck, she sometimes needs a little… convincing.”

Jesus, he was talking about a computer, why did that sound hot? “Let me run something, see if that helps.” He quickly pulled up some other program, let it run in the background. “You got everything from your old computer backed up on your OneDrive, so you can access it?”

You mentally kicked yourself. It had been on your to-do list for days. “Hadn’t gotten a chance to google that one yet,” you replied sheepishly.

“I can show you how to do it, if you want,” Bucky offered. “It’ll take a few minutes for this program to run, anyway.”

Certain that this was about to be an exercise in further tech-support humiliation, but unwilling to refuse his offer, you agreed. “Sure.”

Bucky watched you with close attention as you opened your old laptop and logged back on. “Okay, go to your file manager for me.” Your mouse flicked over to the file manager icon. Most people at this company were the opposite of tech-savvy, couldn’t differentiate the file manager from any other number of folders on their cluttered screens. He suspected you were a little more computer-literate than you gave yourself credit for.

Unable to resist, he let his left hand rest on the back of your chair again, this time ever so slightly brushing against your shoulder. He watched the column of your throat as you swallowed nervously. Leaning this close, he could pick up the smell of your perfume, something sweet and spicy and utterly mouthwatering.

He hadn’t missed the way you had responded to him directing you earlier, but he needed some additional… data on the subject.

“Click ‘Desktop’,” he instructed you, and when you complied, he continued, “Good. Select all your files there.”

A shift of movement caught his eye from below. Those pretty thighs pressed together slightly, the shift bunching up the skirt of your dress by a few centimeters. In his periphery, he could see that flush across your cheeks deepen.

It was as he suspected, then. You liked taking his directions. Bucky felt his cock twitch in his slacks as he briefly wondered what else you might like taking.

He expected you to click and drag across the screen to select the myriad files you had saved. He chuckled softly as you pressed Ctrl + A instead, saving him the trouble of showing you how.

“You’re pretty quick. Thought you didn’t know anything about computers,” he said, a slight tease in his tone.

You fought off the smile that threatened to give you away. “If all it takes to impress you is control commands, you oughtta get out from behind your desk more.”

That made Bucky laugh. Not just a breathy chuckle, a delightful rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “Well, I’m used to restarting computers for the old biddies in HR who can barely work their mouse.”

You laughed in return, a bright, bell-like sound that had no place in a dreary office setting. “I bet you’re real popular over there.” Your eyes briefly flicked to Bucky’s face, and there was no mistaking it - that was a flirt.

“Go ahead and copy, then go to your OneDrive, create a new folder.” You followed his instructions with no issue, despite him giving you multiple steps in a row.

“Good,” he repeated. Another shift - this time you crossed your legs and tried to keep your face under control. So you liked praise as well. Bucky could handle that.

“You can name this ‘Old Desktop’,” he continued, trying to conceal his amusement. “Open her up, paste them in there.”

You were sure you must be turning pink as a flamingo. He had to be doing this on purpose. ‘Open her up?’ It was almost like a bad porno. So why was it working?

When you finished following his instructions, he made no move to leave your space. Even just the small touch of his fingers against your shoulder had you sweating in your cardigan, even with the blast of crisp office building AC.

“There you go. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked, still teasing you.

“Thanks,” you managed, not meeting his eyes. “Probably would have been frantically googling all afternoon without you.”

“Let me check on that program.” Bucky reached for the mouse, not waiting for you to release it to him, simply nudging your hand out of the way. His hand was so warm, and you tried not to let your breath hitch when he touched you.

This couldn’t have been accidental, and you were fairly certain that you were being hit on by a six-foot wall of muscle and Windows-11 knowledge wrapped in a tight pair of slacks. This had not been part of your plan for the afternoon.

While you had been stewing, Bucky finished up whatever he was doing with that program and stood up straight. “Okay, that’s done. It’ll probably take an hour or so to catch up and start downloading. I’ll check back with you then.”

You immediately felt the loss of his warmth when he left your space. A whole hour to spend flustered and distracted and attempting to reassemble your scrambled brain. Great.

“Okay. See you in an hour,” you replied as cheerfully as you could.

xxxxxxxxxxx

The break room smelled like stale coffee and someone else’s lunch. A slightly better place to get Bucky’s head back on straight than your far-too-inviting little cubicle.

He tried to banish the thought of you, albeit with little success, as he poured himself a cup of barely passable coffee. You were at work. Bucky was at work. He had no business panting after you like a dog, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. In a job, a building so devoid of warmth or excitement, you were a bright, bubbly, sweet spot of color. It seemed impossible not to like you immediately.

Leaning against the counter and forcing down the coffee, he noticed a square pyrex container filled with banana bread to his right. The glass was etched with a leafy design, and there was a folded piece of pastel stationary sitting in front of it, flowing script reading:

Please take one! (Contains Walnuts)

It looked and smelled heavenly, so Bucky did take one. The first bite was incredible - moist, sweet, just a hint of spice, chopped walnuts throughout adding some interest and texture. Bucky had skipped lunch, and was grateful for the free snack.

“Oh. Hi.” Your voice from the doorway prompted him to turn.

You stood there, mug in hand, and Bucky was once again struggling to get a grip on himself. He had seen clues to the shape of you when you had been sitting at your desk - gorgeous legs crossed at the ankle, your skirt draped artfully over thighs that Bucky had longed to spread. But suddenly there you stood, in all your glory, cardigan nowhere to be seen, your dress clinging to your waist and flaring out over your hips in a way that said of course this dress is workplace appropriate, sir. The neckline was conservative and exposed hardly any cleavage (unless someone looked down your top from above and over your shoulder, which Bucky certainly had not - not on purpose, anyway). But the line of your clavicle was exposed, delicate and soft, adorned by a small gold pendant that hung around your neck. Bucky’s hands itched with the urge to touch you.

If you noticed Bucky’s ogling, you didn’t comment on it. “Don’t mind me. I was just getting a refill,” you explained as you crossed over to the coffee machine, heels clacking on the tile and inviting Bucky to watch your hips sway as you walked in front of him.

He couldn’t help but smirk. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind you.”

You suppressed a smile as you poured your coffee, mixed in a spoonful of sugar and a few small containers of company-provided french vanilla creamer. As you brought the spoon to your mouth, you failed to catch Bucky’s eyes tracking the movement like a sight hound.

When you glanced back to him, you noticed that Bucky was taking a bite of the bread you had brought to work. “Oh, do you like the banana bread? I made it last night.”

Of course you did, Bucky thought. As if it wasn’t enough that you looked like a dream, you baked like one, too.

He chewed and swallowed. “It’s good,” he replied. “Sweet.” He didn’t mean just the baked goods anymore.

You tore your eyes away from his jaw and his throat and his stupidly blue eyes, looked into your coffee cup instead.

“I, uh, have a secret stash in my bag if you want to take some home with you,” you murmured conspiratorially once you had the courage to meet his eyes again.

Bucky smiled, thinking the bread wasn’t the only thing he’d like to take home. “You’d do that?”

You shyly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and once again Bucky could feel himself stirring below the waist. Christ, did you have any idea what you were doing to him?

“Consider it a thank you, for coming all the way down here and saving my behind,” you said gratefully. Of all the things Bucky would have liked to do to your behind, ‘saving’ it was low on his priority list. No matter how cute and perky it was.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Bucky assured her. “It’s part of the job, doll.”

The boldness of the nickname surprised you, had you blushing for seemingly the millionth time that afternoon. Bucky smirked again - it was just so easy to fluster you.

But then you answered his boldness with your own. “Well, maybe just ‘cuz you deserve something sweet, then.” You smiled completely innocently at him before taking a sip of your coffee. This time, you did notice when Bucky’s gaze zeroed in on your mouth, and you swore you saw his pupils dilate as you licked your lips.

Your phone buzzed demandingly, deflating the mood. When you glanced at the screen and saw the meeting reminder, you groaned internally. “I, uh. I have a team huddle,” you muttered, all your boldness from before lost to you in that moment. “Guess I’ll leave you to it. See you in a bit.”

“See you then,” Bucky responded, not even bothering to pretend that he wasn’t watching your ass as you walked away.

xxxxxxxxxx

By the time Bucky returned to your cubicle forty-five minutes later, you didn’t even notice him approach. You had your earbuds in, lost in your little bubble of emails and spreadsheets, the only functioning programs on the new computer. With your pen in your mouth and your feet swiveling you back and forth in your chair, you jumped nearly a foot in the air when you saw him in your periphery.

“Sorry, I- I didn’t know you were standing there,” you stuttered, taking an earbud out and pressing your hand to your chest to calm your racing heart.

“Stop apologizing, doll. It’s all good.” You smiled, and God help him, it was devastating. You had your hair swept off your neck into a ponytail now, exposing the long line of your neck, and all kinds of delightful scenarios involving that ponytail flooded Bucky’s brain. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of sounds you would make if he pulled it.

“Just gonna take a look at our progress here,” he mumbled as he leaned over your shoulder again.

The team huddle and the forty-five to yourself seemed to do nothing to calm you down. Your brain still fizzled when he was close to you, and heat still pooled between your legs when you caught a whiff of his warm, musky cologne.

“Hmm. Still seems to be stuck,” he muttered almost to himself.

Your afternoon was really getting away from you. You groaned and pinched the bridge of your noise. “This is just my luck. I am gonna be so behind on my calls.”

Meanwhile, the sound you had just made went straight to Bucky’s cock, and he attempted to adjust himself subtly behind you. “Let me try something else here. Maybe it’ll fix itself if I uninstall and reinstall it.”

You fidgeted with your necklace as you watched Bucky navigate your screen. The rest of your week would be utterly fucked if you got behind today.

“You nervous?” Bucky asked, a touch of concern creeping into his voice. “Don’t be, it’s nothing I can’t fix. I’ll take care of it.”

The low rumble of his voice quelled your work anxieties, but did absolutely nothing for the nerves brought on by his continued proximity. Still, you offered him a shy smile. “Thank you.”

“What are you listening to?” He nodded to the earbud dangling from her ear.

“Just one of my dad’s old tapes. Duke Ellington.”

Curiosity peaked, Bucky’s eyes followed the string of her earbuds, which led not to a phone or an iPod, but a small cassette tape player. This was interesting, more information revealed. You listened to tapes, maybe for nostalgia, or because you liked vintage things. The classic way you dressed certainly nodded in that direction.

“Mind if I…?” Bucky’s question trailed off as he took hold of the other earbud dangling off the string.

This request also did nothing for your nerves, but how could you refuse him, when he was looking at you like that? “Go ahead.”

Bucky placed the earbud into his ear, the length of the cord forcing you into even closer quarters with him. You could feel his breath on your neck, and you were suddenly finding it a little difficult to exist. He nodded along to the music for a moment, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“‘Pretty Woman’,” he murmured, and you were momentarily stunned until you realized he was talking about the song. “It’s a great tune. Classic.” His eyes flicked over you briefly, so quick you almost missed it.

Great. He shared music taste with you. You were absolutely done for.

“Yeah,” you replied softly. Your faces were way too close together for workplace professionalism, but you felt rooted to the spot. “I like this album for work ‘cuz it’s a little more low-key, not too… distracting.” You couldn’t keep your eyes from wandering down to his mouth at this distance, admiring how soft and inviting they looked.

After what felt like an interminable moment, Bucky cleared his throat and removed the earbud from his ear, moving back a few inches. “Speaking of distracting, I oughtta get back to this.” His voice was a rasp that he hoped didn’t totally betray him. “You can work off your old laptop while I do this, if you want. Don’t wanna throw off your whole day or nothin’.”

“Okay.” You picked up your work laptop and stood, surrendering the chair to Bucky.

He expected you to oh-so-enticingly walk off to the break room to work, but he was surprised, delighted, and deeply distracted when you elected instead to sit on an unoccupied corner of the desk, legs dangling over the edge and your laptop resting atop your knees. Bucky was powerless to stop the images manifesting themselves in his brain, images of him nudging those knees apart and fucking you stupid right there on the desk, kneeling between your legs and finding out just how sweet you really tasted.

Then you reached for a bag that sat by your feet, a green canvas tote that matched your cardigan from before, printed with little daisies. Bucky briefly wondered if that was your favorite color, or if you just knew it complimented your skin. You pulled out a small container, pried off the top, and set it on the desk next to you. The sweet, tempting smell of banana bread wafted into the air.

“In case you get hungry,” you said non-chalantly, before popping a bite-sized piece of bread into your mouth.

As a matter of fact, Bucky was absolutely starving.

Conversation lapsed into easy silence as you both worked, snacking intermittently on banana bread. Bucky did his very best to keep his gaze on the computer, and not on your legs swinging slightly off the edge of the desk. But this effort backfired somewhat when he had reached for the container of banana bread without taking his eyes off the screen, and his fingers accidentally grazed the outside of your thigh instead.

Bucky retracted his hand quickly, taking the piece of bread he had intended to grab and muttering a sorry under his breath. You, on the other hand, practically had a cardiac event, your pulse thrumming in your ears. He hadn’t even touched your skin, just the fabric of your skirt draped over your thigh, and you were a nervous wreck, goosebumps spreading like wildfire over your legs.

You had really, really hoped that he wouldn’t notice, but of course he did. “You cold?” he asked, clearly amused. “What happened to your cute little sweater?”

He was getting bold now. If anyone happened to overhear their conversation, it could be a conversation with HR.

“I … got a little warm, actually,” you responded, avoiding his eyes and trying to will your blood into leaving your cheeks.

Bucky left it alone for the time being, tried to refocus on the task at hand. Partially to give you some peace to work, but mostly so he could calm himself down. He didn’t want to embarrass himself when he had to stand up again.

After about ten minutes of uninterrupted, quiet work, you furrowed your brow at a particularly annoying email that came across your inbox. “God, Linda, how many times do I have to repeat myself? Can’t you read?” you muttered to yourself as you typed a reply, fingers hitting the keys harder than necessary. “Waste of my fucking time.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at this. So she had a mouth on her, too. “Wow. Are you always this aggressive when you’re emailing?”

“Only when someone deserves it,” you huffed in reply, slightly embarrassed to be called on your Outlook-induced rage.

“I’m surprised. You seem so… sweet,” Bucky said mischievously. “But now you’re cussin’ out poor Linda behind her back.” Christ, was that an accent slipping out - New York, maybe? Would wonders never cease? How was he still getting hotter?

“You’re not gonna tell on me, are you?” you asked with a smile, feigning innocence. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

He shook his head, fighting a grin himself. “Don’t worry, doll. I can keep a secret.”

Finally, Bucky finished up and slapped his hands against his thighs. “Okay, I think everything should be working now.” Standing up, he held out the chair for you. “Why don’t you make a call, test her out?”

You hopped down from the desk and slid back into your office chair, began to boot up the right programs. Still he stood over you, dominating your space and your attention.

“You gonna stand there and watch the whole time?” you asked, your attempt at sass falling short and just sounding tense.

“Not making you nervous, am I?” Bucky retorted as he leaned against the wall of your cubicle. “Just want to make sure she’s runnin’ right.”

“Sure,” you mumbled, and proceeded to dial out for a quick call to a client.

The call went through, and you threw him an excited thumbs up as you spoke to the client on the other end of the line. The actual content of the call went in one of Bucky’s ears and out the other - computers were more his business, not people. But he watched you with fascination as you handled the call with ease, with warmth. You were kind, you were patient, and you explained things clearly without an ounce of judgement when the client didn’t understand. And it seemed genuine, too - no fake polite and cheerful customer service voice. You were all smiles, and it didn’t fade when you disconnected the call after around five minutes.

“Everything appears to be in working order,” you remarked, looking up at Bucky with gratitude. And that meant that Bucky’s job was done.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly with concern. “What is it?”

Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and offered you a crooked smile. “Was kinda hoping for a last minute bug, so I could stick around and keep bothering you.”

Your heart did a stutter-step in your chest. “I was kinda hoping for that, too,” you admitted.

Silence stretched in the space between you and him, while you both deliberated what would happen next. When the silence shattered, it was unclear who spoke first.

Bucky blurted, “Can I take you out sometime?”

“Do you want to get a drink later?” you asked simultaneously.

Twin smiles bloomed as each of you absorbed the other’s question. And of course, you both answered at the same time.

“I’d like that,” you replied eagerly, right as Bucky breathed, “Definitely.”

A laugh bubbled out of your throat as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I, uh, I get off at six.”

Bucky reckoned you would be getting off again a few hours after that. Hopefully two or three times, if he had anything to say about it.

“Guess I’ll see you then,” he said, not even attempting to hide the twinkle in his eye when he looked at you.

“Guess you will,” you replied, all grin and blush and bitten lip.

Bucky was already looking at his watch and willing the hands to move faster as he walked away. Before he turned the corner, he dared a glance back and saw you trying to focus on your computer screen, grin hidden behind a bitten lip and a lock of hair twirled around your finger.

You were both in for a very long three hours.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The clock had practically mocked you with its languorous pace in the final hour of your day. Your fingers moved by rote as you typed, your mind very much elsewhere. And when 6:00 rolled around, you hurriedly shut your laptop and packed your bag before realizing you had no idea what to do now. Was he coming back down to meet you, or was that too conspicuous? Should you be going to his floor? Would it be better to meet in the building lobby, where it was relatively neutral territory? You really should have asked for his number before he left.

Feeling a little unsteady, you elected to head to the elevator, so at least you weren’t just standing around your cubicle looking lost. You pressed the button to summon the elevator, pulled out your ponytail and nervously ran your hand through your hair.

You were supremely caught off guard when the doors opened to reveal Bucky, with a bag and leather jacket in hand. At first, he looked almost as startled to see you as you probably did to see him, but then his face broke into a grin.

“Hey. I was just coming down to get you.”

Until the moment, you had been a little worried that you had hallucinated the whole thing. Your heart struck up a drum line at the prospect of stepping onto the elevator with him, but you did it anyway.

“Where are we going?” you asked, hoping your nerved weren’t creeping into your voice too obviously. The doors shut and the elevator began to descend, and you two were alone. Really alone, for the first time. You could feel your heart in your throat.

“You said drinks. I think dinner might be in order as well?” The end of his sentence lilted up into a question, so you nodded, trying to keep your enthusiasm in check.

Bucky pulled out his phone. “There’s this bar I like. They serve decent food, and it’s far enough away that we shouldn’t run into the happy hour crews. They usually go to the Friday’s around the corner.” He handed you the phone to show you the bar’s Yelp page, which had pictures of the menu and the bar itself. He seemed to be waiting on your sign-off, which you appreciated.

As you took a cursory look at the menu, you glanced at him playfully. “Not afraid to be seen with me, are you?”

He smirked in response. “Nope. Just don’t feel like sharin’ your attention.”

Damn, he was good.

You handed the phone back to him, your fingers brushing against his, your pulse still doing a flamenco underneath your skin. “Looks perfect.”

The elevator dinged, and you stepped out into the lobby. Various employees were filtering out of the front doors, but they seemed much too preoccupied with childcare pickup and dinner plans to clock the two of you. Bucky held the door open for you, and as you stepped through, you felt the soft touch of his hand against your lower back. It dropped as soon as you stepped outside, but it felt like the shape of his hand had been burned into your skin.

As you both approached the parking lot, Bucky’s pace slowed, and he ran a hand through his hair. “So, listen. I drove here on my bike. But if you want me to call an uber, or we can drive separate - “

“Bike? Like an actual bicycle, or - ?”

In answer to your question, Bucky pulled a motorcycle helmet out of the depths of his bag. “I know they’re not everyone’s thing, so if you would rather we get an Uber, that’s fine with me.”

You felt equal parts thrilled and terrified. You hadn’t ridden on the back of a motorcycle since you were a young and stupid college girl. But you had certainly liked it when you had. And the thought of being pressed against him, holding onto him while you two rode off into the sunset was … compelling, to say the least.

“Can I see the bike before I make my decision?” you asked diplomatically, not wanting to overplay your hand yet.

“Of course.” His hand found the crook of your arm and gently guided you down the row of cars. At the end was an impressive, gleaming black motorcycle.

In spite of himself, Bucky was a little nervous. A motorcycle could be a red flag, a hard pass for some girls, and you didn’t seem like the type who subscribed to Cycle World. Your face gave nothing away as you looked over his bike.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky asked softly. He desperately hoped that this wasn’t where the afternoon would come to a stop.

And then you turned your wide, pretty eyes up towards his, excitement glittering behind them. “You gonna start her up or what?” you challenged him, handing him your bag with a smirk of your own.

Thank the Lord. Bucky took your bag and stowed it alongside his own in the storage compartment on the back of the bike.

“Now, I’m a very safe driver, but it would make me feel better if you wore these,” he said, holding up his leather jacket and helmet. “Only brought the one helmet, unfortunately.”

He saw how your eyes widened slightly, how you fought a shiver as he helped you slip the jacket over your shoulders, and he filed it away carefully in his brain. The sight of you swallowed up in the fabric of his jacket activated something a little primal in his body. He wished he could just kiss you already, but he didn’t want to give the rest of the people filing out of the building something to talk about.

By the time he helped you fasten the helmet under your chin, not even the tint of the visor could disguise the anticipation and heat in your eyes. Bucky was practicing patience and restraint, so he sat astride his bike and held out his hand to steady you as you hopped on behind him. With your arms wrapped around him and your chest pressed against his back, Bucky needed to make a considerable effort to focus on driving.

“Hang on tight,” he instructed you as he turned on the ignition, and you complied instantly.

Oh, Bucky was gonna give you the ride of your life.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The bar wasn’t too crowded, thankfully. The two of you were side by side on stools by the bar top. It was just busy enough that you both had to lean slightly closer to be heard, which you didn’t mind in the slightest.

Despite the way that he sometimes made your heart race and your palms sweat, Bucky was surprisingly easy to talk to. He asked questions and listened carefully to the answers, told interesting stories, and most importantly, he made you laugh. Every time he pulled a giggle out of you, he looked like he had won a blue ribbon or a gold medal.

Food came and went, and the two of you picked at a cold plate of fries as you talked. Drinks came and went as well, with Bucky nursing a single glass of whiskey as the ever-responsible ‘safe driver,’ and you working on your second aperol spritz. You knew it was a little girly and played out, but you liked them. And you would certainly need a little liquid courage, if the night was headed where you hoped it would.

Emboldened by the slight buzz from your one and a half cocktails, you asked the question that had been bouncing around your head all night. “No offense, but why the hell are you single?”

Bucky put down his glass and swallowed his whiskey, surprised and amused. “Excuse me?”

“At least I assume that you are, because if you’re not, I wouldn’t be here,” you followed up pointedly. Bucky didn’t seem like the type, but you never could tell these days.

Bucky pulled a face. “Is this a bad time to tell you about my secret wife and seven children?”

You shoved him playfully, and he smiled, didn’t budge even slightly.

“I’m serious,” you insisted. “You’re charming, you’re smart, and pardon my french, but you’re seriously fucking gorgeous. So what gives? Are you a hoarder? Secretly a superhero? What’s the catch?”

Bucky looked down at you affectionately, admiring the slight color in your cheeks brought on by the alcohol and the flirting. He liked this more forward side of you. When was the last time a girl had dared to call him ‘fucking gorgeous’ on a first date? Probably never.

“I’m told I can be a little too intense for some,” he admitted. “I don’t like the whole casual thing, the modern dating game. I prefer to be straightforward. and I really enjoy my solitude. I allow very few people to disrupt that.”

Bucky took a last sip of his drink as that last comment hung in the air, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on you. So he didn’t do this kind of thing often. Which meant that you were special, in a way. This information was a little bewildering for you to take in.

“But the million dollar question is this - how the hell is a dame like you single?” he asked, turning the spotlight back onto you.

You gave him the prepared points you gave family and friends when they asked you the same question. “I detest dating apps, my standards are high, and I dislike having my time wasted.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Succinct. I like it.” He shifted forward ever so slightly. “Tell me about these high standards of yours.”

“Interested to know if you meet the mark?” you teased.

“Maybe. Tell me,” he repeated. His tone lacked the bite of a command, but like every other time he asked something of you, you complied. You were pretty sure you would do anything Bucky asked of you, if you were honest with yourself.

“Must-haves are a decent job, a sense of humor, at least some shared interests,” you began to list. It was hard not to get off-track when those blue eyes watched you so intently. “A…spark, I guess. Chemistry,” you elaborated, feeling your face heat even more under his attention. Still, you continued. “I don’t like guys who drag their feet, who don’t clean up after themselves, who show up late to stuff, who act like a relationship is a chore. I want to be with someone just as crazy about me as I am about them.”

“Those don’t seem high to me,” said Bucky. And in truth, they didn’t. Whoever had told you these were ‘high’ standards needed to be clocked upside the head. They were all things you clearly deserved.

“Wasn’t finished,” you replied. “I don’t date casually either. I’m up front about wanting to get married and have kids one day, with the right person. And a lot of guys don’t like that.”

He could sense she was testing him now, so he kept his eyes locked on hers and said easily, “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“And lastly, I don’t date people that I work with,” you concluded, taking a sip of your drink with a coy look.

He couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at this. “Define ‘work with.’ Same department, or is everyone in the building off limits?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “A week ago, I would have said anyone who can put the name of the same company as their current employer on LinkedIn is off the table.”

“And now?”

“I dunno. Maybe some rules are meant to be broken,” you said, your voice laced with meaning.

There was another beat of silence, where everything unspoken seemed to float in the air around the two of you. You were the first to break it.

“Why tech support?”

The question caught Bucky a little off guard, especially following on the tail of their previous conversation topic.

“I crave the high-octane, glamorous lifestyle,” he quipped.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway. “Hilarious.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I was a huge nerd in high school?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, it’s true,” he affirmed. “Learned to code before I learned how to talk to girls.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “I find it extremely hard to imagine you having trouble talking to girls.”

“Some girls are easier to talk to than others.” He shrugged like the comment meant nothing, but his eyes told another story. “Why client services?”

You swirled your swizzle stick around in your drink as you answered. “I like helping people. With anything, even the small stuff. Doesn’t feel like work when I get to do that.”

You said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. You were so goddamn sweet, Bucky just wanted to take a bite out of you.

“See, that’s not fair,” he almost groaned.

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t possibly be real. Keep thinkin’ if I spill my drink on you, you’ll melt like candyfloss,” he murmured, daring to brush his fingers against your arm on the bar top.

Goosebumps started to raise over your skin again, but it was hard to feel embarrassed when he was looking at you like that. “Afraid not,” you said softly. “I’ll just make you pay to have my dress cleaned.”

“Oh, of course,” Bucky assured her with a roguish grin, like any other outcome was unacceptable. “I’m a gentleman, after all. And it is a very pretty dress,” he added, his hand moving up from your forearm to the fluttery sleeve on your dress, feeling the fabric between his fingers.

You were starting to feel a little bit like putty in his hands, but you couldn’t let him win yet. “Gentleman, huh? Was it gentlemanly to breathe down my neck all afternoon while I tried to get my work done?” Despite the tease in your words, your tone was nearly breathless, all surrender.

Bucky leaned closer, his answer a low rasp that set your nerves on fire. “It was gentlemanly compared to what I was thinking about doing.”

You tried to think of some witty, flirtatious reply and came up with nothing. All you could concentrate on was his body so close to yours and the increasing ache of desire between your legs.

Bucky pulled back a few inches, removing his hand from your sleeve, and tapped his finger against the bottom of your nearly empty glass.

“Want me to buy you another one of these? Or can we just go back to my place now?”

His blue eyes were dark and heavy with intent. You wanted him so bad it took your breath away, and before you could gather the air to answer him, the bartender sauntered over.

“How are you two doing over here?” he asked cheerfully. “We need a refill on drinks?”

Bucky had been about to reply when you smiled sweetly at the bartender and answered, “Just the bill, please.”

A wicked grin bloomed across Bucky’s face. Patience, patience.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

You felt a little bit like you might be lucid dreaming.

It seemed a highly unlikely series of events. The hottest guy you had ever met asked you out in a date, asked you to come home with him. And now you were standing in his entryway, wrapped in his leather jacket, while he closed the door behind you.

You didn’t know what you were expecting to see when you walked into Bucky’s apartment. You had seen every breed of man-apartment under the sun over the years, from the biohazard nightmare that was your first college boyfriend’s apartment, to the clinical and impersonal studio of the last finance guy to pursue you. But this was… nice.

It was a decent size, and it wasn’t overly clean. There was a pile of various shoes by the door - a few professional pairs, a pair of running shoes, a pair of house slippers. There were the odd few dishes in the sink that had yet to be washed. But the apartment had a few beautiful elements to it - a dark blue tile on the kitchen backsplash, a nice large window and glass door leading to a small balcony space, dark hardwood floors, a spacious kitchen island lined with a few stools.

He had furniture that spoke more to comfort and necessity than personal style. There was a roomy but mostly non-descript blue sectional in the living room, a blanket strewn over the back of it. There was a nice TV resting on an entertainment center filled with DVDs, a gaming console, and interestingly, what appeared to be a VHS player.

The pieces with the most personality were a tall bookshelf full of cracked spines and vinyls, and a table by the window that held a record player on top. Not a cheap one that would chew up records - a nice one, connected to a quality set of external speakers.

Decor was on the leaner side. He had a few framed photographs on the walls and on the bookshelf, a few coffee table books. There was a set of framed maps that looked old, maybe even antique.

“Ain’t much, but it’s home,” Bucky said softly from behind you, allowing you a moment to look.

You walked further into his space, curious eyes taking note of everything. “I like it. It’s nice.”

Approaching the bookshelf, you examined the vinyls lined up at your eye level. He had a little bit of everything - classic rock, bluegrass, new wave, opera… the list went on and on. But by far, the most represented genre was jazz. You couldn’t resist running your hands along the spines, worn from use and age.

Bucky watched you with equal parts tenderness and hunger. The sight of you in his apartment, all warmth and sweetness and curiosity - it filled him with an indescribable ache. When you gravitated towards his music collection, he couldn’t help but smile. He’d had a feeling you might be most interested in that.

As he listened to the gentle clack of your heels on his floors, watched your delicate hands trace over his shelves, followed the unconscious shift of weight in your hips, Bucky decided that he had done enough waiting.

“Come here,” he requested quietly.

Your gaze flicked over to him, and where there had been curiosity in your gaze, there was now only desire. You didn’t even hesitate to turn towards him, walk slowly into his space.

Savoring the moment of suspension, the crest before the breaking of the wave, Bucky reached for you. One hand found your waist underneath the curtain of his jacket that was still wrapped around you, and he drew you close until the fronts of your bodies brushed together. His other hand reached up to cradle your jaw, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone, reveling in the softness there.

You held your breath as his eyes flicked from your mouth up to your eyes, still checking for permission your body had already given him. Your hands found their way to his arms, his shoulders, drawing him impossibly closer, and then, miracle of miracles, Bucky was kissing you.

It was slow, warm, and patient for the first pass of his lips against yours. You sighed into it almost without meaning to. And then his hand at your jaw tilted your head back, giving him better access, and his tongue slipped into your mouth, gliding against yours. There was no more patience after that.

Bucky pushed his jacket off your shoulders, and you slipped your arms out of it as it collapsed to the floor. His hands got a little greedy then, exploring your waist, your hips, reaching down to grab handfuls of your ass. His hands left warm trails in their wake against your skin, even through the fabric of your dress. Every touch, every demanding lick into your mouth drew another sound, another gasp from your throat. It was music to Bucky’s ears.

He began to move you, pressed you against the nearest surface, which was the balcony door. Caught between the cold glass and the warmth of his body on yours, you shuddered and arched against him. Bucky’s mouth joined the exploration of his hands, moving from your mouth to the hollow of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, the slope behind your ear. Teeth and tongue were soon to follow, nipping and sucking marks onto your neck, your collarbone. Bucky wasn’t always impolite enough to leave marks - he wasn’t a teenage boy, after all. But he wanted you to think about this night every time you looked into the mirror, until the next night when he had the opportunity to leave more. There would be a next night, if Bucky had any say in the matter.

Eventually his lips travelled lower, pressing right above the neckline of your dress, then mouthing over your nipples where they peaked through the thin fabric covering you. You might have been a puddle on the floor, if his strong hands weren’t pinning you to the glass door behind you.

Suddenly, he was kneeling in front of you, kissing one of your knees as a hand slipped behind it to lift your leg slightly. You watched, breath heavy with arousal, as he slipped off one of your heels and then gently returned your foot to the floor. Your other leg, other foot received the same treatment, before he nudged your legs apart, pulled your hips forward slightly so he had access to your inner thighs. He put his mouth to work there, winding you up a little.

You needed something to hold onto, but there was nothing, so you desperately pressed your palms against the glass as Bucky pushed up the fabric of your skirt.

“Been thinking about this for hours now, doll.” Bucky’s tone of voice was downright filthy as he lifted one of your legs again, draped it over his shoulder. “You gonna let me taste you?” Like a preview of what was to come, he licked a stripe along the crease where your leg met your body, mouthed over your clit through your cotton underwear.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. You were dying. You were going to die, and Bucky was killing you slowly.

“Baby, I need to hear you say it,” he prompted you, his nose nudging against you, featherlight and teasing.

“Yes, Bucky, please,” you panted.

Bucky pulled your panties to the side and dove in tongue first. Your head thudded back against the glass as you gasped and surrendered to the ministrations of his mouth.

Bucky ate you out with the clinical precision of a surgeon and the unbridled passion of a master artist. He mapped every inch of you with broad licks, lathed and sucked at your clit intermittently, fucked you with his tongue, memorized which sounds came out of you when his teeth grazed here or his tongue lapped there.

Pinned to the glass as you were, somehow Bucky had all the power, even on his knees at your feet. Your fingers rooted themselves in his hair, and you held on for dear life as he led a full on assault between your legs, with his mouth on the front line.

When your legs started to tremble uncontrollably and the noises coming out of your mouth grew incoherent, Bucky pulled away, looked up at you with your slick all over his mouth and jaw. You let out a whimper when his mouth left you, feeling extremely confused and unreasonably horny.

“Sweeter than I imagined,” he murmured, wiping his face with his palm and then licking it clean. Never in your life had you been jealous of a hand.

“Why - why’d you stop?” you practically whined, tugging a little at his hair in your desperation.

Bucky stood and cradled your face like you were something precious, like he hadn’t just been devouring you like a madman thirty seconds ago. “Because, as delicious as you are, I wanna see your pretty face when I make you come for the first time. Can’t really see too well from down there.”

Whatever you had been about to say in reply left your brain when Bucky suddenly picked you up like you weighed nothing. You let out a yelp as you scrambled for purchase around his neck and locked your legs around his waist. He walked across his apartment, through the doorway of his bedroom, then placed you gently on the edge of his bed.

Bucky kissed you tenderly for a moment, smiled at your bewildered expression. “Wait here for me a minute, okay, gorgeous?”

“Okay,” you replied, breathless.

After pressing one last kiss to your temple, Bucky left the bedroom and returned to the living room.

He took his time picking up his jacket and your shoes, setting them by the door in their proper place. He took off his own shoes and set them beside yours - it just looked right that way. Then he crossed back to his shelf of records, looking for a specific album.

Bucky knew he was being a little evil, but he couldn’t help himself. You were so good, did everything he asked, and he was mostly just curious to see how things would play out. Maybe you might get impatient and drag him back into the room with you. Maybe you might lay back and touch yourself in his bed as you waited. That image was particularly stirring, but before he could dwell for too long on it, he found his prize, and pulled it from the shelf.

Back in Bucky’s room, you sat and looked around cluelessly, felt the soft, dark gray comforter beneath your fingertips. Bucky would have to wash it after tonight - you were probably leaving a wet spot thanks to Bucky’s mouth. You could hardly stop thinking about it. Hearing his footsteps outside the door only made it worse, so you pressed your thighs together to try to relieve the ache and took in your surroundings.

The room was lit by the low light of his bedside lamp. There was an en-suite bathroom off to one side and a closet on the other, floating bookshelves with a few more photos and small keepsakes. You could feel a plush rug underneath your feet, swirled with patterns of deep blues and grays. A cluttered desk dwelled in the corner, adorned with a complex monitor setup. You pictured him working from home, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and running a frustrated hand through his hair, and you felt warmth spreading in your chest. Too real, too intimate, too much for what tonight was. You had just met him today. You didn’t yet know where this was going. This might just be just one night of sex - really, really good sex, if his skill with his mouth wasn’t the only one in his repertoire.

Just as you were beginning to get anxious, wondering what could possibly be keeping him, soft jazz music floated in from the living room. You recognized the tune immediately. Duke Ellington. The song you and Bucky had listened to on your tape player earlier that day.

You almost melted right through the floor. When Bucky could deny himself no longer and walked back into his bedroom, there you were - still perched so pretty on the edge of his bed, dress a little rumpled, hair a little mussed, your expression full of softness and desire and trust. He almost felt a little guilty leaving you wanting so long. So he knelt before you again, taking your face in his hands.

“Had to find the right record,” he offered as explanation, leaning in to kiss you again. Your hands pulled somewhat impatiently at his shirt collar, and he suppressed a chuckle as he resumed kissing your neck in earnest.

“I want you so bad,” you whispered, desperation creeping in as the ache between your legs grew unbearable.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, running his hands along your waist. “I’m gonna take care of you. Gotta take this off, first.” He grasped a fistful of the fabric of your dress. You helped him find the zipper on the side, and he slid it down slowly, gently pulled your dress off over your head.

Bucky was temporarily caught up in the sight of you clad only in a lace bralette and blue cotton underwear. You cursed yourself for not doing laundry on time and wished you had been able to wear something that matched, but it seemed that was the last thing on Bucky’s mind. He ran a finger underneath the strap of your bralette, and you couldn’t suppress the shiver it produced.

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, like he hadn’t meant for you to hear. His fingers travelled further down, feeling for your hardened nipple through the flimsy piece of fabric, pulling a needy sound from the back of your throat as you arched into his touch. And then he remembered his mission, tried to ignore his increasing hardness in his slacks as he reached for the band of your bralette.

“And these,” he mumbled. He lifted the garment over your head and flung it across the room, then reached for the waistband of your underwear. You leaned back and raised your hips to accommodate their removal, and they joined your bralette on the floor.

From Bucky’s kneeling position on the floor, with you leaned back like that, he had a clearer view to your glistening folds. He couldn’t resist pushing your legs wider and taking a good, long look. “Jesus. Look at that. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You squirmed under his gaze, tried to close your legs a bit, but Bucky was strong, and he didn’t allow it. “Bucky…”

Right, back to business, Bucky thought. “Sorry, doll. Just love lookin’ at you.” He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulled you close. With him kneeling on the floor and you sitting on the bed, his face was level with your chest. He licked a stripe along the inner swell of one of your breasts, bit softly at the tender flesh, and you whimpered quietly. Bucky could listen to you make those sounds all day.

He reached up and brushed his thumb along your lower lip. “Open for me.” You followed his instructions immediately, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking lightly.

“That’s good - fuck,” he nearly groaned, feeling his cock throb as you ran your tongue around the tip of his thumb. The sensation conjured all kinds of lovely thoughts of your mouth wrapped around the length of him, taking him down your throat. Another time, maybe. He wanted to make this good for you.

Bucky pulled his thumb from your mouth and moved it between your legs, finally, finally paying attention to your clit again. A gasp wrenched itself out of your throat, your fingernails biting into his shoulders.

When he slipped a finger inside of you, you might have collapsed back onto the bed if Bucky’s strong arm around you didn’t keep you upright. The second finger was not long to follow, and as he began to kiss and suck at your breasts, graze his teeth across your nipples, you were approaching the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Already close, huh?” he asked sweetly, though he knew the answer anyway. “I can feel your pussy beggin’ for it. Dripping for me.”

You were beyond words at the moment, could only make embarrassing, needy sounds in response. Bucky decided you could take more, slipped a third finger inside of you, slowly pumped them in and out of you. You hissed a little at the stretch, moans pitching even higher.

“Saw you clenching those pretty little thighs together at the office when I was tellin’ you what to do. You like bein’ told what to do?” When you didn’t reply with words, just kept whimpering, his hand stilled between your legs. “Answer me, doll,” he demanded.

“Fuck, yes, I like it,” you confessed. Rewarding your honesty, he resumed circling your clit with a fervor, and you bucked against his hand as he curled his fingers inside you.

“There we go,” he murmured. “You wanna come?”

You needed it like oxygen. “Yes, god-“

“Beg.”

Even though you weren’t sure if you had heard him right, a new jolt of arousal raced through you. “What?”

Bucky kept his hand in a holding pattern, changing nothing. “Beg for it, baby, and I’ll give it to you.”

You were babbling your reply almost before he finished speaking, your release so close you could practically taste it. “Please, Bucky, please, I need to come-“

And then he crooked his fingers again and again, hitting that most sensitive part inside you. You cried out and spasmed around them, face contorted with pleasure. “That’s it. That’s my girl.” Bucky’s eyes were trained on you with the focus of a hunter as he brought you to your climax. “Let go, I got you,” he encouraged you before pressing another kiss to the top of your breast, his hand keeping the same relentless pace between your thighs.

One of your hands threaded into his hair again, the other gripping the bedclothes next to you like you were afraid you might fall off the face of the earth. Bucky watched with immense gratification as you fell apart - your pretty little mouth falling open and letting out a string of curses and groans, your hips canting up towards his hand and chasing every last stroke of his fingers against you. He didn’t slow, didn’t stop until you began to whine and push at his wrist, overstimulated and fucked out. Only then did he release the grip of his arm supporting you and laid you gently back into the bed. He sucked your release off his fingers like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you exhaled as you took in the sight. There was that dirty mouth again. Bucky grinned - those other people on your floor that you worked with probably had no idea you could talk like that.

“You look so pretty when you come, sweetheart,” Bucky praised you, stroking your hair back from your face.

You looked up at him, face still somewhat bewildered and extremely turned on. He could tell you weren’t done by a long shot. When he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you further up onto the bed to lay comfortably against the pillows, you grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “Why are you still wearing so many clothes?”

“I was a little distracted,” he chuckled. “You wanna do that part?”

“I don’t know if I can move.”

“Fair enough.” He knelt between your legs on the bed, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and tossed it to the side along with the white undershirt beneath it.

Your gaze raked over his torso as it was revealed. God, he was ripped - less like a body builder and more like a marble statue in a fine art museum. A fine dusting of hair adorned his spectacularly carved chest, and another trailed from his navel down the taut muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband of his slacks. You could see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric, and the size was a little intimidating before it had even been revealed.

“Oh, what the hell?” you despaired quietly as you looked at him.

One of Bucky’s eyebrows quirked up as he unfastened his belt. “Pardon?”

“You are so gorgeous, it’s sort of ridiculous,” you said seriously. “No one is ever gonna believe me about this.”

Bucky picked up a note of insecurity. To him, this made no sense - you had absolutely nothing to be insecure about, quite the opposite in fact.

But you were imagining walking hand in hand with him down the street, imagining the skeptical looks from passers-by, wondering what this Adonis was doing with an ordinary woman, and it stung.

Bucky would not allow you to hurt your own feelings like that. He leaned over you, bracing an arm by your head so he could look at you properly. “Baby, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.”

You tried to look away, avoid the honesty and vulnerability of the moment, but he reached for you, took hold of your chin. “Look at me.”

Your big, beautiful eyes raised to his, and Bucky murmured with reverence, “You’re a goddamn work of art.” He stroked his thumb across your jaw, and he hoped you could tell that he meant every word, that it wasn’t just platitudes.

An idea seemed to strike him then, and he held out his open palm towards you. “Give me your hand.” Of course, you complied immediately. He slowly brought your hand to the waistband of his unfastened slacks, watching for any signs of discomfort, and finding only eagerness and arousal in your eyes.

His hand wrapped around yours disappeared beneath the fabric, and you gasped as he pressed your hand to his cock. It was achingly hard, and Bucky couldn’t help but groan and rut slightly against the contact of your palm. Your suspicions had been correct - he was big, he was thick, and you felt dampness in his boxers from where he had been leaking arousal.

“You feel that? You feel what you do to me? What you’ve been doing to me since I first saw you?” he asked, rocking his hips against your hand again like he couldn’t help himself. You couldn’t help yourself either - you wrapped your hand around the base of him, stroked him firmly to the tip, and Bucky shuddered in pleasure. He removed his hand from his trousers and let you take control for a moment, lost in the feel of your soft palm against him.

“Could barely think straight the whole time I was with you in that little cubicle,” he murmured, thrusting lazily into your hand. “Smelling your perfume, watching you blush like no man had ever looked at you that way before.”

If you hadn’t already been soaked, you certainly would have become so at that moment, watching him lean over you and use your hand for his pleasure, listening to him talk like that. The blue of his irises was almost completely hidden by the darkness of his pupils, blown out with desire. His gaze slid over your body, like he was claiming it without even having to place his hands on you. Like he needed to have you now, or he might go mad.

“No man has ever looked at me like you do,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Then they must have been blind,” he said firmly, taking hold of your wrist and withdrawing it from beneath his trousers. You almost started to protest, but then he gently kissed your palm in a gesture so sweet it made your chest ache.

“Or stupid,” he continued as he eased himself off the bed, and finally began to remove his pants, followed by his socks. “Or both.” You watched with increasing excitement as he reached for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down and off. “Doesn’t matter, ‘cuz I’m about to ruin you for all of them.”

And you fully believed it, because when his cock sprang free and you saw it for the first time, your mouth went dry. It was long, with an equally impressive girth, flushed an angry red, leaking generously at the tip. You had never attempted to take anyone or anything comparable to his size before. Excitement battled with anxiety in your gut.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in awe and a little trepidation. “Bucky, I don’t know if I can - “

Bucky climbed back onto the mattress and settled between your legs again. “I think you can. But only if you want it.” He reached out to touch your face tenderly again. “Tell me, baby.”

You didn’t even know if you could, but you wanted to try. Needed it, actually - you were already aching for him again. “I want it,” you answered, hands drifting up to run over his chest. He was warm under your touch. You wanted him pressed against every single inch of you.

A devilish smile spread across his face. He wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked slowly as he leaned his face down towards yours, his nose nudging against yours. “Want what?” he urged you.

“Want your cock. Please,” you begged. You knew he liked it when you begged, and your plea achieved the desired response - a rumbling moan that you swallowed up greedily with a kiss.

Bucky broke from your mouth and rested his forehead against yours. “Can’t say no to that, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” you said firmly, and he laughed, kissed your cheek.

You watched with rapt attention as he made his preparations, reached into the bedside table to obtain a condom and a bottle of lube. When he was wrapped and slicked and ready, you were almost squirming with anticipation as he lined himself up to your entrance and began to sink into you.

As soon as his head pushed in, you were already wincing and panting from the stretch. “Buck - ah-”

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” he whispered, “you’re doin’ so good.” He softly kissed your pulse point below your jaw, waited patiently until he felt your body relax a little before pushing in further, about halfway in now. You let out a groan, equal parts pleasure and pain, as you clutched him to you, nails raking over his shoulders. Bucky gritted his teeth from the effort of holding back. He had ignored himself for a considerable amount of time, and he had been thinking about this moment all afternoon, all evening.

“Goddamn, you’re tight.” Another kiss to the slope below your earlobe, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. “Knew you would be, knew you were made to take this cock,” he rasped into your ear. His voice sent waves of arousal straight between your legs, and your walls fluttered around him, trying to pull him further in.

Bucky slowly eased himself in a few more inches. “Just a little more, baby, you got it,” he encouraged you. And then he bottomed out, and your eyes rolled practically to the back of your head as the head of his cock pressed against your cervix.

“Ah - there we go,” he sighed, slowly grinding against you and revelling in your tight warmth.

The motion had his pubic bone pressing against your swollen clit, and you ground your hips against his in response. “Bucky, oh my god,” you whimpered, moisture pricking at the edges of your eyes from the overwhelming feeling of it all.

Bucky’s hand found your thigh, hooked you under the knee to hitch your leg up over his hip. “God, you’re squeezing me so - so good,” he panted, still just grinding himself against the deepest part of you. “I don’t know if I’m gonna last.”

“Please, Bucky, please move,” you urged him, and he obliged, pulling nearly all the way out of you and plunging back in.

“Had to hold myself back from fuckin’ you right there on your desk,” he nearly growled as he began to set an unforgiving pace with his thrusts. “Sweet little thing in a pretty dress, bringin’ baked goods into the office. They have no idea how sweet you really are, how needy and desperate you are for this cock.”

All you could do was brace your arm against the headboard and let out cry after pathetic cry. No man had ever talked to you like this in bed. It might have been cheesy coming from anyone but him, but it just made you hotter.

“But I knew,” he continued to ramble, his thrusts getting faster, more urgent. “Knew I needed to have you when you looked at me with those ‘come fuck me’ eyes. You knocked me right out.”

Once again, you were right on the edge embarrassingly quick, but it seemed Bucky was too. It spoke to how badly you both wanted each other, how perfectly your bodies fit and moved together.

“Bucky, I’m so close. Please-”

“Come, baby. You earned it,” he breathed, bringing a hand between your bodies to rub against your clit again.

It didn’t take long from there - a few demanding strokes of his thumb and a few thrusts so deep you could practically feel them in your throat, and you were completely unraveled. You grabbed hold of any part of him that you could and keened out his name over and over as your orgasm racked through you.

Bucky was close behind, his orgasm wrenched from him as your muscles spasmed around him and squeezed him tighter than ever. “Fuck, fuck-” he choked out as he spilled into the condom, continuing to thrust as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you both.

When your bodies calmed and stilled, Bucky gently pulled out of you with a quiet hiss, pressed his lips against your forehead. “That was incredible, doll. You did so good.”

You hummed contentedly in reply, not yet having regained your capacity for language. Bucky leaned over and disposed of the condom in a small trash can by his nightstand. Then he collapsed back against you, pulling you close, sweat mingling between your body and his.

It was quiet for a moment as you both caught your breath. Eventually, you turned your face towards him, and your lips found his. It was sweet, lingering, gentle. You knew it was the post-sex hormones talking, but it felt dangerously close to perfect.

“You can stay the night, if you want,” Bucky offered, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. “I can drive you by your place in the morning, so you can change before work. But like I said, only if you want.”

You knew you ought to go home. You met this guy less than twelve hours ago. If this thing moved too fast, it could easily break. But the offer sounded genuine, maybe even hopeful.

“What do you want?” you asked carefully, running your fingers through his hair.

His gaze didn’t waver from yours for a second. “I want you here for as long as I can have you.” He kissed you again, and it banished your doubts and anxieties for the moment. “Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?” he proposed, shifting to get up. “I got a real nice tub with your name on it.”

God, this night was gonna ruin you for other men for quite a long time, “Which… which one of my dreams did you walk out of?”

He smiled down at you fondly. “I was gonna ask you that.” He held out a hand towards you to help you up. “Come on, doll.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sex was phenomenal, but the aftercare was so good that it almost pissed you off.

Bucky ran you a warm bath, rubbed your shoulders when you got in, gave you a soft t-shirt and a pair of boxers to sleep in, found a new toothbrush under the counter for you to use, and left you to relax for a few minutes (with instructions to call for him if you needed anything). His soap smelled expensive and delicious, and he even had acceptable skincare that didn’t seem like it would break you out. You washed off your makeup and stewed in the bath for a minute.

His bathroom was nice and clean, and his towels looked soft. There wasn’t a 2-in-1 shampoo to be found anywhere. He didn’t even have a single stray beard trimming in the sink. Not a single, solitary ick.

In spite of yourself, you had been looking for a flaw, for a chink in the armor, for anything that could give you a reason not to relax into this feeling. And you found nothing. It would have been frustrating if you didn’t like him so goddamn much.

When you finally dried off, donned your makeshift pajamas and emerged from the bathroom (walking just a little crooked), Bucky had turned down the bed and set a glass of water on the nightstand, and was sitting at his desk looking at his phone.

He glanced up at you, and felt utterly wrecked all over again. If seeing you in his jacket earlier hadn’t been enough to ruin his life, how you looked now - head to toe in his clothes, hair up in a messy bun, face clean and bright and soft - that was definitely life-ruining.

Your expression slightly annoyed but mostly amused, you pointed to the marks he had left on your neck and collarbone. “This is not workplace appropriate, Bucky. How am I gonna hide this?”

Bucky stood and offered an apologetic smile as he examined them. “Sorry.”

“You don’t look sorry in the slightest. I’m gonna have to wear a scarf or something. It’ll be incredibly conspicuous.”

“Just couldn’t help myself,” he replied mischievously, before kissing your cheek and heading for the bathroom. “Get comfy, I’m taking a shower.”

As you slipped between his sheets and heard the sound of the shower running, the pull of sleep became impossible to resist. You realized with a start that you hadn’t set your alarm on your phone and almost started to get up, when you spotted your phone on the nightstand, already plugged into a charger.

Damn, he was really good.

Bucky kept his shower short, too tempted by the idea of you in his bed. The lights were already dim by the time he stepped out of the bathroom in a pair of lounge pants, and there you were, snuggled in amongst his pillows, breath slow and even in sleep. He settled into bed beside you, and just as he was beginning to weigh the risk of waking you against the urge to wrap his arms around you, you shifted, rolled over and curled into his side.

He was in trouble, he realized. Your body was warm and soft against his, and he surrendered to the impulse to wrap his arm around you. You snuggled closer, rested your head against his chest, and he heard a small sigh escape your lips.

Big trouble.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You woke not to your own alarm, but to Bucky’s, proof that last night hadn’t just been an elaborate dream. Bucky groaned and reached over to kill the alarm. Then he settled down again, gathered you back into his arms. Yawning, you shifted in his embrace to face him. “Morning,” you greeted him softly.

“Not yet,” he grumbled.

“Don’t look at me. It’s your alarm, not mine.” You yawned again as you glanced at the clock. “Why do you wake up so early? None of God’s creatures should be awake at this hour.”

“Gym,” he offered as explanation. “But this is better,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms tighter around you.

You smiled softly and reached for your phone, took a look at your route planner. “It’ll take about a half hour to get back to my place. So we should probably leave in an hour.”

“Hour and a half,” he protested, his voice rough from sleep.

“I need to change,” you reminded him, fighting a giggle. “And we need to eat something.”

“Hm. I like that idea,” he murmured, nuzzling into your neck to kiss along the slope of your shoulder.

“Bucky,” you warned. As enticing as the idea was, you didn’t want to show up late to work on the back of Bucky’s bike, looking a total mess.

“It’ll be quick,” he assured you, dipping his head beneath the covers and pulling up the hem of your t-shirt to kiss at your stomach. Which was about when your brain left the building.

It was not, in fact, quick. Three orgasms later, you both were rushing to get your clothes on and chugging cups of coffee before rushing out the door. This resulted in you being quite unsteady and frazzled when you rolled up to your apartment building. The motorcycle ride didn’t help. Bucky watched you limp up the stairs to your floor with great amusement.

“There’s food in the kitchen if you want to grab something while I get changed,” you stated as you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

Bucky followed you through the doorway, and was struck by the you-ness of the place. It was cozy, quirky, soft. Thrifted furniture piled high with blankets and throw pillows, paintings and pressed flowers arranged on a gallery wall, and in the corner, a cat tower, where a small orange cat was stretching as it roused from a nap.

Bucky looked a little puzzled as the cat jumped down to greet them. “You didn’t leave your cat alone all night, did you?”

“I have a roommate. I texted her to feed him after the first drink,” you replied coyly as you reached down to give the cat a scratch behind the ears.

Bucky smirked. “Knew that quick, huh?”

And because you dared to speak of the devil, you heard Yelena approaching from the other room. “Good morning,” she called. “How was your dick appointment?” Before she finished her question, her slight frame appeared in the living room doorway, clad in a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants. Her makeup-smudged eyes went wide when they landed on Bucky.

“Lena!” you yelped, dashing over to her and trying to steer her out of the living room.

Yelena resisted, continued to ogle Bucky. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”

“Shut up,” you hissed as you dragged her off to your room with you.

Bucky chuckled and wandered into the kitchen. There was a container of leftover banana bread on the counter, which Bucky happily raided. He could hear muffled speaking from you and Yelena from the other room - likely Yelena demanding information and you trying to put her off as you got ready. He imagined you turning pink as Yelena probed you about what happened last night, and it brought a smile to his face.

As he chewed, he couldn’t resist having a peek around in this room as well. Color-coordinated tea towels hung on the oven door, and a stack of recipe books rested on top of the microwave. A hanging plant flourished by a window framed with patterned curtains. You and Yelena had an extensive collection of fridge magnets, including a set of poetry magnets that someone had used to write a few dirty phrases. Probably Yelena, he guessed, although considering that mouth of yours, it could have been either of you.

Finally, after a lot of tittering from the other room, you re-emerged, angelic and discombobulated. You were clad in a fluffy pink sweater (with a mock neck just high enough to cover the most obvious marks he had left on you), light colored pants that fit you like a dream, and penny loafers. A glittery scrunchie pulled your hair up out of your face.

“Gonna be late,” you fretted as you grabbed a slice of banana bread with one hand and Bucky’s arm with the other.

“You look like a cupcake,” Bucky observed playfully, craning his head around to try to get a look at your backside in those pants.

“Shut up,” you mumbled around a bite of banana bread as you pulled him towards the front door.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“When can I see you again?”

Bucky had slipped his hand into the crook of your elbow and gently pulled you to a halt as you started towards the building. The question leapt from his lips like he had been wondering all morning.

You could have asked him to lunch that very same day, but you thought it would be smart to give him some time to miss you. Plus, you probably ought to give your body a chance to recover, and you weren’t sure you could trust yourself to not climb on top of him the next time you two were alone. “I’m free on Friday.”

“Two days?” Bucky despaired. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

“You’ll live,” you replied with a grin.

He stepped closer, vibrant baby blues piercing yours. “You at least gonna give me your number, so I can call you?”

You held out your hand for his phone, and typed in your number when he handed it off to you. Once returned, the phone screen held a new contact - ‘Doll,’ with a little heart emoji next to it.

“I have to go, or I really will be late,” you said, wishing you could kiss him one more time before returning to the mundanity of your average workday. Instead, you walked off toward the building, giving him one more glance over your shoulder before you entered.

Bucky let you go ahead of him, since entering together might draw a little attention. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. Not yet, anyway.

The day passed as it always did, filled with mostly inane requests and the odd actual technical issue that required a bit of detective work. It didn’t bother Bucky so much today. Sam, at the desk across from him, curiously inquired what had him in such a good mood. Bucky just shrugged.

Towards the end of the day, his computer dinged at him to announce an incoming email. This one was the result of a survey - they were automatically sent whenever an employee ticket was closed out. He recognized the ticket number, but he would have guessed it was you from the content:

Truly went above and beyond to address support needs. Excellent communicator. Very effective hands-on approach.

Bucky huffed a laugh. He was very much looking forward to approaching you hands-on again.

[starling-in-the-sky]

All in the Timing

A/N: Full disclosure - I don’t know how Kinktober works (I’m baby), so this is not technically a Kinktober fic. Howevs, in honor of being kinktober I thought I would keep it sexy for the next fic drop :P This is a reworked fic I wrote months ago, proofread by only me (because like in the days of old, we die like men). Hope you enjoy!

New Avengers!Bucky x New Avengers!Reader

Summary: Val wants the New Avengers it-couple to make an appearance at a PR event. It is an exercise in restraint for both you and your husband, Bucky. You promise to make it worth his while, and you both make good on that promise

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI) (dry humping, multiple orgasms, oral sex - female receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise kink), mentions of alcohol consumption, the new avengers are a shitshow and Bucky is dramatic, who needs plot when you have filth?

You hated being rushed. 

The whole day had been off kilter - your alarm had failed to go off on time, Mel had sprung a last-minute suit refitting on you, and now you and Bucky had this stupid photo-op barbecue Val was making you go to. Something about marketing the team as approachable, like you could grab a beer with them. Whatever that meant. You had barely five minutes to get in the door of the apartment and make yourself look presentable before you had to head up. 

You threw your hair up, smoothed out your dress, and were still putting in your earrings when you walked back into the living room to grab Bucky. “Come on, we’re late,” you called over your shoulder as you grabbed your purse.

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair,” he lamented, standing up from the couch.

“What?”

Bucky looked you up and down. “You’re wearing that?” He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close, burying his face in your neck. “We’re staying in.”

“Bucky, come on, seriously.” Somehow, you kept your resolve, even as he pressed his lips to your skin and you got wrapped up in the tempting scent of his cologne. “We have to go, or Val's gonna chew our heads off.”

“Don't care,” he mumbled against your neck. “You wore this on our honeymoon, didn’t you?” he asked, his hands drifting for the hem on your skirt.

You smacked his hands away. “For all of three seconds, you caveman. Now, come on.” You took his arm and walked towards the front door.

Bucky dragged his feet, practically whining, “You’re killing me.”

“You are so dramatic,” you sighed. Standing just in front of the door, you turned to face him, fixing his collar slightly for him before heading out.

Bucky’s gaze was drifting to the neckline of your dress. “You’re not wearing a bra right now, are you?” he asked, half accusation, half appreciation.

You lifted his chin and forced him to look at your face. “Two hours. That's as long as we need to stay. Then we can make something up. You can wait two hours, can’t you?” 

“I honestly don’t know,” Bucky deadpanned.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you murmured, and stretched up onto your tiptoes to give him a  gentle but lingering kiss.

“Promise?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded meaningfully. “Promise.” Then you grabbed him by the shirt and practically forced him out the front door. “Come on.”

The rooftop barbecue was an exercise in mutual torture.

First of all, it was way too goddamn hot. Second of all, the food was lackluster. You and Bucky had been a bit spoiled with Sam’s mastery of the grill, and the spread laid out by craft services paled in comparison. 

Third of all, the team was a mess. Bob stood too close to a grill and temporarily caught himself on fire. Yelena was talking loudly and with her mouth full. Alexei and Walker were getting drunk off the company-provided PBR and loudly arguing about the Olympics, for some reason. Ava was dejectedly poking at a pile of lukewarm potato salad on her plate, looking like she wished she could phase off the edge of the roof and end her suffering.

And Val was rubbing her temples, clearly fighting off an Avengers-induced migraine.

Bucky was certainly not making the experience any easier. If he wasn’t staring at you like you were his next meal, he was leaning in closer than he needed to and murmuring in your ear, making you shiver. Or pressing a hand to your lower back in a way that was incredibly distracting. Or licking his lips before taking a swig of his beer, deliberately tempting you to look at his sinful mouth.

At one point, he casually checked his watch and then slipped a metal finger beneath the spaghetti strap on your sundress, running it along the length of your shoulder blade. No one could see him do it, since your back was to the wall. But you felt yourself turning red, and you squirmed slightly in your seat, clenched your thighs together to relieve some of the tension. Bucky gave you a devilish smirk, and you glared daggers at him. Pointy, sexually-frustrated daggers.

You checked the time on your phone intermittently, and when the obligatory two hours was up, you walked as calmly as you could over to Val and complained of a stomach upset. It took longer to make an escape than you had hoped, what with Val trying to convince the two of you to stay, Alexei wrapping you in a drunken bear hug, and Bob trying to ply you with ginger ale from the cooler to help you feel better.

Finally, by the grace of God, you were in the tower elevator on the way back up to your apartment. You were practically vibrating with desire, aching for Bucky to touch you, but he was playing it cool, what with the security cameras and the risk of other elevator passengers stepping on. Two could play at that game, so you played it cool as well, resisting the urge to peek at him out of the corner of your eye.

When you returned to the apartment, Bucky held the door open for you and then let it drift closed as he walked over to the couch. You hung up your purse and toed off your shoes. You were a little annoyed to see Bucky looking at his phone as he kicked off his own shoes.

You padded over in your bare feet to stand in front of him, hands on your hips. “Hello? Earth to Bucky?”

He looked up with a smirk. Stepping closer, you placed a knee on the couch next to his thigh and straddled him. “I'm sorry, am I boring you?” you purred as you settled over him. 

“Hardly. I'm setting a timer,” he replied coolly.

You raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

He turned the phone to face you. The timer read ‘2 hours 12 minutes.’

His voice was low and dangerous. “This is how long I waited. You said you’d make it worth my while. And I intend to take my time.”

You swallowed nervously. Bucky pressed ‘start’ on the timer and tossed his phone on the couch. Then he cupped your jaw and kissed you almost painfully slowly. 

You melted against him immediately, sighing into his mouth. You wanted his tongue against yours, but he denied you. Your hands gravitated to his torso, grasping fistfuls of his short-sleeved button down, pulling him closer. Still he denied you, pulling away slightly whenever you tried to deepen the kiss.

You almost growled in frustration and rolled your hips against his. His lips parted slightly of their own accord, and you licked into his mouth, tasting him. There was the low rumble of a chuckle coming from Bucky's chest, but you didn’t care. You got what you wanted.

Moving your hips again, you started up a slow rhythm as revenge for how he was kissing you. Bucky moved his hands to your waist, gripping you firmly as you moved. He broke the kiss and you whined in protest, but were placated when he began to press his mouth to your neck. You ground your hips down harder against him on instinct.

“Could barely think straight at that stupid party, thinking of all the things I'm about to do to this pussy.” Bucky's breath was hot against your ear. Like always, his gorgeous voice and his filthy words made you impossibly wetter.

“No dirty talk yet,” you breathed.

“Why not, baby?” Bucky's hands crept from your hips to your thighs, pushing the hem of your skirt up.

“Because I don’t wanna come yet. I wanna come with you inside me, and you’re not playing fair,” you accused him.

He pulled back to look at you, his gaze dark with desire. His hands slipped underneath your skirt to grip your hips again, his fingers digging slightly into your skin. “Well, that’s too bad. Because what I want is for you to come right here in my lap, with all your clothes on.”

Your eyes widened, and the rhythm of your hips would have stuttered, had Bucky allowed it. But his strong hands on your hips moved you against him, dragging your covered sex slowly against him. You dug your nails into his shoulders and gasped.

“I want you to make a mess all over me. Even if it takes the whole two hours to do it.” He continued to move your hips against his in that punishingly slow rhythm. “So if you want me to fuck you, you better hurry up.”

“Jesus Christ," you groaned. You began to move in earnest against him, chasing that delicious friction. 

As you moved, Bucky reached up to tug down the front of your dress and free your breasts. For a moment, he just watched appreciatively as you rocked on his lap. Then he slowly, casually ran a hand up your side, cupped underneath one of your breasts, slid a thumb slowly over your hardening nipple.

You practically whimpered. The friction where your bodies joined was good, so good, so not enough with the barrier of clothes between the two of you.

“Fuck, can we at least take these off?” you begged, feeling for the waistband of your panties under your skirt.

Bucky wasted no time, slipping his fingers beneath the elastic and ripping, pulling the torn and soaked underwear free from beneath you. “There. Better?”

It was. The feel of his jeans directly against your clit had you on fire. You ground down on him wantonly, mewling with pleasure.

“Tell me how it feels, baby,” he encouraged you.

“Feels - fuck, feels so good, you feel so good,” you panted in his ear.

Bucky grunted and adjusted your hips so you were more so riding his thigh than the hard bulge between his legs. You guessed that either you were crushing him uncomfortably there with your enthusiasm, or he wanted to avoid a premature orgasm. You looked at his blown out pupils, the large bulge in his pants, the flush creeping from under his collar, and guessed it might be the latter.

It was all the same to you, as you were sweating and panting and grinding on top of him, as Bucky continued to lazily roll your nipple between his fingers.

“God, you’re so damn pretty when you’re on top of me. Could watch you like this for hours.” 

You whimpered again, hoping he wasn’t too enthusiastic about the idea of doing this for hours. You ached and pulsed with the want of him, of needing him inside of you.

Bucky leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your other nipple, running his tongue over it just once. You groaned in response and bucked your hips against his thigh.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered as he looked up at you. “I was watching you at the party. clenching and rubbing those pretty thighs together. Tell me what you were thinking about.”

“You know what,” you replied breathlessly.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Thought about pulling you into a stairwell or something, so I wouldn't have to wait.”

“So needy,” he tutted, pressing another kiss to your breast. “So impatient. What did you wanna do in there?”

Your insides clenched around nothing, and the noises coming out of you were nothing short of pathetic. “Bucky, come on.”

But Bucky wouldn’t be swayed. “Tell me, beautiful,” he murmured, pulling you close and kissing your neck again. He kept his hand at your breast, alternately squeezing you and teasing your nipple.

You struggled to get the words out, your pleasure mounting and your breath coming even faster. “You fucking me against a wall. With a hand over my mouth. So no one would hear.” His tongue ran up the side of your neck, tasting your sweat, and you begged, “bucky, please.”

He breathed in your ear. “Come on, baby. Take what you need. You’re almost there.”

You grasped at the back of his neck, pressed your forehead to his as you ground yourself against his thigh urgently. White-hot pleasure burned through you like a comet. You let out an incoherent, keening sound as you finally came, shuddering as your hips took on a life of their own and chased your orgasm against Bucky's leg. 

You nearly collapsed against him when it was over. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you upright, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. He laid the cool metal of his left palm against your burning cheek. You leaned into the sensation, allowing it to cool you down somewhat as your breath slowed.

Bucky gently tugged the dress off of you and eased you back onto the couch, so you were laid out before him like a feast. He looked at you like one. He removed his shirt, and the pants that you had probably ruined by grinding all over his leg.

You reached for him, unable to do anything but reach, really. He eased himself on top of you and kissed your cheek, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. You turned your head and captured his mouth with your own, and he hummed contentedly.

Your hands wandered down to grab handfuls of his ass, pulling his hips towards yours. He groaned and moved his mouth to your shoulder, your sternum, your stomach.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “You said you would fuck me.”

“Just wanna taste you first,” he mumbled, his nose brushing below your navel. “You're being so good. So good for me. Just need you to wait a little longer. Can you do that?”

You felt his stubble brush against your inner thigh, his lips kissing the crease where your leg met your body, and your resolve crumbled. So you threaded your fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth to where you wanted him. 

He laughed softly. "Bossy," he murmured. 

He didn’t pay any attention to your clit yet, to your frustration. He lapped at your folds, tasting your arousal, sampling his handiwork from earlier and humming in pleasure against you. You were running out of steam to rebel against him, to make demands, to do anything but lay back and receive and beg. 

After a borderline cruel amount of time passed, Bucky pressed his face to your core, slipped his tongue inside of you, and you moaned loudly. “More, Bucky, please, I need more.”

He obliged, moving to latch his mouth over your clit, and he slipped a finger inside agonizingly slowly. You nearly lifted your hips off the couch completely, until Bucky pulled you back down with his left hand locked around your hip. He withdrew his finger almost completely and slowly pushed back in.

“God, fuck, more, please, more more more,” you babbled helplessly.

His eyes were locked on your face as he pushed a second finger inside. The pace was still so slow, and you were squirming with arousal. You tried to rock your hips up to meet his hand, but Bucky didn’t allow it, kept you pinned to the couch, kept his demanding mouth on you. You did the only thing you could do, which was throw your head back, tighten your hold in his hair, and make obscene noises.

He was breaking you apart, and you were letting him. As you unraveled, Bucky finally picked up the pace bit by bit. He began to curl his fingers at that spot inside of you, and your thighs began to shake. 

You were babbling again. “There, God, right there, Bucky, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”

Just then, he added a third finger, and you gasped at the stretch, let out a lewd moan as he dragged them in and out of you, his lips and tongue not letting up a moment on your clit.

You came again, writhing and gasping beneath him, helplessly moaning his name. He slowed a little through the aftershocks, but he didn’t stop, not even as you started to wriggle and whimper from the sensitivity.

“Bucky, come back up here,” you begged.

He removed his mouth from you briefly, still moving his fingers within you slowly. “I think you have another one in you.”

You were utterly boneless underneath him. “You said,” you protested weakly.

“You're so beautiful when you come, sweetheart. Those noises you make. You can give me one more, can’t you? Then I promise I’ll give you what you want.” 

Your head lolled to the side as you looked down at him. He kissed the inside of your thigh again, teeth grazing slightly, eyes looking back at you expectantly. His mouth and jaw were coated in your arousal, and you suppressed a groan.

“Promise?” you asked.

“Promise,” he replied. Slowly, he crooked his fingers inside you again, and your hips canted up slightly.

“That’s my girl,” he praised you, lowering his mouth again.

Bucky wasn’t in any kind of rush. He slowed way back down, almost as slow as he started. He was probably trying not to overwhelm you, but it was sweet torture anyway. He took his time, just as he had set out to do, breaking you apart all over again. 

You were beginning to lose your sense of time. God, how long exactly had he been going down on you? He must have been making a heroic effort to ignore himself. This one was taking a while, and you worried that you wouldn’t come again like this, that the sweet, slow torture would be endless. But Bucky was patient, didn’t rush a thing, seemed to know what your body was capable of even when you didn’t.

When your climax finally began to build again, your arms drifted up above your head almost of their own accord. You grabbed onto the arm of the couch, like if you didn’t you might fall off the face of the earth. Moisture began to prick at your eyes as searing pleasure rocked through you. There weren’t any words, just a string of filthy sounding moans as you clenched around his fingers, your thighs tightening around his head. A sound bordering on a sob forced its way from your throat as your orgasm peaked, and you grunted and trembled through it, still pinned in place by Bucky's unforgiving grip.

After an interminable moment, he finally removed his mouth from between your legs and gently kissed your knee. You shivered as you watched him wipe his face, crawl back up your body to kiss you cheek tenderly. 

“You did so good, baby. You look incredible like this, all fucked out,” He murmured in your ear, and you whimpered again. He kissed your left shoulder, kissed a bullet scar below your left clavicle, kissed the implant scar on the inside of your left bicep. “Baby, can I-”

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you.”

He kissed the moisture away from the corners of your eyes, withdrew just far enough to free himself from his boxers, and then he was sinking into you in one long, slow thrust. You clutched the arm of the couch again as he moved.

Despite how long he had ignored himself, Bucky still seemed to be endlessly patient. he made love to you slowly, tenderly. He interlaced his fingers of his right hand with yours by your head - not pinning you, more an intimate gesture than anything else. He kissed you and kissed you and kissed you as your bodies moved together, while you made heady, desperate sounds into his greedy mouth. And when he wasn’t kissing you, he was murmuring endless praise into your ear. how tight you were, how amazing you felt, how beautiful, how well you were taking him, how much he loved you.

It went on for forever, it seemed like. You came again, clit untouched, just from the feel of him dragging back and forth against that tender spot inside of you. Once your orgasm subsided, his arms were underneath you, lifting you, turning you. Then you were both on your knees, with you bent over before him. His chest was pressed against your back, and your hand scrambled for purchase against the arm of the couch to hold yourself up. But you were weak, and you would have collapsed if his left arm wasn’t holding most of your weight. He thrust into you from behind, harder than before. You gasped as your body bowed against him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, can’t wait anymore, feels too good,” he groaned. He started a faster, more punishing rhythm, his hips smacking against your ass on every thrust. He wasn’t making love to you anymore. This was fucking. This was what you had been begging him for for the last - how long? Hour? Two hours? It didn’t matter. 

You found somewhat of a second wind, pushing back against him on every thrust, panting with exertion. His grip on you shifted as he no longer had to hold all of your weight - right hand reached up to grasp your shoulder, vibranium hand gripping your hip like it was keeping him tethered to this plane. Every snap of his hips against yours was ecstasy.

A sound pierced the quiet of the room, a sound other than the ones produced by your bodies. Bucky's phone was going off. The timer had run out.

Bucky growled, felt for the phone amongst the couch cushions, stopped the alarm, and practically threw the phone across the room before resuming his fevered thrusting. You would have laughed if you had the breath for it.

“I want one more,” Bucky grunted, hips snapping against yours again. “You got one more, baby?”

You honestly didn’t know the answer, just pushed back against him and groaned. There was no thought - only sensation, only need.

His chest pressed against your back again and his arms wound around you, pulling you flush against him. One hand found your breast, palmed and squeezed you as he rocked up into your wet heat. His other hand wandered between your legs, grazed your aching and abused clit. You hissed, the sensation too much, so he ran his fingers around the edge, giving you just enough.

Bucky was holding you upright now, kneeling back on his heels, you essentially in his lap as he fucked up into you. His mouth was hot and wet and demanding against your shoulder. You gasped and keened and cried out something resembling his name, still pushing back against him. Your arm reached back to grab hold of him somewhere, anywhere, just to anchor yourself. Your hand found purchase on the back of his neck, and you grabbed hold of the hair at his nape.

“Give it to me, baby, come on. I need you to give it to me,” Bucky rasped in your ear.

The tremble began again, not just in your thighs. Your whole body shook as he thrust into that sensitive, spongey part of you again and again. Your muscles locked up and you sobbed through your release. Bucky was close behind with a few frantic thrusts as you clenched around him. His cock twitched and pulsed inside you as he came hard, filling you to the brim. He groaned and cursed loudly, lifting you slightly with the force of his last few thrusts, pressing his sweaty forehead into your shoulder.

When you were both spent, Bucky eased himself back to collapse on the couch. He laid on his back with you on top of him, and you rolled lazily to face him. Bucky stroked your hair, kissed your brow as you lay panting on top of him. “You did amazing, doll. you did so good.”

You hummed contentedly at his praise, words not yet available for use. Your breathing slowed as you laid your head against his chest.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, limp and unable to move. When you felt some of your faculties return to you, you pressed a kiss to Bucky’s chest.

“Were you going for some kind of record?” you asked breathlessly.

A laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest. “I still think I coulda gone for six. But we have that mission briefing in about an hour, so I didn’t wanna push it.”

[starling-in-the-sky]

Wife You Up

A/N: Another reworked fanfiction for your reading pleasure! I drafted this before I went into tech for my show, and then I promptly died. Still exhausted, currently bed-bound with a cold, but it’s time to get this out of my drafts so I can post other interesting shit. Proofread by only me, so you can take up any mistakes with my attorney

Future Congressman!Bucky x Reader

Summary: A lovey-dovey moment with Bucky in the kitchen has him overthinking about taking a big step in your relationship.

Word Count: <1.5K

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, implied smut, domestic Bucky, quiche

The apartment was filled with the smell of baking pastry and sautéed spinach as Bucky worked in the kitchen. Summoned by the lovely smells, you appeared from the bedroom, stretching briefly before leaning against the fridge.

“Good morning. What smells good?” you asked.

Bucky cracked a few eggs in a bowl. “I'm making a quiche.” Alpine stirred from her perch by the window at the sound of the eggs cracking, and she sat at Bucky's feet to beg.

You raised an eyebrow and smiled. “A quiche?”

“What, do you not like quiche?” 

“I like quiche.” Pulling his attention away from the bowl, you wrapped your arms around Bucky’s neck and brushed your nose against his. “C’mere.”

Unable to resist your charms, he leaned down to kiss you. You smiled against his lips, ran your fingers underneath the neck strap of his apron. 

“So domestic,” you purred. “And you look really sexy in this little apron. Makes me wanna wife you up.”

“I don't know what that means,” Bucky muttered, flushing a little at your praise.

You reached down to grab a handful of his ass. “Google it, old man.”

He laughed and gently pushed you away. “Get outta here, before you make me burn this. We can’t have a repeat of the pancake incident.”

Grumbling, you picked up Alpine and sat at the kitchen island. As he worked, you were unapologetically staring, with Alpine purring happily in your arms.

That night, Bucky did google the phrase ‘wife you up.’ He waited until after you were asleep, to avoid the teasing that would ensue if you caught him doing it. He read the Urban Dictionary definition and felt his heart seize up as he laid there in bed.

Bucky thought about marrying you at least once a day. It wasn't something the two of you talked about. You had never really expressed any interest in marriage. You didn’t wax poetic about your dream wedding or talk about your diamond cut preference. The most you’d ever spoken about weddings was to make fun of people who used mason jars and burlap in their wedding decor.

‘Wife you up.’ It had been a joke. But you so rarely said things you didn’t mean. 

He glanced over at you dozing softly beside him, your leg pressed against his under the covers. 

If it was something you wanted, Bucky wanted to give it to you.

————————————————————————

You tossed your ridiculous heels across the apartment floor and sighed in relief.

Bucky collapsed on the couch, loosened his tie. “Thank god that’s over. I knew I would have to do some fundraising, but this is getting to be cruel and unusual punishment.” He ran his eyes over you and your fancy gala dress, then held out a hand towards you. “Come here.”

You walked over and slid into his lap, winding his tie around your hand flirtatiously. “You know, I heard your PR team discussing us. I think some of your voter base might disapprove of a prospective congressman rooming with an unmarried woman. I might have even heard the words ‘living in sin’ getting thrown around.” 

“The voter base and the PR team can take their disapproval and-“ Bucky was interrupted by your mouth on his, and he hummed appreciatively into the kiss.

You pulled away and just looked at him a moment. You had been in awe of him tonight. Bucky struggled with the social aspect of campaigning, which you knew all too well. He endured it simply because he wanted to do good, to serve. You wanted this for him so badly, wanted him to get everything he deserved.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your jaw.

You gathered your courage and spoke aloud the thought that had been bouncing around in your head for weeks now. “We should get married.”

Bucky’s eyes got about as wide as his head. “Come again?”

You slid off his lap and sat next to him on the couch, looking at him seriously. “Hear me out. You’re under a lot of scrutiny right now, and it’ll be worse when you win.” He started to protest, but you insisted, “When you win. People will be trying to pull the rug out from under you all the time.”

Gently taking his hand and squeezing it firmly, you murmured, "I want this, us, to be one thing you can count on, that you’re sure about. Because I'm sure about it. I'm sure about you.”

Bucky stared at you hard, furrowing his brow. Suddenly. he stood up and calmly walked out of the living room.

You had been expecting any number of reactions, but that was not one of them. Swallowing nervously, you began to start babbling, word-vomit-style. “Or we could wait, if you want. Or never get married at all. I don't need a ring to know how we feel about each other, I just thought-”

Bucky grabbed his leather jacket off of the coatrack, and turned back to you. “Baby, will you please stop talking for five seconds?” he asked gently, his tone reassuring. “I gotta say something.” 

You closed your mouth and watched as he slowly walked back over to the couch.

He spoke carefully, almost nervously. “I started trying to hunt this down a couple months ago. It took a while, but I finally found it.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope, then tossed his jacket onto the arm of the couch. His hands were shaking a little as he attempted to open the envelope. “It was in Becca’s effects that her son held onto in storage. Luckily, he didn’t have use for it.”

Bucky finally managed to open the envelope, and he shook out something small and silver into his hand. He looked at you with significance. “This is my mother’s ring.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and your hand flew to your mouth involuntarily. “Oh my god.”

This was what he had been doing when he disappeared on their visits with Bucky’s nephew and his husband, why he had been so tight lipped about the whole thing. You had thought he was just emotional about going through Rebecca’s things. Never in a million years would you have predicted this.

Bucky held the ring in between his thumb and forefinger as he stepped in close to you. “I don't want to marry you as a political move to appease my constituents.” He got to his knees in front of you, his eyes hopeful and fearful and full of love. “I want to marry you because you are my best friend, you are the love of my life, and you are my second chance at happiness.”

All of a sudden, you found it rather difficult to breathe.

“Sweetheart, will you-“

“Yes,” you interrupted, unable to stop yourself, reaching for his face.

He laughed, a nervous, breathy sound, and he took hold of your hands. “Will you let me do it properly, please? I have been trying and failing to get this out for weeks now.” He took a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, oh my God, I love you so much,” you practically sobbed, throwing yourself at him. 

Bucky caught hold of your waist, and you wrapped yourself around him where he knelt on the floor. You took his face in your hands and kissed him fiercely, your teeth bumping against his. A little caught up in the moment, you began to pull at his tie and the top buttons of his shirt.

He mumbled against your mouth, “Wait, wait, you have to let me put it on.”

You broke the kiss and laughed breathlessly. “Sorry.” Bucky was grinning like a fool, with your lipstick all over his mouth. He gently took your left hand and slipped the ring on. It was a beautiful vintage piece, shimmering on your finger when it caught the light. You felt a lump in your throat. “Bucky…”

He looked at you a little nervously. “Is it okay? I didn’t know if-“

You stopped his speech with another kiss. “It’s perfect. You're perfect,” You whispered. 

Bucky breathed a sigh of relief, like he had been holding his breath for weeks, and threaded a hand into your hair as he kissed you. 

In the aftermath, as the two of you lay on the living room floor, not wearing a single stitch on except the blanket from the couch, you stretched out your hand on Bucky's chest and admired the ring.

“What was your plan, if I hadn't said anything?” you asked curiously.

“Oh, I had absolutely no plan,” he deadpanned. “Everything I could think of seemed corny or insincere. I have been shitting myself for weeks over this.”

“And here I thought you were just nervous about the campaign,” you teased.

“You kidding, doll? This is way more important.” 

[starling-in-the-sky]

Snowfall

Snowplower!Bucky x Reader

A/N: Consider this my festive fanfiction contribution for the holidays! Proofread by no one, complain to the wall pls

Summary: During your first winter in Brooklyn, you have a little trouble adjusting to the snow. When an icy sidewalk threatens to take you out, the ridiculously hot snowplow guy comes to the rescue.

Word Count: <7k

Content: meet cute, fluff, shameless flirting and one very steamy holiday smooch featuring beefy!bucky. (If you guys want some more of this, i could be persuaded to write smut about them ;) Blue Collar Bucky please come home the kids miss you)

Overnight, the street outside your apartment had been transformed from a dreary December gray to blinding white, a soft and thick blanket of snow covering everything in sight.

It looked magical, just like the movies. It also looked like it was going to royally fuck up your entire day.

You’re already running a little behind. The warmth of your bed had been far too enticing, the cold of your bedroom floor too harsh, and you’d stayed horizontal longer than you meant to. As your shift approaches, you reluctantly pull on your boots, fill your to-go mug with a steaming hot cup of coffee, and prepare to face the day.

When you open the door and stare out at the vast expanse of white, you realize that you hadn’t factored the snow into your morning commute. A plow truck is heading down your street, clearing the way for your departure. You sigh in relief that you won’t have to contend with driving through several inches of snow.

Then you look down and see the thick layer of snow and ice covering your front steps and the sidewalk in front of your apartment building.

“Oh, fuck my day,” you mutter.

Knowing that one wrong move could be the difference between you heading to work or the emergency room, you cling to the railing as you descend the front steps of the building with great trepidation. Eventually, you make it to the ground, sighing with relief. The sidewalk seems much less intimidating, but only because the dusting of snow conceals the treacherous ice underneath from your unsuspecting eyes. 

You take a few steps, and everything goes sideways.

Your feet skid out from underneath you, and a surprised yelp bursts from your lips. Your back meets the ground hard, knocking the wind out of you. For a moment, you lay on the ground, gasping like a fish out of water, your coffee now just a stain in the snow next to you.

In the distance, you hear the hum of an engine shutting off, a car door opening and closing. Then a voice, gruff but concerned, calls, “Hey, you okay?”

You don’t have enough breath yet to answer, and you’re a little afraid to move, lest some injury you’d been too shocked in the moment to feel suddenly reveal itself. 

Something blots out the sky above you. Your eyes adjust and you realize it’s a man, kneeling over you. A man with broad shoulders, scruff covering his jaw, and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“You all right?” he asks again, scanning you for injuries.

You haven’t even had coffee yet, and your brain is not at full operating capacity. So once you manage to force air back into your lungs, the first thing you blurt out is, “Am I dead? I just died, didn't I?”

“Afraid not.” The man chuckles softly, though he still looks worried. “Just about busted your ass, though. You hurt?”

You wince as you try to sit up. You'll have one hell of a bruise on your tailbone, but you’re otherwise unharmed. “Just my pride, mostly,” you joke weakly, then groan when you see your keepcup and the evidence of its spillage on the ground next to you. “And my latte.”

He reaches out a gloved hand. “Come on, I'll help you up.” A little embarrassed, you take his hand and let him haul you to your feet.

“Not to add insult to injury,” he says as he helps you up, “but you know they sell de-icing salt for a reason.”

“Landlord is supposed to salt the sidewalk,” you grumble, trying to brush the snow off your pants once you’re upright. “Guess he forgot.”

He chuckles again, a warm sound in the chill of the afternoon. “That’s a landlord, for you.” 

You go to reach for your keepcup and wobble again on the ice. His hands fly to your shoulders to steady you. Once you feel like you’re on solid ground again, you look up, really getting a look at him this time.

He’s… quite good-looking. Long, shaggy locks of chestnut brown hair peek out from beneath a knit cap, falling around a strong brow and a devastating jawline. And god, those eyes - icy and cool, like a frozen lake that’s still somehow tempting to jump into.

What's more, he’s staring at you, and not like he’s looking for injury anymore. No, he’s staring at you like he just stumbled across something unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. The next second, you realize that you are staring right back, and your face warms in spite of the chill.

“Hi.” he smiles, crooked and charming.

“Hi,” you reply, a little breathless, but still smiling back.

He seems to realize then that he still has his hands on you, and he removes them with a clearing of his throat. “Uh, I'm Bucky,” he introduces himself, awkwardly offering you a handshake. “The plow guy,” he clarifies, jerking his head in the direction of the truck several yards away.

You shake his hand, a little charmed by the formality of it. “Nice to meet you, Bucky the plow guy.” You offer him your name in return.

Bucky knows he can end the exchange here. Now that you’re no longer flat on the ground and not visibly hurt, he could wish you a good day and head back to his truck, finish what is sure to be a long, grueling shift behind the wheel. 

He can’t seem to find the resolve to. Because you’re standing in front of him with flushed cheeks and hair a little wild from your fall, and you’re just about the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Not gonna lie, you gave me a fright when I saw you take that tumble.” He shoves his hands in his coat pockets, not because he’s cold, but because he’s not certain what he should do with them. “Sure you didn’t hit your head or nothin’?”

You nod sheepishly. “I’m sure.”

“Yeah?” His smile turns just a little flirtatious. “What's today’s date?”

A breathy laugh escapes you. “December third. It's a Wednesday, which means I have to go to work. I'm already…” 

You glance in the direction of your car and cringe. Another way you hadn’t factored in last night’s blizzard. “…totally fucked, because that is my car absolutely buried in snow right now.” Groaning quietly, you pinch the bridge of your nose. “This is gonna take forever.”

“You want some help?”

You blink at him in surprise. “Are you serious?”

Bucky stands up a little straighter. “Respectfully, ma’am, I'm a professional. It'll take you forever to dig it out on your own. With my help, we’ll get you out in no time.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” you protest weakly. 

“You're not. I’m offering.” he leans down, snatches up your keepcup, and hands it back to you. “Now go inside, make yourself another cup of coffee, make me one too, and then we’ll be even.”

“Bucky-”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” he insists, his expression turning a little boyish. “Gets cold out on a 12-hour snowplow shift without something to warm you up.”

To tell the truth, you’re running out of reasons to refuse. You know he’s right, that the process of digging out your car will take twice as long on your own. Plus, he’s tall - god, he’s tall - tall enough to reach the snow piled on the roof of your car that you would never get off on your own. 

And he’s so sweet to offer. How can you possibly turn down the help of this well-meaning, distractingly handsome stranger?

“How do you take your coffee?” you ask.

Bucky smiles, victorious. “Milk, if you’ve got it. Sweet.”

“You got it. Back in a few.” Turning around and regarding the stairs like they’re Mount Everest, you take small, shuffling steps until you reach the safety of your doorstep. 

Bucky remains at the foot of the steps until you get inside, just in case you slip and nearly break an ankle again. When you’re safely inside your apartment, he smiles to himself and heads to the bed of his truck.

A little bewildered, you move through your apartment on autopilot, cleaning the used grounds out of your espresso pot, loading it up again, setting it on the stove. While it brews, you find yourself fussing with your hair and fighting back a grin. 

It's just shoveling snow. Don't be weird about it, you told yourself.

Espresso and milk are stirred together and steaming in two cups, your to-go mug alongside a disposable paper coffee cup left over from the move (when you were too lazy to unpack the dishes). You re-emerge from your apartment. The snow on your stairs and sidewalk is now dotted with blue and slowly melting, and Bucky is already at work brushing snow off the driver’s side door of your car.

“You salted my sidewalk,” you marvel, sounding just as pleased as if he’d gotten you flowers.

Bucky glances up from his work. “Couldn’t have you falling again on my watch.”

You descend, very slowly and carefully, having learned your lesson. Once you clear the sidewalk with your tiny penguin steps and make it to the plowed street, you approach your car, and Bucky along with it. “My hero.” 

He sets his snowbroom against the car and eyes the extra cup in your hand. “That for me?”

“Aas requested.” You hold it out in offering, and he takes it from you gratefully.

“You’re an angel,” Bucky sighs, taking a sip and humming his approval before jogging in the direction of his truck. You watch appreciatively (and a little disrespectfully) as he leans into the cab to drop the cup off, then roots through the various tools in the bed of his truck. He returns with another snowbroom in one hand and a snow shovel in the other, setting both against the car along with the first broom.

He holds his open palm out. “Keys?”

You raise an eyebrow, but he’s the professional, after all. So you reach into your jacket pocket for your keys and drop them into his palm. He unlocks the car, opens the driver’s side door, and turns the key in the ignition. After handing you back your keys, he plucks the coffee cup from your hand, deposits it in your cup holder, fiddles with the airflow settings until he’s satisfied.

“There,” Bucky huffs, straightening up and shutting the door. “Now it’ll be nice and warm by the time we get done.” He picks up one snowbroom and hands you the other. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

And the two of you do. He tackles the top of the car first, and you handle the mound of snow on the hood.

“You really don’t have to do this,” you remind him.

“I want to,” he assures you. “Not every day a damsel in distress on my route needs saving.”

You suppress a smile, shake your head, and return your attention to the car.

“You’re not used to the snow, are you?” he inquires, watching your struggle to clear the snow around your windshield wipers.

“How’d you guess?”

“Honestly? Your boots,” he deadpans. “And your hat. They're cute, but they’re totally impractical for this kind of weather.”

You gasp in mock offense and flick a bit of snow off the side mirror in his direction. “You leave my boots alone. I'm used to much warmer winters than this.”

He laughs and brushes the snow off his coat, picking up the shovel to remove snow around your tires now that the roof is cleared. “You picked a hell of a place to live for someone who doesn’t like snow,” he remarks.

“I don't dislike it. I mean, it’s pretty to look at,” you admit. “But as you can probably tell, I'm not used to the practicalities of it.”

“You get used to it,” he shrugs. “If you can weather it.”

You sneakily eye the expanse of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw. “I think I can see the appeal.”

Bucky's eyes briefly flick up to yours, then back to the snow. There's a ghost of that smirk again, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s thinking it too.

“So, what dragged you away from your warm winters to Brooklyn, of all places?” he queries, a genuine interest in his voice.

Conversation flows easily between you as you work - him shoveling, you clearing the windows, rotating around the car like you’re locked in a dance. You talk about the warm and sunny suburbs you came from, moving to the big city, and all the exciting and terrifying firsts that came with it. He tells you about growing up in Brooklyn, confides the best breakfast sandwich spot in the neighborhood. Soon enough, the snow is cleared from around your tires, your windows have full visibility, and you’re a little sorry that it had to be over so quickly.

Admittedly, Bucky is, too.

“There you go,” he declares, depositing his equipment back in the truck bed. “She’s road ready now.”

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear and say, “Thank you,” warm and genuine.

“Anytime.” 

Neither of you move, just standing a few feet apart, looking at each other. For a moment, you wonder if maybe he’ll ask you for your number or something. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and then shuts it self-consciously. 

Glancing at your watch, you realize you have no choice but to break the silence. “Well, um, I should - I'm gonna be just so, so late.” You extend a hand to him. “It was nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Likewise.” He takes your hand, and instead of shaking it, he gives it a gentle squeeze, holds on just a second longer than strictly necessary before letting you go. “Drive safe, okay?”

“You too,” you return with a smile, and step into the warm embrace of your car.

He should have asked for your number. Why didn’t he ask for your number?

Bucky had worried about being too forward in the moment. You were new to the city, you were late for work, you’d nearly cracked your skull on the sidewalk ten minutes ago due to your landlord’s negligence. He should have asked anyway, should have been forward, because he spent the rest of the afternoon kicking himself that he hadn’t.

As luck would have it, a polar vortex heads for New York, bringing an all-night flurry of snow not two days later. Bucky begins his shift at seven am, just him and his cup of coffee and the radio to keep him company. A little after noon, his route takes him down your street.

He’s not looking for you. Totally not. But he has to look at the road to do his job, and it’s hard to miss your little car parked on the street, covered in a thick and downy layer of snow. It's hard not to connect the dots, that it means you’re home. 

His gaze falls on the sidewalk in front of your door, and he frowns. Covered with snow and ice yet again - a dangerous slip hazard. Grumbling to himself, Bucky pulls over to the side and kills the engine.

It’s a safety issue. That's why he’s grabbing his handheld salt spreader from the back of his truck. It's definitely not because he’s hoping you’ll step out on the way to work or run errands and he’ll happen to catch you. Definitely not.

As Bucky slowly walks the length of the sidewalk and turns the crank, he tries not to get too hopeful. You could be busy, or sleeping, or uninterested. He tells himself it’s enough that you’ll be safe when you step outside, whenever that may be.

Then he sees you - in the bay window on the second level, sitting on the window ledge, peering out over the street with your cup of coffee. The first thing Bucky realizes, with a little distress, is that he hadn’t been misremembering, and you really were that beautiful.

The second thing he realizes is that this plan hadn’t been fully thought out. He has no idea what he would say to you if you come down to chat. Will you think he’s being a creep? He’s probably being a creep. Bucky returns his eyes to the snow and sidewalk in front of him, not wanting you to think he’s checking you out through your window.

But the temptation is too strong, and he glances up again, mostly just to check if you’re still there. You are, and you’ve noticed him now. 

Several things happen in quick succession.

You’re peering down at him from your window, head tilted at a curious angle. When his eyes lock with yours, you smile. Bucky's breath hitches, and he’s no longer looking where he’s stepping. His foot hits a patch of ice, and his stomach flips as the sidewalk comes up to meet him. His salt spreader clatters to the ground, and he tries to catch himself. Through his glove, his hand scrapes painfully across a sharp piece of ice attached to the sidewalk, unmelted. Bucky swears loudly in surprise, probably loud enough that the whole street hears it.

Seeing this unfold, your eyes widen and your hand flies to your mouth in shock. You abandon your cup of coffee on the sill, wrestling on your coat and boots and flying out down the stairs.

Bucky lays on the ground, his body complaining in several areas, and he lets out a groan. The front door to your building flies open, revealing you in your unbuttoned coat and untied boots, still in your pajamas, looking very alarmed.

You descend the front steps as quickly as you can manage. “Are you okay?” 

“Careful, it’s icy,” he warns, trying to sit up with a wince.

You arrive at his side to assist him. “Hey, easy, easy,” you mutter, pressing a gentle, supportive hand to his back as he straightens up to sitting.

Embarrassed, dazed, but still a little dazzled by you, Bucky takes a deep breath and tries to summon anything remotely charming to say. The best thing he can come up with is, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, a soft smile dawning on your face. “You’re salting my sidewalk again?”

“Good thing too, because apparently your landlord is trying to attract a lawsuit,” he mumbles, yanking off his glove to assess the damage. There's a nasty scrape on the heel of his hand where his glove had ridden up and he caught himself on the ice.

Your brows knit together in concern. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures you as he gets to his feet. You catch his elbow and help him as best you can. 

Gesturing to your front door, you offer, “Come inside. We'll clean that up and get you something warm to drink.”

Bucky wasn’t expecting that, and his brain short-circuits a little. “I should… my route-”

“Can wait for twenty minutes while I slap a bandaid on you and you defrost with a cup of coffee,” you press. “It's the least I can do, since you saved my ass the other day.”

He should politely decline. He should get back in his truck and get on with his shift, let you get on with your day. But you’re standing there trying not to shiver in your pajamas, because you were too worried that he was hurt to button your coat or grab a pair of gloves. And your cheeks are turning pink from the cold, and your eyes are sparkling with something more than just friendliness, and you’re so pretty that it makes Bucky's brain stop functioning correctly.

“I’ve got hot chocolate too,” you add to sweeten the offer, wiggling your eyebrows a bit.

He surrenders, because he was never going to be able to refuse. “Can’t say no to that.”

Through the front door, up the stairs, and around the corner, your apartment awaits. You open the door for him, hang your coat on the hook, and kick off your boots before heading into the kitchen.

The first thing Bucky notices is the warmth of the place, not just in terms of temperature. It's an atmosphere, a feeling. It even smells warm, like cinnamon and sugar and delicious things. Bucky removes his coat and hangs it beside yours, doing away with his hat and gloves as well while he takes in the space. “Nice place,” he comments, before looking down and considering his boots. “Shoes off?”

“They can stay on,” you call from the kitchen. “Just wipe your boots, please and thank you.”

You busy yourself with grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink, and when you turn around, Bucky is standing in your kitchen doorway. Without his coat, you have a much, much deeper appreciation for his physique. His chest is broad and built, and his arms strain a little against the sleeves of his henley. For lack of a better word, he’s gorgeous.

He holds his hand awkwardly at his side, and you remember why you invited him inside in the first place. Stepping in towards him, you reach for his hand. “Here, let me see.”

Your hands wrap around his, and once again Bucky’s brain flatlines. “You don’t have to - I can-“

“I want to.” You lead him to the sink to rinse the scrape of any lingering salt and dirt.

Neither of you speak for a moment as you tend to his injury, washing and drying and disinfecting with care. The only communication is brief, shy glances and hidden smiles as you work. 

You go hunting in the first aid kit for an appropriately sized bandage. “So were you just gonna secretly salt my sidewalk and leave? Or were you gonna come say hello to me?” you tease gently.

Bucky’s ears flush like a schoolboy’s, but he smiles anyway. He can’t seem to help it around you. “I was…thinking about it.” He adopts a faux-serious tone. “I was mostly concerned about your safety. Road crew stuff, you know. Totally normal.” 

“Totally,” you repeat facetiously. Having located a bandage, you apply it to his scrape and surrender his hand. “There. All fixed up.”

He flexes his hand experimentally. “Thanks.”

“What can I make for you?” you ask, gesturing to the stool at the kitchen island for him to sit, and he does.

“I think you mentioned something about hot chocolate?” Bucky raises a hopeful eyebrow.

You smile and reach for the kettle. “You like the sweet stuff. All right, it’ll be up in a few minutes. You like peppermint?”

“Love it.”

It’s a beautiful thing to watch you puttering around your kitchen, making your preparations with careful hands. Bucky forgets for a moment that it’s not polite to stare, and then he regains his senses, clears his throat. "So, uh, what do you do for work?”

“Guess,” you challenge him with a mischievous glint in your eye.

“Guess?” Bucky repeats, a little dumbfounded. “Uh… let’s see.” He holds up his bandaged hand and jokingly says, “Nurse?”

“Nope. Try again.”

He taps his fingers on the island, trying to summon an actual guess. “The other day, you left for work in the afternoon, so… maybe hostess? Like for a restaurant?”

“No. But close.”

“Hmm. It was a hell of a cup of coffee you made me,” he muses. “Barista?”

You smile and shake your head. “No. But also kinda close.”

“I give up,” he sighs, leaning forward on the island. “Tell me.”

“I’m a bartender,” you announce, stirring up the contents of a paper cup.

“Ah, I see,” he murmurs, understanding your hints in retrospect.

“Not to toot my own horn, but I make the best old-fashioned you ever tasted. However, since we can’t have you drinking on shift…” You set the paper cup in front of him with a flourish. “Hot chocolate it is.”

He picks up the cup and gives you a little toast. “Appreciate it.” It smells divine, so Bucky takes a sip. Rich, creamy dark chocolate with a whisper of peppermint. He licks his lips after, and you do a very poor job of concealing the way your eyes linger there.

Bucky notices, and you notice him noticing, but you don’t seem shy or embarrassed about any of it. You just look at him and ask, “So, what’s the verdict?”

“It’s good. Really good.” A slow smile creeps across his face. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Instant butterflies. It's been so long since you experienced this - a nearly instant, mutual attraction. It makes the afternoon feel alive with possibility.

“I hope that’s a good thing,” you joke lightly, eye contact unwavering and intentional.

“A very good thing,” he replies, his voice low and warm, sending a tingle down your spine that settles low in your belly.

You lean forward on the kitchen island, resting your chin on your hand. “So, what does the road crew do when there’s no polar vortex in town?”

Bucky waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, you know. street sweeping, branch and leaf removal, that sort of thing,” he explains before taking another sip. “This is our busy season.”

“Seems like a lot of hard work.” My oh my, what that hard work has wrought, you think, glancing appreciatively at his arms again.

“Well, someone’s gotta do it,” he shrugs. “Keep the people safe.”

God, you could just die. He isn't just absurdly hot and adorably awkward and so muscular he could probably throw you over his shoulder. He's good. Not one of the ‘good guys’ who play it up for attention from others. It seems like it comes naturally to him.

“What?” he asks, and you realize you’re staring again.

With a soft, warm look, you tell him, “You’re something else.”

It feels like something delicious and new and fragile blooms in that moment, something that regretfully Bucky doesn’t have time to fully unpack or explore. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly before starting to get to his feet. “I should get back to the truck. Lotta streets to plow before tonight. I'll finish your sidewalk before I head out.”

“You gonna salt everyone else’s sidewalk, or am I getting special treatment?” you inquire with a grin.

He shrugs and shoves his hand in his pockets, and decides it’s the time to be forward. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

Bucky’s hand re-emerges from his pocket with his wallet, and he pulls out a card. He hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours. “Here. In case you run into any snow trouble again.” 

You turn it over in your hands. James Buchanan Barnes. Public Works. Snow and Ice Removal. 

“How thoughtful,” you comment playfully.

He takes his paper cup in hand and heads towards the door. “You should tell that landlord of yours to get off his ass and salt the sidewalk next time,” he says as he pulls his coat back on.

“Maybe I won't. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your next excuse to see me.”

It’s an obvious flirtation, a volley that he fumbles a little on the return. “Okay, but you actually should. It’s a safety hazard, and the other tenants-”

You can’t help but laugh at how serious he looks. “I’ll see you around, Bucky.”

His expression softens, and he nods before heading out your door. “See you around.”

It's a slow night at the bar. Nights are usually slow when the cold is too bitter and the snow is piled too high. At least it’s cozy with the festive decorations up. And at least Natasha is there to entertain you, nursing a glass of wine and making up MASH configurations on the bar napkins.

You had already regaled her with the story the night before - the knight in a shining plow truck who had rescued you, gallantly salting your sidewalk and digging out your car. She'd eaten it up then, and now you’re pretty sure she’s rigged the MASH system and found a way to circle ‘plow guy’ on every lineup.

You’re taking advantage of the slow pace of the night by organizing the bottles when the bell above the door rings and Natasha whistles quietly.

“Look at that. Christmas came early,” she whispers conspiratorially.

You turn, and your jaw practically drops. Two tall, broad-chested men are kicking the snow off their boots by the front door. One of them is blond, clean cut, handsome, with a face so friendly it makes you like him immediately. The other is Bucky.

“Oh my god.” You aim your face away from the door, not ready to be seen yet, and dig your nails into Nat’s arm. “That's him.”

Nat’s eyes practically bug out of her head. “That's the plow guy? Jesus, good for you.” She tilts her head, assessing the two men as they hang up their coats on the rack. “His friend isn’t half-bad either.”

“Please just be normal,” you beg.

Nat smirks. “I don't think I'm capable of that.” She leans across the bar to fix your hair, and tries to yank down the hem of your sweater to show some cleavage before you manage to shove her away.

Further down the bar top, the two men settle onto stools, quietly conversing. You summon your very bravest self, walk towards them, and smile.

“Gentlemen. How can I help you?”

Bucky’s head snaps to you, eyes full of disbelief, then unmistakable warmth. “Hi,” he greets you, that disarming smile starting to take shape.

“Hi,” you reply, stomach fluttering all over again.

Bucky blinks a few times, as if he thinks you’ll disappear like a mirage. “What are you doing here?”

You stifle a laugh and look down at your waist apron. “I work here?”

“Right. Obviously.” He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “I just… wasn’t expecting to see you.”

The man sitting beside him, who has been watching this whole exchange with unbridled curiosity, finally pipes up. “Buck, you gonna introduce me to your friend here?”

Bucky clears this throat. “Right, uh, this is Steve. He's on the road crew with me.” 

You confidently extend your hand to Steve and give him your name, surprised when his eyes light up with recognition,

“Wait, you’re the sidewalk girl?” he asks excitedly.

“Oh, Jesus.” Bucky closes his eyes like it might prevent the incoming humiliation, his ears already turning pink.

“That’s me,” you declare, quite pleased to have a reputation that precedes you.

“What a coincidence!” Steve elbows Bucky in the side. “Aren't you glad I convinced you to come out tonight instead of going home to your cat like you always do?”

Bucky drops his head into his hands. “Oh my God, stop talking.”

“What can I get for you?” you ask Steve with a quiet giggle, trying to save Bucky.

“I’ll take a Guinness, please.”

You nod and grab a pint glass. “Coming right up.”

Steve gives you an easy smile as you pull the draft. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name I keep hearing. This guy hasn’t stopped talking about you for half a week. He's been driving the rest of the crew up the wall.” He pulls a distinctly Bucky-like expression and mock-grumbles, "'I should have gotten her number.’ ‘She smiled at me.’ ‘When’s she gonna call?’”

You press your lips together to keep from smiling and set the full pint glass on the bar top. Bucky snatches it and practically shoves it at his friend’s chest. “Steve. Go drink this elsewhere, for the love of God.”

“All right, all right,” Steve chuckles, standing up from his seat. He gives you a nod. “Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”

You watch, deeply amused, as Steve saunters off to the Touchtunes in the corner. “That’s some wingman you’ve got there.”

“You’re telling me,” Bucky mumbles, running a hand through his hair.

Leaning on the bar top, just close enough that Bucky catches traces of your perfume, you ask, “So, what are we drinking?”

Bucky has to fight the urge to lean forward too - you’re still a stunner, even halfway through a shift. With your hair tied up out of your face, his eyes catch on the slope of your neck, the stray locks of hair that you have to shake out of your eyes.

“I seem to recall something about the best old-fashioned in the world?” he says, his smile returning now that the simmering embarrassment has faded to the background.

“Ask and you shall receive.” You grab a whiskey glass and get to work. “How was your shift?”

“Long, cold, boring,” he sighs. “No pretty girls to smile at me from their window and knock me on my ass.”

The smile you’ve been fighting wins the war “Sorry to disappoint. I stayed over at a friend’s last night when the snow got too bad.”

“Just a friend?” he asks, trying and failing at nonchalance.

As if on cue, Nat materializes at his side. “That would be me. We watched bad Hallmark movies and drank egg nog.” She gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Don't worry, plow guy. She's single.”

“Natasha,” you cut in sharply. "Don't you have something better to do?”

“I got my eye on something,” she replies, checking out Steve across the bar with a borderline lecherous gaze. She throws you a wink and hops off the stool. “You kids have fun.”

You roll your eyes as you garnish the glass, and you catch Bucky grinning to himself out of the corner of his eye. 

You narrow your eyes playfully. “What are you smiling about?”

He feigns innocence, fiddling with a coaster. “Nothing at all.”

With your masterpiece finished, you slide the glass across the bar top towards him. “Here you go. One old fashioned for the plow guy.”

Bucky examines the glass with interest. A generous pour with an orange peel twist, plus two cherries speared by a toothpick. He already knows you’re waiting for a review, so he brings the glass to his lips. It's smooth, with a hint of sweetness and spice, settling warm and pleasant in his chest.

“That's… pretty damn good.” He marvels at the glass for a moment, before plucking the toothpick from the drink and taking one of the cherries between his teeth.

God, the sight of it makes you press your thighs together behind the bar. “Why thank you,” you manage to say without swallowing your tongue.

He grins, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You gonna tell me your secret recipe?”

You snatch the toothpick from his hand. “Guess,” you reply, popping the cherry into your mouth and thoroughly enjoying the heated glint in his eye as you do.

The two of you talk all night. Thankfully, the bar remains mostly dead, allowing you to actually have a conversation. You fix yourself a shift drink, a White Russian with your signature - crushed peppermint on the rim - and you let Bucky try it. When things are particularly slow, you kick Bucky's ass at the foosball table, and he looks absolutely thrilled when you do.

As closing time looms in the distance, Steve helps Nat with her coat at the door while she surreptitiously flashes you a thumbs up. You give her one right back - they had been getting on famously by the dartboard, from what you could see. You wouldn’t be surprised if she was going home with him right this very minute.

At the end of the night, it’s just you and Bucky, leaning against the billiards table. Despite how much the two of you have talked tonight, he’s still asking questions, and really listening to the answers.

“You like bartending?”

You shrug. “Sure. It pays the bills, you meet interesting people, and sometimes Nick lets me put one of my cocktails on the special list. Only drawback is holding cold shakers and glasses in the winter months,” you joke, rubbing your hands together.

“Let me see,” Bucky murmurs, taking one of your hands in his. You're a little surprised by the sudden boldness, even more surprised by what he does next. He brings your hand close to his mouth, exhales his warm breath over your fingers, encloses your hand between his two massive, warm palms.

“Better?” he asks softly.

Jesus Christ. The gesture is so intimate that you go a little weak in the knees, and you feel a slight tug low in your stomach.

“That is… quite the move, plow guy,” you say, just a little breathless.

He chuckles. “Please, I don't have any moves.”

“Really?” You look at him skeptically. “Salting my sidewalk and helping me dig out my car, those weren’t moves?”

“That was me being a good samaritan,” Bucky protests, pushing up off the billiards table and facing you so he can warm up your other hand. Good God. You’d probably fall over if you weren’t leaning on the table for support.

“Trust me,” he continues, “If I had any moves, if I was cool in the slightest, I wouldn't be living alone with a spoiled cat who runs my life.”

“Being cool is overrated, if you ask me,” you assure him.

Whatever charmingly awkward thing Bucky was going to say next fizzles out in his brain. His eyes lands on an element of the decor he hadn’t noticed thus far, because he was too busy drinking you in. A spring bearing green leaves and white berries, hanging a few good feet above your head.

Mistletoe.

Bucky’s brain does a hard reset.

Noticing the stunned expression on his face and the way his hands have frozen around yours, you try to bring him back to the present. “You okay?”

“I, uh…” he stammers, feeling warmth creeping from underneath his shirt collar. “You’re standing under, uh…”

You don’t even bother looking up - you just grin mischievously. “I know. I hung it there earlier this week. I've been standing here for five minutes waiting for you to notice.”

Bucky just stares at you a moment, bewilderment giving way to realization giving way to desire.

“Your move,” you whisper, looking up at him from underneath your eyelashes.

Tugging you forward slightly by the hand that’s still clasped in his, Bucky’s eyes fall on your lips and stay there.

“Can I kiss you?”

You love that he asks, even in the face of what is essentially a bold-faced invitation. It's sweet, and it makes your heart and stomach do a synchronized flip routine. You nod, tilting your chin up towards him like it’s gravity pulling you closer.

Bucky slowly closes the distance, one hand sliding along your waist, the other reaching up to cradle your jaw. 

When his warm lips press against yours, he tastes like whiskey and the faint sweetness of sugar. The kiss is slow, earnest and just heated enough to make your toes curl. Your arms loop around his neck to pull him closer, his grip on your waist tightens, and the small needy sound that slips out of you is all the permission Bucky needs to deepen the kiss.

All his awkwardness from before appears to have disappeared. The way his tongue slides into your mouth is relaxed, decadent, downright sinful. You should be concerned that you could get in trouble for this kind of behavior in the workplace if Nick ever found out. But your brain is otherwise occupied, processing the feeling of his warm, muscular body against yours, the musk of his cologne clouding your judgement, your mouth locked in a tango with his.

Bucky breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against yours while you both catch your breath.

“Wow,” you sigh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, wearing that devastating crooked grin again.

Neither of you moves away, electing to remain wrapped up in each other. Bucky's thumb sweeps lightly along your cheekbone, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your face.

“I wanna see you again,” he breathes. “At a planned time and place. Not just by accident.”

“That can be arranged,“ you reply, unable to resist leaning in for one more peck. “I'm off on Tuesday night.”

“Can I take you out?” he asks, as if you could possibly say no.

“I’d like that.”