I need money. I have a CT scan on my brain on the 11th, and I can't pay the hospital bill at all. Im not getting enough hours at work, and I do not get paid enough. And im still having trouble paying off past medical bills. I still have my gofundme up if anyone would like to donate. Even the smallest amount helps! Thank you!!
I haven't raised any money (yes, I know it says I have, but that was months ago, and that paid other debts).
My CT scan is tomorrow, and I haven't raised any money. My CT scan is over 400 dollars. It is 441.18, to be exact. I know that to a lot of people, that's not a lot, but for me, it is. I only have about 6 dollars in my bank. I also have other things to pay for, like therapy, medicine, phone bills, and now this. All together, that would be over 700 dollars this month.
If you can donate, please do, If you can't, reblogging helps too.
summary: the little domestic moments you experience as bucky's sub.
word count: 1.1k
warnings: so much fluff it's almost unbearable, bucky being a cutie patootie, use of 'daddy', pet names (princess), cap quartet appearance
a/n: even though this fic does not contain smut, my account is 18+, therefor minors are prohibited from interacting with this post
series masterlist | main masterlist | tip jar | ao3
soft!dom!bucky who loves taking you to the farmer's market every saturday morning. you believe in supporting your community so that's where you get most of your fruits and vegetables, and bucky admires the way you thank each person for their hard work at every stall you visit. he's always holding your hand so that you don't get lost in the sea of people, but he'll wrap his arm around your waist and tuck you into his side if you have to walk through a crowd, he doesn't want you getting lost or bumped into. he also carries all of the bags, buying you a coffee at one point when you complain about not holding anything even though "that wasn't what I was talking about :("
soft!dom!bucky who cooks you breakfast every morning, setting his alarm twenty minutes before yours and quietly slipping out of bed. if he's lucky and finishes before your alarm goes off, he'll put the food on a tray and bring it to your room so you can have breakfast in bed. but, no matter if you're in bed or at the dining table, he'll always pull you onto his lap so he can feed you by hand, stealing kisses in between bites, booping your nose and joining in with your giggles.
soft!dom!bucky who calls you princess all the time. you're his everything, his life, his heart, his princess. he says it so much that he sometimes forgets it's not your actual government name, and when you introduced yourself to his friends using your real name, you could see a flicker of confusion cross over their faces until bucky interjected with, "this is princess." he says it so casually and so often, rarely calling you by your first name unless it's a serious situation. he also says it so much because he knows you struggle with meeting the impossibly high standards you set for yourself, so he takes any chance he gets to remind you that you're doing good, you're working so hard, and he's so proud of his princess.
soft!dom!bucky who has a folder in his phone titled my princess<3 that's full of photos of you. most of them are candid shots he's taken at random moments, in some of them you're sleeping, in others you're fixing your hair, or you're immersed in one of your hobbies. the moments themselves may not seem significant in the grand scheme of things, but they're ones that mean the most to him because it's you being you. there's no filter or fabrication to your happiness, you just are happy with him. his favorite way to spend a boring meeting is scrolling through said folder and imagining he's back home with you.
soft!dom!bucky who insists on driving. you didn't get a car as soon as you moved to the city, and you'd gotten so used to taking public transport before dating bucky that the first time you were at his place and he grabbed his keys after you announced you were leaving for work you had asked him where he was going. he furrowed his brows, cocking his head as he said "taking you to work?" bucky doesn't trust public transportation, and hell will freeze over before he lets you walk home from a late shift, it doesn't matter that it's only a ten minute walk. so, if you need to go anywhere, he's already got the car started.
soft!dom!bucky who invites you out to dinner when a few of his friends decide to meet up. you try not to let it show, but you're extremely nervous before meeting them. bucky tries convincing you that his friends already love you based on what he's told them and they won't care about what sweater you wear, but it still takes you nearly thirty minutes to decide on an outfit. it also takes you a little bit to warm up to his friends once you get to the restaurant, but they're immediately welcoming and understanding, and that does put you at ease. eventually, you're able to relax enough to joke with them, and bucky has never been prouder of you when you when you make sam laugh so hard he snorts beer. steve makes sure to compliment you on your volunteer work while natasha straight up says that you're the best woman bucky's ever dated, pointing to bucky as she reminds him to do whatever he has to in order to keep you - to which he easily agrees that he'll continue worshipping the ground you walk on for as long as you let him.
soft!dom!bucky who always responds with, "spending time with my girl," any time someone asks about his favorite hobbies. it truly doesn't matter what you're doing, whether you're holding hands while walking through the park or just laying in bed because neither of you have any obligations, his favorite thing to do is to just be with you.
soft!dom!bucky who considers you his best friend, just as you consider him to be yours. you have inside jokes that only the two of you laugh at while everyone else just looks confused at what you just said. he knows all of your friends' names and what's going on in their lives, he jokes with your coworkers when he picks you up from your shift as though he's known them just as long as you have, and he remembers dates and events going on in your life without having to set reminders on his phone. he loves you and he listens to you, so there's no need for him to put 'princess' 8 am doctor appointment' in his calendar, especially since he's the one who called to make the appointment because you hate making appointments for yourself.
soft!dom!bucky who gets all warm and fuzzy inside watching you wake up. you groan a little, hands rubbing at your eyes as you yawn, taking a minute to pull yourself out of dreamland and into the real world. he'll whisper, "good morning princess," once you've blinked away the sleepiness and fully opened your eyes, and he swears his heart stops for a few beats every time you respond with a mumbled, "g'morning daddy," and turn to cuddle into his chest, nuzzling your face against the wisp of hair on his pecs. you both have a morning routine in place, one that you rarely ever detour from, but bucky is content to lay in bed for a few extra minutes so that he can hold you, kiss you, tickle your sides a little and smile when you giggle and squirm.
soft!dom!bucky who has waited his entire life to find you. he's had plenty of romantic and sexual partners before you and that's how he was able to figure out his connection with dominance and submission, but he will swear on his life that no one has ever and will never compare to you. you're it for him, the one who he'd survived the horrors of his life for. he's convinced that every low, horrible point in his life was worth it because it all led to you, and he'd never, ever regret you.
pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know)
word count | 5.6k
phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes.
dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️
"We should do a girls trip!"
A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.
That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.
Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.
And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.
You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.
"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.
"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.
Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.
Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.
Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.
That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.
When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.
His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.
He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"
The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.
And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.
The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.
Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."
The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.
He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.
"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."
And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.
Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.
Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.
"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."
This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.
He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,
"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.
"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.
You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.
A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.
Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.
"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.
He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.
And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.
But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.
With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.
"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"
Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"
"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."
You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.
You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.
More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.
And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.
If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.
It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.
That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.
His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.
You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.
It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.
At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.
Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."
You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.
You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.
Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."
A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.
"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.
With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.
"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.
You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.
He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.
"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.
Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.
Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?
"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."
Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?
A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."
With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.
"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.
Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.
Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.
"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.
Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."
"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.
There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.
It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.
You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.
But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.
Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.
Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.
Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.
When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.
"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."
You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.
"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.
"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.
A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.
The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.
The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.
The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."
Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.
"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.
"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.
You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.
A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.
He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.
Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.
The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.
Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.
His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.
"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.
Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.
"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.
Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.
"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.
Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.
"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.
He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."
You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.
"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.
You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."
He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."
He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."
Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."
"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.
"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."
Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.
"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"
You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."
The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.
"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."
After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️
tags: fluff with some smut, metal arm kink if you squint, p in v, raw sex, wrap it before you tap it, getting put to sleep, big dick bucky, loverboy x lovergirl, soft dom bucky, rainy day sex, couch sex, slight nipple play, pet names baby, angel, lower caps intended, established relationship, grinding, praise, multiple orgasms
a/n: first time writing a fic kinda nervy
the storm began in the late afternoon. it crawled across the horizon with a slow menace, turning the sky to a dull gray.
by the time night fell, it transformed into a full-on downpour. rain hammered against the roof of the safehouse, rattling the windows with a violent rhythm. outside, the world was a blur of dark shapes and flashing lightning. inside, the air was thick with tension, and the faint musk of bucky lingered. a lamp in the corner flickered weakly, casting a thin glow across the room that barely touched the couch where you sat, your knees drawn to your chest.
across from you, bucky watched. he hadn’t said anything for the last hour because he knew better than to break the silence between you. but tonight’s stillness was different. it was punctuated by the low, rolling hum of thunder. the kind that vibrates through the floorboards and makes every shadow in the room seem like it's alive. he was very aware of it all, every small movement you made, the way your shoulders stiffened at eat crackling bolt of thunder, the slight quiver in your joints, the way your gaze darted toward the window at every flash of lightning.
you tried to focus on something, anything else. your voice floated softly through the room, murmuring quiet words about the drive back, the way sam had groaned about the weather the entire way there, the minor inconveniences that usually wouldn’t have mattered to you. it was all an attempt to keep your mind at bay. but even as you spoke, your voice betrayed you. it trembled in places, and bucky's sharp senses caught every tremor. the storm’s presence became impossible to ignore as it raged on. thunder split the sky in half, rumbling through the walls. you flinched instinctively. you tried to focus on the words you were speaking but your chest constricted, and your heart hammered in your ribcage.
another crack of lightning followed, and it was too much. your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, trying to hide the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes.
bucky moved before you realized it. he rose from the couch and knelt in front of you, and the warmth radiating from him was tangible. his steel-blue eyes softened across your face, never faltering as he gauged every micro-expression, and small flinch you emitted.
“hey,” he muttered, his voice was low, and steady.
you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your throat was too tight, chest too heavy, and another clap of thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the safehouse.
you pressed your face into your knees, curling slightly inward, wishing you could vanish into yourself. another sob escaped quietly, catching in your chest, and your body trembled under the weight of it.
bucky reached out, his metal hand hovering a breath above yours as if he were careful you would shatter into a million pieces.
he gave you time to respond to his touch. when you didn’t recoil, he lowered his hand, brushing gently over yours before taking it fully in his own. his thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles. his touch alone began to calm the storm raging inside of you.
“it's okay,” he said, softer than the first time.
“you're safe. i've got you baby.”
his words were like a gentle promise. you let the tears spill from your eyes freely now, hiccuping sobs that he didn’t rush to stop.
he leaned in closer, keeping his face level with yours, his eyes filled with an unwavering sense of care. the storm outside seemed to settle. minutes passed in that quiet stillness.
you felt yourself sinking into him, into the steady reassurance of his presence. he held you in his arms, the cool metal a stark contrast from the heat of his skin. occasionally, his thumb would brush against your hand, or his fingers would lace with yours. each small movement sent waves of calm throughout you. his breathing was steady, and you clung to it, letting it guide your own ragged rhythm back to something closer to normalcy. bucky held the back of your head with his metal arm, and tangled his fingers in your hair. he rocked you gently, whispering soothing words into your ear.
the storm could rage all it wanted, but here in bucky's arms, you knew you were untouchable. you could give into your fear that had been gripping your heart with an iron fist. and bucky would be there to catch you, to hold you, and to keep you safe from the darkness that threatened to consume you.
bucky cupped your face with the cool metal of his vibranium hand, tilting it up towards his own. he leaned in closer, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, soft against your quivering lips. your heart raced as he drew nearer, and your eyes fluttered close in anticipation.
then, tenderly, bucky pressed his lips to yours. it was gentle, a feather-light brush of skin against skin. but it deepened slowly, his mouth slanted over yours with a quiet hunger that took your breath away. the two of you melted into the kiss, lips parting to allow him entry. bucky's tongue delved into your mouth, stroking along the seams of your lips, seeking the warmth within you.
the kiss felt electric, sending sparks of pleasure coursing through your veins. you wrapped your arms around bucky's neck, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of his touch. his hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, gripping at your hair gently as he angled your head to deepen the kiss even further. bucky's other hand, the one made of flesh and blood, slid down the curve of your spine, lifting your shirt and tracing the dip of your waist. he pulled you flush against him, until every inch of your bodies were pressed together. you could feel the hard planes of his chest, the lean muscles of his stomach, and the thick arousal pressing insistently against your lower belly.
you gasped into the kiss, your fingers clenching the fabric of bucky's shirt. the kiss turned frantic, a dance between tongues and barely controlled passion.
you could feel the heat building between your thighs. the ache of desire only bucky could sate. you rolled your hips against his, seeking relief from the tension that was building inside you.
bucky groaned low in his throat. the sound vibrating against your lips, sending another surge of desire pulsing through you. his hand slid from your hip to the curve of your ass. you could feel the evidence of desire, hot, hard, and insistent against your belly. it made your own arousal burn hotter, and your pulse for desire harder.
bucky's hands slid under the hem of your shirt, his calloused fingers splayed across the smooth skin of your lower back. he broke the kiss briefly to murmur into your ears, his husky voice a low rumble.
“that's it baby, i've got you. feel how much I want you.”
he punctuated his whispers by rolling his hips forward, grinding his rigid length against your core.
you gasped, arching into him, craving more of that delicious friction. bucky's hand slid higher up the small of your back, pushing your shirt up and over your head in one swift motion. he tossed it aside carelessly, leaving you bare from the waist up.
“fuck, angel, you're so beautiful like this.” he huffed into your mouth.
he dipped his head down, suckling on your neck and planting a trail of sloppy, wet kisses along your upper body. he made his way down your chest. taking one rosy nipple into his mouth, he swirled his tongue around the hardened peak and sucked gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. his metal hand cupped the weight of your other breast, his mechanical thumb and forefinger plucking at the other nipple, rolling it between them.
you intertwined your fingers in bucky's hair, holding him close as your chest heaved with shaky breath. the ache of your arousal growing with each pass of his tongue, and roll of his hips. bucky's other hand slithered down your stomach, his fingers dipping teasingly beneath the waistband of your sweatpants.
“you're so responsive to my touch, baby, its fucking sexy.” he breathed into you unsteadily.
he pushed your sweatpants down your thighs, leaving you only in your panties now. he hooked his fingers in the elastic, snapping them against your waist, which released a guttural moan from your throat. he tugged them down slowly, his knuckles brushing against your heated flesh with each inch of skin being exposed.
you lifted your hips off the cushions eagerly, helping him remove the last of your clothing, laying bare and wanting beneath him.
bucky settled between your thighs, his vibranium hand sliding down your stomach and landing on the inside of your thigh, his fingers teased you mercilessly. he paused to brush his thumb over his lower lip, smearing the saliva from your kiss over your sensetive bud.
“tell me what you want, baby. i want to hear you say it for me.” he spoke softly, his words melting into the air between you.
"i want you to touch me, bucky." you answered just as softly, your voice barely more than a breath.
his fingers dipped between your thighs, brushing against your folds coated in slick. you gasped, bucking your hips into his touch. he could feel the heat radiating from your core, already wet and ready for him.
your breath hitched as bucky's fingers teased along your folds, body trembling with anticipation. you look up at him with hooded eyes, your cheeks flushed and lips parted. when you spoke it only came out as breathy moans filled with need.
“please bucky,” you pleaded shallowly.
bucky looked up from inbetween your thighs, the same hooded expression on his face and a smirk tugging at his lips.
“use your words baby.” he taunted you.
you let out a low, shuddering sigh. “i want you, bucky, i want you inside of me.” you trembled as you exhaled.
he leaned into you closer, “that's my girl.” his voice smug, but warm. his lips curling upwards, and his eyes glinting with mischief.
you tilted your hips off the cushions to meet his teasing touch, your body aching for more of him.
bucky's eyes darkened with lust at your words, a deep growl slipped from his mouth. he shifted his weight, hoisting himself above your body with ease, and leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. his tongue plundered into your mouth as he positioned himself at your entrance.
“so eager for me, aren't you baby?” he chuckled, his voice like velvet. “don't worry, i'm going to give you what you want.”
with that promise, he thrust forward. inch by inch his thick length slowly disappeared into your soaked heat until you could feel every ridge and vein inside of you. a cry escaped your throat, arching your back off the couch as he filled you in deep, deliberate strokes. he gave you time to adjust, settling into a strong rhythm. the couch groaned underneath you, the old floorboards shivering under each drive.
you wrapped your legs around bucky's waist, digging your heels into his ass, and clawing at his back. you urged him on, silently begging him to fuck you deeper. bucky complied, gripping your hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises on your skin as he hammered into you.
he angled his hips to hit that secret, spongy spot inside of you with each thrust, determined to claim you as his own. his metal hand slinked down to rub tight circles over your sensetive bud, the chilled metal a shocking contrast to the scorching heat of your flesh. you keened loudly, feeling your peak building rapidly within you.
“that's it angel, i want to feel you come undone.” he said with a ragged, happy gasp, grinning all the while.
he drove into you harder, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the silent room. you could feel the tension coiling tighter in your belly. the pleasure cresting, threatening to crash over at any moment.
he eased into a deep, measured rhythm, savoring the moment. you cried out bucky's name, clamping down around his pistoning cock like a vice as you came. your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, and you clawed at his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks printed into his sweat slicked skin. all you could let out was blubbering moans, and he swallowed them. you released your grip from his back, and laced your fingers in his hair, tugging him into your neck.
but bucky didn’t stop, he chased his own release, quickening his relentless movements. his pace became frantic, desperate like he couldn't hold back anymore. he came inside you, thick, hot spurts filling you up, and he fucked it back into you. his release triggered another one out of you, still sensetive from your undoing. you both were a panting by the end of it. each of your glistening faces were dripping with salty sweat from the exertion.
you each rode out the post-sex aftershocks of your powerful orgasms. he peppered your dampened face with tender kisses, his hands stroking over the wet, and flushed skin of your face soothingly. when your shudders finally subsided, he carefully pulled out of you, his softening length slipping from your well-used depths with a gush of your combined fluids.
he gathered you in his arms, cradling you against his hard, and heaving chest as he lifted you upright and into his lap. he tucked your head under his chin, and his cool metal hand stroked your face lazily as he held you close. the chill of his vibranium felt comforting against your flushed cheeks. you listened to the beat of his chest, as it settled, and the deep rises and falls of his breath.
“sleep now, angel, let the storm pass. i'll take good care of you, i promise.” he whispered, and you let the gentle steadiness in his voice soothe you.
you smiled softly at his words, your eyes were already growing heavy with exhaustion. you let out a contented sigh, your chest eased as you felt yourself slipping into the warm embrace of sleep. wet strands of hair clung to your cheeks, and the faint musk of sex lingered in the thick air. the last thing you heart before drifting off was the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat, and the tender caress of his fingertips through your ruffled hair.
the storm raged on outside, but inside, the room felt smaller in the most comforting way. the walls, the couch, the warm glow of the flickering lamp, they all faded into the background. none of it could touch the quiet bubble you shared.
“sleep well, baby, you're safe with me.” he said softly once he knew you were asleep, his words carrying all the weight of his care.
he stayed there, awake and quiet, letting the storm become nothing but a soothing lullaby while he held you close.
warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). semi-public sex (we fuckin' on a private beach yo), fingering, fairytale accurate depictions of clothing and kingdoms, use of a fictional kingdom name and a fuck ton of new york neighborhoods as other kingdoms, death of a parent, daddy issues. reader has hair that can be wrapped around a hand. probably some spelling and grammar issues but we die like men. vaguely little mermaid inspired.
word count: 14.5k
summary: you are the youngest daughter of seven sisters and a single brother with an affinity for exploring and a love for prince bucky of brooklynn, a kingdom your father inexplicably hates. after saving bucky's life, you can't help but want to find him again.
cate talks: massive thank you to @blowingbarnes for the inspiration and being one of the sweetest people on this website. part two will be up asap! enjoy :)
part two
The coronation of Prince Peter of Queens might be the most fun you’ve had in your life until this very moment. King Stark had truly spared no expense for his adopted son’s rise to the throne. Wine flowed freely, jovial music sounded through the elaborately decorated ballroom, and everyone seemed to be in a joyous mood.
Well, everyone except for your father and sisters. The former remained alongside the wall, speaking exclusively to Lord Walker of Washington and offering only a few curt words to whomever summoned the courage to approach them. Three of your older sisters had attended alongside you and your brother, but they all sat rigidly at their table conversing lowly among themselves. Lillian, Andromeda, and Fawn had all chosen steel blue dresses, representative of your Kingdom’s color. One the other hand, you stuck out magnificently in a dress of deep cerulean. You felt rather like a butterfly flitting around the ballroom with a new friend, a young woman from Sokovia, Lady Wanda, who was easily able to point out everyone in the room and provide little anecdotes.
It was when the two of you huddled behind the champagne tower, giggling as you watched Prince Peter fumble over his words with a lady from Midtown that a new man caught your eye.
He was older than you, perhaps around the age of your eldest sister, Lillian, but he wore it well. His face was clean shaven with a sharp jaw and cheekbones, dark brown hair perfectly styled away from his face, but oh, his eyes.
Blue, bright blue and captivating, inviting you to drown in them even from your distance. They were as close to the ocean as you remembered from your childhood. “Who’s that?” You breathed, grabbing Wanda’s arm with your free hand. Champagne spilled over the edge of your coupe at the jerking movement, but you didn’t notice, utterly enamored by the handsome stranger. She follows your gaze, smiling knowingly when she realizes who you’re referring to. “That is Prince Barnes of Brooklynn. Bucky to his friends. Heir to the throne. The man next to him-” She gestured to the blonde man standing next to Bucky, “is his best friend, Sir Steven Rogers.”
“Brooklynn,” you repeat, heart sinking only slightly, “too bad my father hates them.”
“He’s quite popular,” Wanda comments, “I’m beginning my training as a lady-in-waiting to his mother next month. I hear he’s constantly fending off eligible young women.”
“I can see why,” you observe, stepping back into view of the crowd with Wanda. Two young children have begun to circle his and Sir Rogers’ legs in a game of hide and seek. Laughing, Bucky leans down to catch the girl by her waist and tickle her sides. She screams in laughter, pushing him away to dart back into the crowd. The little boy follows her, but not before Bucky reaches down to ruffle his hair.
Your heart betrays your mind, putting aside all ideas of the chasm between the two of you created by your father’s pride. Prince Bucky is perfect.
“And now,” King Stark announces, quieting the ballroom without much effort, “a traditional waltz.” The ballroom erupts with hums of excitement, women and men scrambling for partners, You bounce on your toes. While your sisters had declined to learn the dance, you had begged your governess to teach you privately once lessons were done for the day. After years and years, you would finally be able to show off and prove you didn’t belong in your sister’s shadows.
All you needed was the perfect someone to ask you.
As if out of a dream, Prince Bucky and Sir Rogers were approaching you and Wanda, seemingly unnoticing of the many women trying to catch their eyes.
“Wanda,” a smiling Sir Rogers greeted first. He bowed at the two of you, Bucky dipping his head as the two of you curtsied. “It’s good to see you again.”
“The two of you as well,” Wanda turns, presenting you and saying your name. “Princess of Clare-Auberge.”
Both men bow at you, Steve’s smiling never wavering as he directs the question to you. “Pardon me, Princess, might I request the honor of escorting Lady Wanda to the dance floor?”
Nodding eagerly at Wanda, you motion for her to take his outstretched hand. Steve leads Wanda away, leaving you and Bucky alone, much to your delight. He clears his throat, smiling kindly at you and offering his own hand. “Since my friend has disposed of your company, I feel if would be rude of me not to ask the beautiful princess to accompany me for the waltz.”
A pity dance from the man you’d suddenly developed a crush on wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but since it was Bucky and your window was closing, you nod and accept his hand. There are hundreds of eyes on the two of you as you take your place on the dancefloor. Your gloved hand is held delicately in his, the other settling on your waist. You can feel the heat of his skin through the smooth fabric. When the music begins its bright start, Bucky leads you around the room effortlessly, your skirts swirling and creating an intimate bubble around the two of you. Step for step, you match his movements, eyes locked on his.
“You dance wonderfully,” Bucky says, voice low enough so that only you can catch it.
“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing in his hold and closing your eyes for a moment to let the music wash over you. His eyes roam over your face, catching the glint of the ballroom lights in your hair. “This is perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“My sisters don’t dance,” you explain, eyes opening again. “We don’t have many balls at home, especially not like this. Tonight is perfectly wonderful. A fairytale.”
Bucky spins you, surprising you at how much you disliked momentarily having his hand off of your body. When it returns to its spot, his thumb brushes the lowest button of your dress. He doesn’t respond to you, only smiling politely as he begins another sequence of turns. You’re content to revel in the magic of the moment, unaware of the world around you. As the music comes to a slow stop, Bucky’s grip loosens on you, his hands dropping back to his sides as he bows deeply. Your low curtsey is just as formal, blood thrumming against your skin with anticipation that he might ask for another song in your company.
“Thank you for the dance, Princess.” Is all he says before walking away.
The fantasy ends like a popped bubble, your heart sinking as you’re left standing alone. Resuming your position along the wall, you can’t bring yourself to care too much. You got your dance with a handsome prince. A prince you can only hope to see again.
That’s more than most get. More than you had ever gotten.
Wanda doesn’t return to join you again, her red hair standing out on the dance floor as she’s claimed for another song. It ends and another begins, still she does not return. An hour passes; the glass of bubbles in your hand grows warm. You’re afforded a few spare glances and polite nods from passing guests, but no more invitations to dance.
You may as well be invisible.
Fed up and with sore feet, you discard your glass on an empty table and head for the now deserted Grand Hall. The guards pay you no mind as you collapse on the stairs, dress fanning around you like a flower. You draw your knees up to your chest, resting your chin in your hands as you pout.
“...can’t imagine why they would come.” A chirping voice echoes from a next to the staircase, just out of your sightline. A door closes loudly, a step of footsteps following. “Of course, the King and his heir must come, but his daughters-”
“The eldest is just so plain!” Another voice exclaims, shiny black hair coming slightly into view. Duchess Daphne, you deduce from her accent. “Rather boring dresses too. They all are, really. Seven daughters and not one bit of style.”
The first voice snickers meanly, an ice blonde bun appearing over the railing. Another Duchess, this one being Marina of Coney. “Can you imagine marrying into that family? It’s a shame too, that heir isn’t all terrible looking.”
Hot shame douses your body as you dig your nails into your palm. A rebuttal sits heavy on your tongue, threatening to escape into the open.
“At least the youngest got to have her fun dancing with Prince Barnes. She’s got some taste, I suppose, and dances quite well. It’s a shame no one else will bother with her.”
The muffled giggles grow into a raucous fit of laughter as the doors to the ballroom open and close again, entirely unnoticing of your presence. The footman who closes the door behind them offers you a sympathetic look, one you desperately ignore.
Tomorrow you will go back to Clare-Auberge with one golden memory.
Bucky was kind to you. Bucky danced with you. That was perfect.
And your father’s wrath be damned, you would see him again.
Your room was quiet: the perfect escape from the Lady’s Room where your sisters would be catching up on their studies, instrumental practice, and whatever else they pleased.
Grinning to yourself, you flipping through the journal where you had carefully documented pathways to Brooklynn, Queens, and visits to the little villages throughout the kingdoms. Nothing more than a day’s travel, which you had carefully primed your father to allow with permission to stay at Willowstream as needed, the old country estate that was rarely used.
Today would be your furthest and most daring adventure yet, a trip to the Brooklynn village nearest your border and their capital. A book waited for you in the village bookshop, supposedly one of the most well stocked in the world.
The library in your castle was plenty beautiful, but not as thorough as you would have liked; you had finished every book by your fourteenth birthday, and repeated requests for more books went ignored. Being the youngest of eight with a widower for a father meant that your birthdays didn’t go beyond a few odds and ends.
Which, to be entirely honest, you didn’t entirely mind. It afforded you less attention than your sisters and could slip beyond the castle walls without much fanfare. It left you the opportunity to see the world around you, especially Brooklynn, a the neighboring kingdom your father held an irrational hatred for and preferred to ignore the existence of. You, on the other hand, enjoyed your travels to their villages, daydreaming on your walks that Prince Bucky would come along and declare his love for you, sweeping you atop his horse and bringing you to his palace.
The glint of an old invitation caught your eye, tucked carefully in your wooden box of treasures and trinkets. Prince Peter’s coronation, now two years ago, echoed like it was only yesterday. The waltz. Bucky. The Duchesses laughing at you and your sisters. You couldn’t remember the last serious suitor that had visited for any one of you. You shook your head at the bittersweet memory. Your dance with Bucky would always be a treasured moment. No one could take that away from you.
Selfishly, you kept your ear out for news about him in the villages. He was still single, that much you knew. Well liked, too, a rarity for entire villages to have positive opinions about a royal family.
Further into the box was your collection of odds and ends collected from years of exploring. A ribbon from a shop by Willowstream, a small hand-painted vase from the frist time you ventured into Brooklynn, a vibrant red pressed wildflower from a small farm that hosted you for lunch when you found yourself lost. Pebbles smooth as glass that sparkled in the light, painted postcards, a wooden pen carved of walnut. Seashells from your mother, the last remainder of your childhood trips to the ocean.
Your collection wasn’t flashy, but it meant everything to you. It was a reminder of your freedom. The things other princesses weren’t allowed to do. If your father truly knew what you were doing and had a say, you wouldn’t for much longer.
A call of your name from the hallway sent you shoving the box back into your closet before Ariadne, your sister closest in age, walked in without knocking.
“Are you seriously studying those maps again?” She scoffs, crossing her arms and leaning against your desk. “Father won’t be pleased if he discovers you’ve been out exploring again.”
Mentally noting not to confide in Ariadne about exactly what you were doing when disappearing for hours again, you grab your walking boots to tug them on your feet.
“I’m not exactly exploring,” you countered, “I’m going to Greenwich for a book.”
Ariadne picks up a china statue of a dancing couple, lazily studying it with the air of someone who could not bring herself to care.
“We have a library here.”
Standing up and brushing invisible dirt from your skirt, you swerve past her. “And I’ve already finished those books.”
Ariadne follows you into the hallway, unwilling to let you go without a fight. “There’s a storm coming tonight!” She calls after you.
You wave her off dismissively, rounding a corner away from her.
“I’ll be back before it comes.”
Ariadne calls your name one more time, stubborn exasperation leaking into her tone. She knows she can’t stop you.
But truly, no one could.
“There’s no chance in hell I make it back home.” You said aloud to nobody, lifting your skirt and picking over an exposed tree root. The sky glowered in response, thunder rumbling ominously from the dark gray clouds just visible through the tree tops. “I suppose I should stop at Willowstream.” You muse, referring to the royal cottage at the edge of the woods. It was a two hour walk from the palace and was typically only used for a few weekends throughout the year, too early at present for the late summer soirees. Though, the caretakers should be there, ready to greet you as they prepared the home. You pick up your pace as the sun fully disappears, a few drops of rain cooling your warm skin. Reaching the beginnings of the proper pathway, a cheerful mew greets you. Carrot trots up cheerfully alongside you, seemingly unbothered by the incoming tempest. Carrot lived in the meadow behind Willowstream, a common fixture in the gardens and around the house. He began to trot slightly ahead of you, leading the way to the magnificent front doors. You knocked on the heavy door, receiving no answer, and dug in the small planter beside the door to retrieve the spare key.
No sooner had you opened the heavy wooden doors did the heavens open up. Rain battered the roof relentlessly, sheeting so heavily that you couldn’t see more than a few feet outside the window. Carrot seemed to pay no mind to the noise, simply hopping atop the sitting room windowsill (an action that never would have passed if your family had been there) and watched the pathway, tail flicking mindlessly.
Looking around, you found the furniture uncovered and freshly cleaned, wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. At least you had dry wood, you supposed, smugly stacking wood in the hearth and striking a match. This was one of those “useless servant-skills” your father had stuck his nose up at and here you were, fending for yourself.
The rain kept coming, hours passing with hardly a reprieve from the crashing thunder, lightning flickering through the curtains every few minutes. You had pulled a book from the library, some romance novel, and read by the fire as the sun set. Carrot now laid contentedly on his back in front of the fire, purring away.
A movement through the window caught your attention.
A shadowy figure was making their way up your pathway.
You gasped, dropping your book and darting behind the curtain. Carrot startled, opening one eye before settling down again.
“Some guard cat.” You scoffed to yourself, twisting your skirt around your hand and looking back through the rain soaked window.
Heart racing, you squinted into the darkness, watching the figure stagger two more steps before stumbling and collapsing. Before you could truly grasp what you were doing or the consequences of you actions, you had pulled your cloak back over your shoulders and taken the candle out into the inky night.
Mud squished under your shoes, barely audible through the rain as you fell to your knees. The candle sputtered in protest, hardly withstanding the raindrops and wind but stubbornly refused to go out. You brought your candle to the face of the figure and nearly dropped it in your surprise.
It was the Prince of Brooklynn. Prince Bucky. The prince you had been hopelessly in love with for two years now, and here he was, collapsed in your front yard.
His breaths came shallowly, cheek pressed to the grass. Reaching down, you touched his shoulder, eliciting a groan from deep in his chest as he strained to lift his head. You jerked your hand back as though burned. He pressed his hand to the ground, trying to push himself up. Carefully, you touched his shoulder again, lowering your lips to his ear.
“Let me help you.” You murmured, hoping he could hear you. “You have to stand.”
Stumbling under his weight, you heft him up, his arm slung over your shoulders. His head hangs listlessly, eyes heavy lidded as he limps alongside you as you bring him towards the dry cottage.
When you finally get him inside, you lay him down on the sofa. Collapsing on the floor next to him, you let the crackling fire warm you from the outside in, heaving from the walk. Bucky’s breathing has evened out in the warmth, his chest rising and falling slowly. His eyes are still closed, skin ghastly pale and sickly.
You look around, taking stock of the situation and realizing three very important things.
You’re alone.
WIth a man.
A man who is the Prince of Brooklynn and looks to be knocking on death’s door.
Bucky groans again, writhing against the soaked sleeves of his heavy coat. You carefully stand, reaching for his arms.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, peeling the soaked fabric from his skin, “but you need to get warm.”
You hang his coat by the fire, looking back at him. His boots are soaked too, taking much more effort to wrestle off. His socks quickly follow, joining the coat by the fire. You capture your lower lip in between you teeth.
It’s not as though Willowstream is well-equipped at the moment, even for you but especially not for someone this ill. Especially not the Prince of Brooklyn.
At least you’ve got food; some bread, eggs, and berries you picked up in the village, and the wine cellar is sure to be stocked with leftover whiskey from last summer. If you go to the kitchen, you should be able to cook up some food for the two of you, and a little bit of hot whiskey might help Bucky.
You let your gaze fall back to him, passed out on the couch. He’s even more handsome than you remember, even covered in mud and sopping wet. Your heart thuds in your chest, the fluttering sensation in your stomach returning full force as you brushed some of his dripping hair from his face.
You’re hesitant to leave him in this condition, but it’s necessary to get water, food, a rag, and dry clothes.
You move as quickly as you can, turning on the stove and heating the food while you run to get some of your brother’s old clothes. Tearing a strip of fabric from one of the shirts, your heart sinks a little before you find your voice again.
“I’m going to clean you up now.” You tell Bucky, pressing the wet fabric to his dirty forehead, cleaning his skin. His eyelids flutter, revealing his familiar blue eyes, foggy with sickness. You curl a hand around his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone. “How do you feel?” You ask tentatively.
Bucky leans into your hand, nuzzling towards you like a kitten. “Like death incarnated,” he rasps. “Where are we? Who are you?”
The urge to tell him everything claws up your spine, bubbling through your throat. It settles on the tip of your tongue, a fantasy settling in your head, the way you’ve always dreamed of.
Your father would never allow it. You would be ruined from simply being alone with him.
He probably doesn’t even remember.
So you settle for a simplified answer.
“You’re in Willowstream- a house owned by the Royal Family of of Clare-Auberge.”
His head is still hazy, but he follows your every word. “And who does that make you?’
You take your hand back, instead offering a plate of eggs and bread. “You need to eat.” You respond, ignoring his question.
Bucky levers himself into a sitting position, the blanket you'd placed on top of him falling from his chest and pooling at his waist. You try to ignore the way the thin white linen of his shirt clings obscenely to his chest, still wet from the rain.
He takes the plate slowly, and you swallow as you avert your eyes from his built figure. “It’s not poisoned,” you supply helpfully, sitting back down on the floor. Bucky lets out a quiet noise sounding something like a laugh before taking a bite.
The two of you eat in silence, the fire crackling behind you. Once he’s finished, Bucky sags back against the cushions, a new sheen of sweat settling on his forehead. He shudders, tugging the blanket higher on his torso.
“Are you alright?” You ask, voice rising slightly. You stand, leaning over him and placing a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up. You must have a fever.”
“Not that shocking.” Bucky coughs, a sarcastic lilt to his gruff voice. “I did get caught in the storm.”
“Hold on,” you turn abruptly, dashing back to the hallway where you’d stashed the whiskey. When you come back, Bucky’s gone paler, eyes drooping again. You pour some into a glass, holding it out to him.
“My father always said a bit of whiskey helps his throat.” You offer, holding it out.
“Thank you.”
“What were you doing out here anyways?” You ask him tentatively, sitting back down and wrapping your arms around your knees.
Bucky sips slowly, throat bobbing with the action. A drop slips from the corner of his lips, your eyes following it as it makes a path down his neck and disappears into the collar of his shirt.
“Separated from my hunting party.” Bucky says simply. “Was trying to follow the path back to the main road to Brooklynn, but once the storm hit, I was hopelessly lost.” He looks you over, and perhaps its your imagination, but his blue eyes soften. ”And you? Do you live here?”
“Couldn’t make it home before the rain started.” You say simply.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t your house?”
You realize your mistake quickly, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re implying.” You say defensively, “I simply live elsewhere. The owners are kind enough to let me visit when I’d like.”
“The Royal Family of Clare-Auberge, you mean?”
Fuck. Fuck. You did say that, didn’t you?
It’s dangerous enough that Bucky is here, considering your father’s hatred for the Kingdom of Brooklynn, more so if he were to find him here, alone, with his youngest daughter.
Bucky wouldn’t make it out alive.
“They’re a very generous family.” You stammer, “I’ve known the princesses since I was young.” Not a lie, technically.
To your relief, Bucky smiles teasingly, “I won’t tell them even if you’re lying.”
“No?”
“The King of Clare-Auberge isn’t exactly fond of the people of Brooklynn.” He looks back down at his glass, taking another long sip. “Though I don’t know why.”
You trace your nail along the seam of your skirt. “I don’t either. I’ve always wanted to visit Brooklynn.”
Bucky watches you intently, waiting for you to go on.
“I once read in a book that Brooklynn’s waters are the clearest blue in the world. That the palace puts most cathedrals and castles to shame. The people are the kindest of all. I’ve only been fortunate enough to visit one of the small villages on the outskirts and oh,” You sigh dreamily, remembering fondly, “I got the most beautiful vase from a potter. I’ve collected so many little things from my explorations.” You pause, looking over at Bucky, expecting him to interrupt you or change the subject, but he looks at you as though you’re the most interesting person in the world.
Your cheeks warm, hoping if he notices, he blames it on the roaring fire. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
He shakes his head, that small smile curling on his lips. “I like listening to you.”
You laugh, “Then you’d be the first. My sisters say no one wants to hear me ramble and my father-” You stop, heart sinking, “he doesn’t understand my interests.”
“I understand.” Bucky says, to your surprise. “I don’t think I talk very much, but I when I do, no one ever hears me.”
“I hear you.” You murmur, not realizing that you had moved to sit next to him on the sofa, and worse, that he’d moved closer to listen to you. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Is the water that blue?”
Bucky smiles, leaning closer to you conspiratorily. “More so. I think the townspeople seem to overlook it because they see it everyday. I once read in a book: it’s the simple things in life that are the most-”
“extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them.” You finish, “I love that book.”
“Exactly.” Bucky says. His face is separated from yours by mere inches, sharing each other’s breaths. You should pull away. Should let him rest. Pretend like this hasn’t happened because how will you ever be able to forget him now?
Bucky’s hungry gaze rakes over your face, dropping unashamedly to your lips. You hear him set down the cup of liquor and his fingers intertwine with yours. He looks at you like you’re water and he’s been drowning in the desert. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” He rasps, rasing his other hand to trace down your cheek. Your foreheads press together, now sharing shallow breaths.
“I-”
You don’t finish before he’s kissing you softly, just a brush of his lips along yours. You don’t hesitate, heart kickstarting as you move your lips against his. It’s simple. It’s heavenly. It’s as though this is what you’ve been meant for your entire life. Kissing Prince Bucky. You let out a soft sound into his mouth, a noise he swallows greedily. It seems to embolden him to tilt your head, gently biting your lower lip. The action goes straight to your core, your dress suddenly feeling far too hot and constricting.
“Bucky.” You sigh dreamily as you separate for air. Your chests heave.
He presses a kiss to your cheekbone, then again to your jaw. “What is your name?”
Your blood runs cold, snapping you back to reality reminding you that you really should pull away from him. “It’s best you don’t know.”
The words don’t stop him from making a trail down your neck and back up to the corner of your mouth. “And if I wanted to see you again? How am I to find you?”
A lump rises in your throat. “You don’t.”
Bucky pulls back from you, concern coloring his face. “Of course I do. I want to know everything about you. I want to meet your family, speak to your sisters, pet your damned cat. I want to show you the ocean-”
“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” You say weakly, tears welling in your eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I-” Bucky’s voice rises, dissolving into a fit of coughs before he can finish his sentence. He falls back against the pillow, body shaking with fever.
You’re leaning over him again in an instant, hair surrounding the two of you like a curtain. Concern creases your forehead, which he must be able to discern considering he doesn’t push the subject again despite looking like he very much wants to.
“You need rest.” You whisper, tears stinging. “Please.”
“But where will you-”
“I’ll be here.” You fake a reassuring smile, hoping he doesn’t see through it. “On the chair.”
“You should take the couch, it’s more comfortable and I-”
“I will do no such thing.” Your voice is firm, willing it not to waver. “You are ill. Rest now, as your body is begging you to do.”
Bucky looks as though he wants to argue more but instead reaches into his pocket. He pulls a gold locket out, the firelight catching the glint of Brooklynn’s coat of arms. “Take this,” he gasps, “as my thanks. You can add it to your collection.”
“Bucky, I can’t-”
“You will,” he insists firmly, taking your wrist and pressing the locket into your palm. “A part of me should stay with you until I can see you again.” His gaze is serious, creases in his forehead indicating he does not want to argue, but will if you press the subject. Your fingers close tentatively around it. “Promise me you’ll see me again.”
“Okay.” You whisper, watching his eyes close again. “I will.”
It doesn’t take much longer for him to drift off, sinking into a much-needed slumber. The fire is grows quieter but still burns with the intensity needed to heat the room as you curl up on the floor by sofa. The chair was never going to be comfortable. At least here you can stretch out.
And, you think grimly, it will allow you to leave tomorrow before he wakes.
At half past four, the rain finally stops. Bucky’s fever looks to be gone, and you’re wide awake, gathering your belongings to return to your palace.
With one last look around the room, your eyes fall on the locket, still sitting on the side table where you had discarded it, fully intending to leave it with Bucky.
You flip it open, faced with a small portrait of a younger Bucky, likely painted when he came of age. The back is engraved with his initials. J.B.B.
Traitorous heart thudding, you look back to Bucky, still fast asleep.
Before you can change your mind, you shove the locket into your pocket and duck out into the morning light.
Deliver to the Brooklyn Hunting Lodge:
To those concerned:
Prince Bucky is resting at Willowstream in Clare-Auberge. His fever broke at approximately 4:30 this morning. The main doors are unlocked. Please use the utmost discretion in his retrieval, as the Royal Family is unaware of his presence.
Delivered to Sir Steven Rogers at 7:00.
“You’re late.” Andromeda called, catching you sneaking by the open door of the Lady’s Room. She hardly looked up from her star chart, plotting another point on a constellation.
“You’re annoying.” You shot back, stepping backwards into the doorway and leaning against the frame. “How do you know I didn’t return late and leave early.”
“Becuase your skirts are six inches deep in mud.” Lillian sighs, setting down her embroidery and fixing you with her best eldest sister stare. “Go change before Father sees.” You grunt in response, resigned to your fate and walking to your room.
“I told her it would storm.” Ariadne says pointedly to your sisters, loudly enough that she knows you can hear it from down the hallway. “But she just had to have that book.”
Angry tears prick your eyes as they laugh at you; their silly baby sister too lost in her own world to ever pay attention to reality.
“Good to see you all too,” you mutter petulantly, “what did you bring back? We were all so worried!”
Kicking the door shut behind you only creates a mud stain on the wood and an unsatisfying slam. You shed your boots first, then the damp dress. Dry clothes, you realized, were a luxury you missed. It was a miracle you hadn’t caught a cold either.
You didn’t bother to put on an elaborate new dress, moving with haste to put away the few items from your journey before your father or siblings could see. The book went atop your desk, wrapped in a dust jacket from an old book on ancient history, the two small paint pots from town in your box, and a silver fork wrapped in a ribbon into your vanity. Relaxing your shoulders, you surveyed your room, content at the state of things as you prepared your soiled dress for the laundry.
A soft thunk echoed on the hardwood floor as you picked up your skirt, Bucky’s locket thudding to the floor. Scooping it up quickly, you dart your eyes around the room as though someone was hiding and ready to scream at your betrayal.
Bucky’s smiling face peered up at you as you opened the locket, the very lips you’d kissed not sixteen hours ago calling you back to him like a siren song. You shut the locket with a soft click, heart fluttering at the memory as you tucked it into your pocket.
You lasted a week before your father discovered you had not made it home on the night of the storm.
Belle had made an off-handed comment about your trip, sending your father into a rage. He screamed, ranting and raving and sending a servant to search your room. You sat, frozen and exposed in the throne room as your treasure box was brought before you in the throne room. His face grew redder as he picked through item after item, shattering your pebbles, ripping the ribbon and snapping the walnut pen in two.
You stood still, tears streaming down your face as you watched him pick apart your prized possessions and destroy them.
“Daughter you have become far too difficult to control!”
“It’s just a few things I’ve collected! Please-”
“You could get killed, wandering about! You can’t keep doing as you please, not returning and acting foolishly!”
“But Daddy, the storm! How could I have-”
“If you hadn’t left the palace walls, you wouldn’t have gotten caught in the storm at all!”
“I just wanted to visit the library and greet the people! The woods-”
“-are far too close to the barbarian people of Brooklynn!”
You jutted your jaw out, snapping before you could contain yourself. “They aren’t barbarians!”
It was as though you had threatened his life. The guards shifted uncomfortably by the door and averting their eyes, pretending as through they weren’t listening. The air grew thinner and colder as your father’s disposition hardened into something you had never seen before. His face went red with anger. “And how,” He gritted through clenched teeth, “would you know such a thing, dear daughter?”
Unwilling to back down, you squared your shoulders, tears still hot on your cheeks as your collection laid in tatters around you. “I’ve visited their villages nearest our borders and spoken to others at balls.”
It seemed wisest to omit your saving of Prince Bucky, you internally decided. Deep down, you wanted to keep that precious memory to yourself; all your own.
“No more balls!” Your father declared, “no more leaving and this foolish ‘exploring’ nonsense!”
“You can’t keep me trapped here!” You cried, waving your arms around wildly.
“The hell I can’t! I am your King!”
The world tilted, your father heaving in the center of the now frozen room surrounded by his youngest daughter’s prized possessions, destroyed at his own hand. Rain pattered quietly against the window. No one breathed. Fresh tears welled in your eyes as you looked at your brother and sisters, who jerked their heads back behind the corner from which they had been eavesdropping.
You opened your mouth. Then closed it, swallowing your hurt. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” A sob caught in your throat, “I thought you were my father.” You sink into a deep curtsy, keeping your eyes on the floor. “Am I excused?”
You don’t wait for an answer, pressing your hand to your mouth as you exit. Passing your siblings, you refuse to look as any of them, quickening your steps to get back to your room.
Tatiana says your name, Belle tries to apologize, and Lillian tries to catch your arm saying something about it all being for the best.
“Just leave me alone!” You cried, snatching your arm away and dashing down the long hallway, skirt swishing angrily at your ankles. When you finally make it inside the privacy of your own room, the dam breaks, sobs wracking your body as you collapse atop your bed.
It just wasn’t fair. Whatever ridiculous grudge your father held, it could no longer be valid. You couldn’t be a nun, living in Clare-Auberge forever. Raising your head from your crossed arms, you dig the small locket from your pocket and gaze at the Brooklynn coat of arms. You run your finger over the small initials, thinking of your promise to Bucky. You clench your fist around it, knuckles turning white.
A knock sounds at your door, startling you. You shove the locket under your pillow, willing the door not to open.
Fawn, your middle sister, said your name. “I know you’re hurt.” She says, voice soothing in that annoying older sister way that implies you’re being dramatic, “but… this will pass. It’s for the best.” You don’t respond, staring at the doorknob and silently willing it to burst into flames. She inhales shakily. “We convinced father to let you skip dinner tonight. One of your lady’s maids will bring you a plate.”
Fawn tries your doorknob, sighing when she realized it was locked. “Just… send for me if you need anything. I won’t judge you.”
You scoff under your breath as her footsteps retreat down the hallway.
She didn’t understand you.
None of them did.
Except Bucky.
The way he looked at you, spoke to you, even in his fever addled brain.
It was all you had ever wanted.
If only you could…
Maybe he would.
How would you know if you didn’t try?
You looked around your lonely, empty room, suddenly faced with the bitter reality that your father truly wanted to keep you here until he found someone to marry you off to.
Someone to quiet his tempest of a daughter.
What was here for you anymore?
Nothing. Your family, but what did they know about you?
You watched the candle on your nightstand flicker as the room grew darker and the wax ran down. It sputtered helplessly, reaching the end of its life as dinner was brought to you. The candle was promptly replaced as your maid as if you wanted assistance for bed.
You shook your head as you bit into a roll, the bread tasting like ash in your mouth, sending her home early.
It was midnight when you began to move, knowing most servants would be gone and the night guards would be in the middle of a rotation.
No one used the servants corridors this late at night. It was even easier to blend in with your hair in a tight, simple bun, wrapped in a simple, inside-out cloak you had been given from your aunt.
No one would look at you and think “princess.” Not with the ripped bag and simple stained dress you wore when gardening.
Luckily, you didn’t pass anyone as you snuck to the basement, heart pounding at every scuff of your shoes or drop of a rock. You crept out the door of the laundry room into the inky night, knowing not a single soul would be watching the back gate for a woman leaving the palace, least of all one of the princesses.
When you finally got to the worn wooden trail you knew best, you lit your lantern, confident that no one would see the light. With every step towards Brooklyn, you felt lighter. Freeer. By the time the sun rose and your departure had been discovered, you would be long gone.
Dawn was starting to rise when you crossed the river into Brooklynn, walking for another hour before the sun began to creep over the horizon. Coming across a clearing, you allowed yourself to collapse on the mossy ground. Exhaustion permeated your bones. By your own estimate, you were only a few hours walk from Brooklynn’s capital, where the palace was. You felt perfectly safe - and hidden - from the main trail to sleep.
Using your cloak as a blanket and resting your arms under your head, you let your eyes close and sleep overtake you.
“It’s a girl.”
“A girl? Don’t be ridiculous, Buck, why would a- Oh.”
Your eyes fluttered open to the sound of voices, jerking up into a sitting position as the memory of the day before flooded your mind. You met the wide eyes of two men, feeling your heart drop through your stomach.
The sky blue eyes of Prince Bucky stared right back at you.
Bucky, who was looking at you, awestruck. You waited for him to fall to his knees, declare that he knew you, remembered you, and thank you for saving his life.
He did not.
“Are you alright, miss-?” The blonde one asks. Steve, you recall, the one who danced with Wanda at the coronation ball. His brows are knit together in concern as he studies you.
“Yes!” You blurt, adjusting your dress and looking around for your small bag. You hoped you didn’t have a crease on your face from the sleeve of your dress and that your hair didn’t look exactly like you’d slept on the forest floor.
Bucky held out his hand, which you gladly took, stumbling to your feet.
“What’s your name?”
No sense in lying, you supposed. Especially since you had seemingly tripped right where you wanted to be. So you told them, carefully meeting Bucky’s eyes as if he would declare that you were a princess of Clare-Auberge and march you right back into your father’s arms. He didn’t say anything, eyes narrowed quizzically as though you were a rather difficult puzzle.
“Pleased to meet you.” Steve nods, bowing. You curtsy lightly in response. “Steve Rogers. This is Prince James-”
“Bucky.” Bucky interrupted, “have we met before?”
Half-heartedly, you raise one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m sure you meet lots of young maidens.” You counter. Bucky looks unconvinced, but doesn’t challenge you on the subject.
“What are you doing, sleeping in the woods?” Steve asks, leaning against his rifle. His eyes scutanize you. You’re clearly not a commoner, based on your dress, but a member of the nobility would never find themselves in such a situation.
“I… I was travelling. To Brooklynn. I’ve gotten lost, I suppose.” It’s not technically a lie, but it isn’t the truth either.
“She must be part of the group that returns north each May.” Steve muses.
“We can’t leave her here.” Bucky responds, speaking to Steve, rather than you. “She’ll have nowhere to go.”
Steve nods, “We can send word that we’ve found one of their own. And until arrangements can be made for her to return home-”
“She can stay at the palace.” Bucky decides firmly, taking Steve by surprise.
Part of you wants to protest; to declare that you couldn’t possibly impose on their hospitality. On the other hand, you don’t have anywhere to go. You’d left without a plan, all hope that you’d even be able to see Bucky again. Here he is, presenting his company to you on a silver platter.
You’d be a fool not to accept it.
“I-”
“We assure you, nothing improper will occur.” Steve promises, “Our Lady Justice, Natasha, is most protective.”
“Thank you.” Is all you can manage, “really, I did not expect this sort of kindless towards a traveler.”
Bucky's eyes remain fixed on you. "It is an honor to serve my people." Still, the words sound rehearsed, as if he is in a trance. His gaze remains on you as you're lead towards the road, two horses waiting patiently for their riders.
"Are you alright on horseback?" Steve asks, "we did not expect a passenger or we'd have used a different mode transportation." He sounds sheepish, as though one could have predicted a damsel in distress.
You nod, looking over the two horses. One, a small palomino and the other, a sturdy black mare.
"You'll have to ride with me. Steve's is much smaller.”A flush rises up his neck. "Steve's horse." Bucky emphasizes.
You hide your smile behind your hand, following Bucky to the black horse. He helps you atop the animal, then follows. He sits behind you, chest pressed to your back as he grabs the reins. Bucky's beefy arms encircle you, ensuring you couldn’t fall, even if you tried. You’re very aware of your skirts riding above your shin, suddenly very glad you chose your taller boots, lest you expose yourself to all of Boooklynn.
"Alright?" Bucky husks into your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
"Fine," you manage, trying to hold yourself away from the addicting warmth of his body. He smells like he did at Willowstream- pine and sandalwood. "Thank you.”
The ride is silent until you approach the more populated parts of town. It’s not freezing by any means, but between the wind and cloudy skies, you begin to shiver. Bucky remains solid and warm at your back, but your cheeks are wind bitten and sting.
“Are you cold?” Bucky murmurs, sending another non-cold related shiver through your body.
“A bit,” you manage, tucking your chin into your chest. “But I’ll be alright.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, tightening his grip on the reins, an action that brings his thick arms tighter around you and urges his horse faster.
The village outside of the palace is beautiful, passing comforting homes lining the street and a market with brightly colored flowers and fruit for sale. People wave and bow as Bucky and Steve ride through, as though the sight is as comforting as it is normal.
“Beautiful.” You murmur, awed. “They love you.”
His gruff response is oddly bashful. “I do my best.” The pathway goes by a large garden, filled with an amalgamation of flowers of nearly every color you could imagine.
“The Centennial Garden.” Bucky supplies. “A gift from my parents when Brooklyn had its hundredth anniversary.”
“It’s wonderful. I heard it overlooks the ocean with cliffs lined in roses. I’ve always wanted to see—”
Bucky’s laugh is warm against your back. A glimmer of hope lights in your heart. “You can see it.”
You feel yourself perk up at the promise of exploration. “Really? Oh, that would be so lovely.”
“Of course,” Bucky says, smile evident in his voice as he slows his horse to a walk, approaching the palace gates.
Brooklynn’s palace is as imposing as the kingdom, with tall white marble walls and a dark terracotta roof. It glimmers in the noon sun, allowing you to imagine the gold glow it must be cast in at sunset.
Bucky dismounts his horse first, helping you down with one hand on your waist and another enclosing your own. Once on steady ground again, he studies your face, his gaze boring into you.
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Heavy boots come down the courtyard stairs, a sharp feminine voice saving you from answering.
“Barnes! Rogers! You’re late. What did I tell you about—” A woman with short red hair stops in front of you, arms crossed over her chest. “Who is this?”
You swallow, clasping your hands behind your back and averting your eyes.
“Don’t tell me you-”
“No.” Bucky says firmly, defensively. “She’s from the group heading north. They must have gotten separated. She’s going to stay here until we can reunite them.” He introduces you, “This is Natasha.”
Natasha scrutinizes you. “Clearly, she needs a bath.” You flush at her loud proclamation of your hygiene, despite knowing it is likely more than true. “And a change of clothes. I’ll have Wanda look after her.” She takes your arm, leading you inside. Both of you look back at Bucky and Steve as Natasha gets in one more scold for them. “And you two need to actually look over those proposals! I’m not fending Stark off again for you.”
Wanda sent everyone out of the room for your bath, helping you undress and get into the hot water before pointing an accusatory finger at you.
“Explain.”
“Please don’t tell anyone.” You beg after recounting your story, and omitting your saving of him at Willowstream. “I want to tell him, I do. I wish I could.” You sigh, leaning backwards into the tub. Soapy warm water splashed carelessly, waving over the sides and wetting the floor.
“Tell me why you can’t again?” Wanda asked, sitting by the edge and pouring a tad more soap into the water.
“If my father finds out I’m here, he’ll kill me. Then Bucky. Then declare war.” You shudder, “No, it’s much safer for me to pretend like we’ve never met. If he likes me, then maybe with time my father won’t-”
“Perhaps he won’t take exhaustive revenge measures?”
You nod, exhaling so aggressively it sends a waft of bubbles flying from its mountainous pile.
“Well, you’ll have to move quickly.” Wanda stands to exit, calling over her shoulder from the doorframe, “he’s been pining after a girl who saved him. One with an “angelic look” in her eyes.”
The door closes loudly behind her, another sigh escaping your lips. Quite a hole, you’d dug yourself, by not telling anyone about your saving of Bucky. You couldn’t tell anyone, you decided. He could know when the time was right. When he truly wanted you, not the vision who had saved his life. You didn’t want to be his obligation; you wanted to be his desire.
However long it would take.
Stepping into their dining room, you feel incredibly out of place. Brooklyn’s dining room was far brighter than yours at home, full of light, color, and laughter. A place where people are actually meant to be with each other and know each other. “Go on, dear.” An older maid encourages as she walks by, “you look lovely.”
At once, four pairs of eyes snap to you. A flush settles across your chest as the men are seemingly dumbstruck by your appearance. You manage a smile, eyes falling to Bucky as he looks awestruck simply from your entrance.
“Wow.” He gapes. “You look… you are beautiful.”
You duck your head in an effort to hide your blush, taking miserably, hair falling over your cheeks. Wanda had picked you a pink gown, one with an off-the-shoulder neckline, long sleeves, and a voluminous skirt you’d normally declare too fancy for dinner. Natasha’s lips tug into a smug smile, giving an approving nod. Sam and Steve exchange a knowing look before turning back to Bucky, who has still not moved. Steve snorts, “Y’wanna get her chair, Buck?”
It’s as though someone kicked behind his knees, the speed with which he steps towards you, motioning towards what is presumably your seat. It’s an oddly informal act, for a crown prince to pull out your chair, but based on the reaction of his friends, such an action is not only normal, but expected.
Dinner is served with little aplomb, conversation lively and flowing, much more different than your own home. The boys bicker, Natasha cuts in drily, and you watch in awe.
“Where are you from?” Steve asks, turning the conversation to you. “You only said you were with the northbound group.”
You swallow, silently thankful you spent your time preparing a story.
“Clare-Auberge.” There’s no point in lying, “In the capital, not far from the castle.”
“Your kingdom is rather elusive.” Sam comments, “I’m not sure we’ve ever hosted the king. He has many daughters, if I recall.”
“Seven.” You nod, “and a single son.”
Steve turns to Bucky. “They were at Peter’s coronation, in Queens. King John stood sullenly, only speaking to Lord Walker.”
You shift uncomfortably. You have fond memories from that night, if only from your single dance with Bucky. He clearly doesn’t even remember that dance. You would never forget Duchess Marina and Delphine whispering about how plain and boring your sisters were.
“And your father? What does he do for work?”
Your soup is rapidly going cold from how long you’ve been ignoring it. “Good God, Wilson, will you let the girl eat? And stop quizzing her about her family and kingdom.” You duck your head, silently making a note to thank Natasha later.
Bucky clears his throat after a moment. “And have you been to Brooklynn before?”
You shake your head. “Only to the villages along the border, when we pass through. But I’ve heard wonderful things… about the garden and the glass blowers in town.”
“And the ocean? Our artists are simply unable to do it justice. I’ve been told that it is impossible to accurately depict it; only those who recognise the beauty in the simplicity of life are able to truly appreciate it.”
Silence falls over the table, Sam suddenly looking very interested in his dinner and Steve exhaling sharply through his nose at his friend. A soft thud echoes under the table, Natasha kicking his shin as she hisses “Bucky.”
A shiver runs down your spine. He’s quoting you. Dejection settles in your stomach as you resist the urge to burst into tears. Bucky holds your gaze, unspeaking and unaffected by his friends clear disdain for his behavior.
“I am quite fond of the ocean,” you admit, “I have wanted to see Brooklynn’s waters for some time. I did not think anyone else much shared the same desire.”
That was the largest truth you had dared to share with the group. Bucky still held your gaze as his eyes softened ever so slightly.
“Sounds like you should give her a tour of the kingdom tomorrow.” Steve proposed, mischief glinting in his eyes.
Bucky shrugged, still not looking away from you, studying you as though seeing you in a new light. “If she would like to-”
You resisted the urge to squirm or flush under his stare. “I don’t wish to impose any more than-”
“Please.” Bucky interrupts, a hint of a plead entering his tone. His cheeks tinge pink at his outburst, evening out his tone. “It would be my pleasure.”
A glimmer of hope flickers in your chest, holding his gaze as a tiny smile graces your lips. “Then yes. I would like that very much.”
It was much too dark to see the waves from your balcony, to your utter disappointment. There was a new moon, meaning the only light came from what spilled from the castle and the gas lamps in the garden. Your balcony overlooked a small courtyard in the garden, likely where parties would be held. It was all so lovely and full of life. So different than your home in a wonderful inexplicable way.
“-just don’t understand it, Steve.” Bucky’s voice drifted through the balcony’s open french doors. “How could a woman have access to a home like that and disappear before sunrise?”
“I’m not entirely sure you weren’t hallucinating your ‘angel.’” Steve voice counters, the two men coming into your view. Heart pounding, you turned to press your back to the door and duck down like a child despite the fact that neither had seen you.
Bucky’s laugh came clear and good natured. “Trust me, Steve. She’s real. And I’m going to find her.”
The two are quiet for a moment before Bucky speaks again. “But that girl…”
Steve says your name, clarifying exactly who Bucky is referring to.
“Yeah,” Bucky hums, sitting down on a stone bench and gazing up at the sky. The gas lamps from the garden cast shadows onto his face eerily similar to that of the fire at Willowstream. “She’s beautiful. Educated. She seems familiar, somehow. Like I’ve met her before.”
“You don’t meet many girls from Clare-Auberge. Minus the angel.” Steve laughs, “Still, I don’t think she’s her.”
“It feels like…” Bucky sighs, dropping his head down, a stand of his hair falling out of the neat hairstyle and onto his forehead. “It feels like I’m betraying her, by trying with someone else. God forbid, what if I do fall in love with someone else, marry them, and she shows up the very next day?”
Steve sits next to his friend, clapping him on the back. “You deal with that if it happens. Because, Buck, much better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood. Warm, bright, and real.” Steve gestures up towards your room. Bucky follows his hand, watching your silhouette move about behind the sheer curtains, a feeling of hope warming his heart.
The Kingdom of Brooklyn is a kaleidoscope of color, even more so than you saw yesterday now that the sun has come out. Bucky follows you as you delightedly dart from stall to stall, pointing out statues and buildings on the street. His subjects greet him with a bow or curtsey, making polite conversation until you look like you want to say something, at which point he turns his focus to you.
“What is this?!” You exclaim, holding up a dark purple fruit, “it’s so pretty!”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, picking one up himself. “You’ve never had a plum before?” You shake your head, mumbling the word under your breath in awe, turning the fruit in your hand to examine the violet color. “They’re good. Really good. Sweet.”
You grin, looking up at him to find him already watching you in wonder. The icy blue of his eyes has melted into something warmer, like the color of the sky after a storm. Bucky looks to the merchant who has been watching the two of you amusedly the entire time and holds out a couple of silver coins. “Four plums, please. For the lady.”
You grin, grabbing another fruit and placing it into a basket.
“Not that one,” Bucky interjects, “it’s not ripe yet. Here-” He picks up another one, slightly darker in color. “You want it to be a little soft when you press on it.” Bucky takes your hands, placing them over the plum underneath his. His palms are calloused as he squeezes the fruit, the slightest bit of give under the fruit’s skin. Your eyes meet his, caught in the moment as the world fades around you. “And,” He continues, voice low, “it should smell sweet.” He raises the fruit to your nose, allowing you to inhale the sweet scent without looking away. “So when you bite it,” He lets go of the fruit, motioning for you to taste it, “it will be sweet. Juicy.”
Teeth breaking the plum’s skin, you let out a soft moan as the sweet juice flows over your tongue. “My God,” you hum, taking another bite. “this is heavenly.”
Bucky doesn’t respond, transfixed by your reaction. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at your lips, transfixed by the shiny juice coating them. Knees weak, you exhale shakily, fruit suddenly hanging forgotten by your side. Carefully, like you’re made of glass, he raises his hand, carefully wiping the juice away from your chin. His touch is sure, eyebrows knit together in concentration. You don’t move away from him, breaths coming in shallow puffs as your eyelashes flutter. For one microscopic second, his gaze drops to your lips.
A loud clatter from the street has the two of you startling apart like children. Bucky scratches the back of his neck as you raise the fruit to your lips to try to hide the flush spreading across your skin. “I’m glad you like it.”
Dancing, you would quickly learn, was very popular in Brooklynn. What was reserved exclusively for balls in Clare-Auberge was commonplace here. A band played in the square, upbeat music that beckoned people of all ages and from all walks of life to gather in the street and move to the music. Hands clasped at your waist, you watched in awe of the couples whirling by you. Men were eyeing you, silently working up the courage to ask you to dance. You remained blissfully unaware as a burning feeling of jealousy came over Bucky, who found himself sending sharp glares to anyone who started towards you. They all averted their eyes, slinking away from the future monarch.
“Would you-” Bucky clears his throat, figuring he couldn’t scare off everyone who wanted to dance with you if he didn’t have the courage to do something about it. You turn to him, hope crossing your face. “Will you dance with me?”
The beam that settles on your face could power Brooklyn for a year, Bucky thinks. The entirety of his world seems brighter, as though he’s been living in the shade for years. When he takes your hand in his, encasing yours in his much larger one, it feels natural, like you were made to fit against him. Bucky leads you through mid-tempo dance, whirling you around the square in time with the tune. You stumble once, subtly enough that only he notices you watching your feet warily before he murmurs “eyes on me,” and holds your waist tighter.
“The people in Clare-Auberge don’t dance like this,” You sigh happily, shoulders relaxing, “everyone is so happy here!”
Bucky hums in agreement, but truthfully, he hadn’t noticed his people at all today. He was entirely focused on you and your disposition. The kingdom was happy, that he knew, but he only cared for yours in that moment. He spun you again, reveling in the way the sun caught the strands of your hair. Pulling you back towards him, he was perhaps too distracted, because your heel caught the toe of his boot. You would have fallen on your rear if not for his quick reflexes, wrapping his arm back around your waist and pulling you up into his broad chest. His reassuring smile made your breath catch, clutching the fabric of his shirt as your faces paused mere inches from each other. A devilish look overtook his face, bringing both hands to your hips and lifting you off the ground. Your own hands dropped to his shoulders as he whirled you in a circle, laughing as he spun you. When your feet hit the ground again, he didn’t change your position, admiring your breathless giggles. Bucky relishes the feeling of your fingers grasping the back of his neck in a way that was far too intimate for two people of your rank. But to either of you, the eyes of anyone watching didn’t matter; encased in your own bubble, the world couldn’t touch you.
Bucky decided to take the long way to the gardens. If anyone asked, he would claim that it was because he remembered you saying you wanted to see the cliffs and show you the wildflowers. In truth, it was because he wanted to savor every possible second with you. Angel be damned, this was a warm-blooded real woman who seemed to want him as much as he wanted her. A beautiful woman, at that. How could that possibly compare to a fever addled memory?
He wasn’t sure what came over him when he caught you watching him drive the team with burning curiosity, but if there was one thing his mother had always called him, it was impulsive.
So he did what any young man would do in the presence of a woman he liked; he offered you the reins. Bucky barely had time to react before you shoved your armful of purchases into his as you grabbed the reins and flicked them.
The horses took off into a brisk run, carriage bouncing along the road.
“Whoa!” Bucky yelled, nearly falling forward into the footwell. You only laughed, the sound music to his ears as you remained steady in your seat. “You tryin’ to get us killed, doll?”
“Of course not!” You call back, voice carrying jovially over the rush of the wind. Your face goes slightly warm, registering his term of endearment. “I just like to go fast.” A gentle tug of the reins has the horses slowing to their trot. Bucky’s laugh is warm and clear, tucking his hands behind his head.
“I do too.”
He finds himself watching you drive the rest of the way, enjoying the way you focus on the task. You seem delighted to do it, as though it isn’t a chore most dread. There’s a tiny crease between your eyebrows. He longs to press his thumb there, just to see it even out. He would top it with a kiss too, tasting your skin. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth, unconsciously his tongue darts to wet his lips. Your action sends nearly all of his blood south to his groin, refusing to let himself linger on your chest. Subtly, he shifts in his seat, adjusting the now pulsing erection.
The gates to the gardens are closed when you approach, but open after one look front he guard there, who offers the two of you a smile and a wave as you pass.
“The gardens close to the public at four everyday,” Bucky explains, guiding the carriage to a stop in front of a small pond. Colorful blooms surround you, lining the pathway and small gazebo. “But I get 24-hour access.”
You nod knowingly as he steps down, offering his hand to you. “Royalty privileges.”
The dirt crunches under your feet as you step down, letting go of his hand to shield your eyes and look up at him.
“A rough deal,” Bucky hums faceiously, “a hard life I lead, between the large castle and extravagant dinners.”
“However do you manage?” You smile teasingly, hand brushing his as you look around. “The entire kingdom must hang onto your every word.”
Heart pounding, Bucky takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as though its normal. “Who knows? I do what I must.”
He leads you towards a weeping willow tree, its leaving swaying gently in the soft breeze. You sit down rather unceremoniously, leaning against the trunk and inhaling the scent of greenery and fresh air. Bucky stays standing, watching you relax.
“You would have to tear me from here,” You hum with your eyes closed, “none of my family likes to be outside like I do. If only I had a book, this would be perfect.” You open your eyes, looking up at Bucky. “You’re so lucky to have Steve and Sam. Natasha too. It’s so evident they care about you.”
Bucky frowns, sinking down next to you, shoulder brushing yours. “What about your sisters? Surely they care for you.”
You pick a pale blue wildflower by your knee, tracing your finger over the delicate petals. “I’m sure they do. Somehow.” You bring the bloom to your nose, drinking in its sweet scent. “My eldest sister’s favorite thing to do is embroider. Inside. Another studies arithmetic as though it’s going to disappear from the world tomorrow. The middle sister plays the flute- well, we all play instruments, but she excessively plays the flute. Truthfully,” you look at Bucky, “I don’t think any of my sisters know what I like, and if they do, they don’t understand. They don’t understand me.”
Bucky plucks the flower from your lap, twirling it between his fingers. “What do you like?” He asks, not out of a necessity, but from a genuine interest in knowing. He quite likes it when you talk, he’s discovered, content to listen and absorb your voice like the sun.
“Reading,” You say definitively, “Exploring. People. Being outdoors. I love the ocean; when I was a child-” You shift, turning to face Bucky, finding him watching you intently. “When I was a child, we would come to Brooklynn every summer for two weeks. I looked forward to it all year. My mother loved the ocean too. We would hunt for seashells for hours and hours, until our skin was burned and my father begged us to come inside. When I was four-” You trail, exhaling sharply as a shadow crosses your face. “My mother fell ill on our travels. The doctors couldn’t make it in time; I think there was a storm. She died three days later.”
The memory sits in your chest, clear as day. Tatiana singing softly in your ear as you cried, rocking you in time to Fawn playing the flute comfortingly outside the door to your mother’s sick room. Ariadne standing over you and your sisters, whispering with Belle about how unfair it was that you all weren’t allowed to see your mother, reduced to waiting outside her room. Will, sitting on the opposite side of the hallway, stacking wooden blocks as tall as he could before they toppled over, eyes glazed over. Lillian came out of the room, silently saying something to Andromeda and shaking her head, joining the seven of you on the floor. “I haven’t been to Brooklynn since. Haven’t seen the ocean. But I know in my soul, it will be as though I never left.” You look back down. “I don’t know how much I remember anymore.”
Bucky takes your hand and squeezes, “then let’s go.”
You furrow your eyebrows, “Go?”
“To the ocean.”
Bucky thinks he’d trade his entire kingdom away just to see your face light up like this once more.
“Really? You mean it?” Your voice is daring, hopeful, as though he would take it away at any moment and announce he was playing a cruel joke on you.
Bucky helps you to your feet, brushing some hair from your face and and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Entirely.”
Bucky picks one of his private beaches that’s only a few minutes drive from the gardens. It has soft waves and a rocky cove that shields it from view of the public. Dolphins can be seen around sunset and colorful fish circle jovially in some tide pools.
Your eyes are wide with excitement from the second he stops the carriage, scrambling down and grabbing his wrist as you run to the water. Stumbling over the sand, the last of your hair falls down from the half-up hairstyle Wanda had done this morning before you left. Hair flies freely in the wind, tangling hopelessly. Laughter tears from your chest as you run, looking back at Bucky who can’t contain his smile either. Suddenly, you stop only feet from the water, stumbling as your face drops.
“What’s wrong?”
Releasing his wrist, you wring your hands nervously, “what if it’s not what I want it to be?”
“It will be.”
“How are you so sure?”
Bucky studies you, searching your face as though he’s found something. He’s sure because he can’t remember the last time he was this excited to spend time with someone. The last time he got to see joy and hope on someone’s face because he was doing something they wanted to do, not the other way around. Because he’s watched you talk about the ocean, seen the way your eyes linger on the paintings in the castle and the coast as you drove by. He feels the tugging in his heart, felt the longing of closer.
“Only someone worried that they would love something so much would be afraid to do it.” He offers instead.
This, you realize, is love. You love him. Deep true love, not the kind you thought you knew. Love is to be truly seen. He sees you. To be afraid and jump anyways.
It’s too soon, you think. Far too soon to say it out loud, much less consciously think it, but you know it, mind racing all the same. Your eyes beg him, asking for a quiet recognition of ‘you know me.’
“So,” Bucky prompts, motioning to the water, “are we going in?”
Pressing your lips together, you suppress a smile as you nod, kicking away your impractical. His boots follow your shoes, waiting neatly next to yours and you step into the water.
Oh. Oh.
You hike your skirt to your knees, wading deeper and laughing in disbelief. Fuck propriety and fuck rules and fuck whatever made you wait this long to feel this. Bucky comes to stand next to you, his own pants rolled up as he catalogs your reaction. “Well?”
You laugh like you can’t believe it, wiggling your toes in the sand beneath your feet. “You were right,” you exclaim, “I do love it.”
Bucky can’t resist smirking, a smug pride settling in his chest with the knowledge that he made you this happy. Still, he is overcome with something boyishly mischievous and sticky. If you ever asked, he would say that’s why he leaned down to scoop up a handful of water and flick it at your arm.
Most women he’s met would gasp in disbelief and storm away, forcing him to grovel for forgiveness, but your response is far more daring and something no one would ever dare to consider doing to a crown prince.
Clenching your skirts tighter in your fist, you kick a wave of water at him, sending enough at him to soak his lower front in cool ocean water. You pause for a second, a mischievous glint in your eyes before you turn and take off. Water splashes wildly around you, shrieked laughter echoing down the beach. “Hey!” Bucky shouts, giving chase, “get back here!”
With your skirts soaked from the waist down and the water slowing you down, Bucky’s long legs catch you easily, reaching down to splash at your back again before wrapping his arms around your waist. Your back is pulled into his chest, laughter fading as you turn into him, steading yourself with a hand on his chest, above his pounding heart.
“Got you,” he husks. He leans closer, your breath catching as his nose brushes yours.
The moment is interrupted by the crashing of an errant wave against you, knocking you to your ass, water soaking the rest of your dress. Bucky fared better than you, boulder that he is, looking down at you in horror.
“Shit,” he curses, holding out a hand. “Are you alright-”
Wrapping your hand around his, you dig your feet into the sand and give a sharp tug, pulling his unsuspecting form down, arms caging around your head to catch himself.
This is far more charged than your former position. His body is warm despite being soaking wet, his lower half pressed to yours with no urgency to move away as he leans down. Or you lean up. There’s no clear answer and you’re not inclined to find one as your lips meet.
The kiss is more charged than it was at Willowstream. More desperate than that one, lips moving with urgency to say what words can’t. All pressure and no gentleness. You move with him, pressing deeper and gasping when Bucky’s tongue prods your lower lip, slipping into your mouth greedily. His hand traces down your body, digging his fingers into your thigh and hitching it over his hip. Canting your hips up, you can feel his length pressing against you through his pants. Your hand grasps his neck, whimpering his name as he moves to your neck, pressing one, two, three wet kisses to the sick of your neck. He groans low and guttural as you grind yourself up into him.
Your hair is now soaked with salty seawater, the waves crashing around your body as Bucky grabs at your dress, fumbling for whatever ties and buttons he can reach. The fabric is heavy, clinging to your body like a second skin. You don’t bother trying to pull your arms from the sleeves, letting it hang open. His own shirt is easily pulled away from him and tossed further up the beach, your skirt following carelessly. Hot skin presses to your chemise as he tugs at your slip. The outline of your body is clear through the fabric, now sheer from the water. Tugging easily at the fabric, it rips, reduced to nothing but a pile of rags. A groan tears from his throat as his hands roam your soft flesh, searching for the best places to hold onto but never stopping in one place for long, greedy to discover more.
Bucky groans into your mouth as your fingers trace the ridges of his abs, physically shuddering when you run them along his waistband. Your own wandering hands embolden his tongue to slide fervently against yours as he palms at your breast. If your nipples weren’t hard before, they could cut glass now, stiff peaks poking against his warm palm. You arch into his touch, silently asking for more pressure, more him. Bucky’s fingers wrap around your right nipple, pinching and rolling the bud to pull soft moans of his name from your mouth.
“You feel so good.” He murmurs, voice muffled against your collarbone. You can only gasp in response, digging your nails into his bicep.
His hand traces down your stomach, hovering right above your slit. His middle finger drags through your slick, gathering it at your clit and circling. “Can I-” He whispered, raising his head slightly, as though he couldn’t possibly bear to be further than a few inches from you.
You nod, reaching down to his length. You palm him as he strokes you, eliciting quiet moans from each other.
Looking up at him, your eyes meet his hooded blue ones, suddenly shy despite the fact that his throbbing erection was in your hand, no one could possibly see you, and his want seemed to outweigh your own. “I’ve never done this before. I-I don’t know how.”
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you as he pulled his hand from between your legs, running along your thigh to hold your hip in place. He settles back on his knees, acting as a breaker for the waves and leaving you utterly exposed to his gaze. You shudder as his fingers return to graze your clit, a high pitched gasp tearing from your lips. “Shh,” he murmurs, unable to tear his eyes from your face, cataloging every twitch and reaction of your body. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”
He inserts a single finger, curling it against your walls. The movement causes your back to arch into him, eliciting a cry of his name from your lips. “Buck-y oh-!” His thumb targets your clit, circling and stimulating the little bud with the experienced precision of someone who derives their pleasure from their partner. The action sends tingling waves of pleasure through your body, unconsciously arching into his touch. He plays your body like an instrument, pulling pleasure from you like he would drown without it. Bucky catalogues your reactions, pushing another finger in and grunting at the way you tighten around him again, clenching and canting your hips to meet his movements.
“You’re doing so good, doll. So perfect, just for me.”
“J-Just for ah- you!” You echo, eyes bleary as you try to lift your head to see him. The sight before you is magnificent; Bucky buried knuckle deep in your cunt, meaty thighs holding your legs apart to allow him to work. An arrogant smirk plays on his shiny, swollen lips, so incredibly pleased with his abilities.
A knot in your lower belly forms with every twitch of his fingers, but as soon as it arrives, Bucky pulls his hand away, quickly undoing his pants.
“Why- why did you stop?” You cry, propping yourself onto your elbows. Tears of frustration well in your eyes as your pussy flutters around nothing, begging for more.
Bucky leans back over you, coaxing you down onto your back and draping himself over you like a blanket. His sweet kiss is nothing like the obscenity between your legs as his hard cock presses against your weeping folds.
“I’m sorry, darling, but I’m selfish. I want to feel you around me when I make you come for the first time.”
Eyes wide and mouth slack, you watch as with one swift movement, he pulls himself out, fisting himself and fully running the tip through your folds. Any frustration you could have had in the prior moment about the retraction of his touch is resolved, a hot pressure pushing at your weeping hole.
“It’s- it’s big.” You gasp as the tip breaches you, looking down to be met with the obscene sight of where your bodies meet. Bucky leans down to press a featherlight kiss to your lips. “Bucky, please!”
“We’ll make it fit,” he whispers against your lips, pushing further in. “Just let me in, sweetheart.”
You throw your head back, the sand from the beach scratching abrasively against your scalp, but you don’t care. Bucky is all-consuming, slowly claiming your body as his own with every inch of himself he pushes into you. The feeling was so strange, your body unaccustomed to the feeling, but you couldn’t help but want more. The sensation overwhelmed Bucky, resisting the urge to push inside you in one fell swoop with every mewl and clench of your body around him.
“Bucky, please!” You cry, unsure what exactly you’re asking for but begging all the same. A hand tangles itself into his damp hair again, tugging at the locks and eliciting a groan from him. He rocks his hips again, pressing deeper until your hips are flush to his. You freeze against him, his chest heaving against yours with barely contained restraint. The tip of his cock pressing against your womb, your pussy stuffed full with him. The gentlest shift of his hips recast the intrusion entirely in pleasure. The consuming stretch of your body singing Bucky’s name as though it could not fathom ever existing without it. A loud moan tore from your lips, echoing around the deserted beach.
Bucky didn’t move, savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. He brought his hand to your face, tugging your lip down with his thumb. “You’re so perfect,” He gritted, “like you were made for me- fuck. So tight.”
You let out an airy sigh, closing your lips around his thumb and sucking the tip into his mouth. With your eyes maintaining eye contact with him, Bucky felt the last of his restraint disappear, pulling his length from your cunt and slamming back in one smooth thrust. He built his rhythm easily, each press of his cock into your warm heat sent a shock of pleasure through your body, the coil in your stomach growing again.
“You’re doing so perfect for me.” Bucky moaned, waves crashing around the two of you. You felt yourself struggling for control as your peak grew. Your eyes struggled to stay open, vision blurring as Bucky moved above you. “Fucking Chirst, you’re so wet.”
Bucky kept his rhythm, hips bucking against you with clinical precision. You try desperately to maintain a shred of dignity as your clit throbs in time with his movements. Sensing your need, he slides his fingers between the two of you to carefully rub patterns on your swollen clit. Dignity fully gone, you cry out his name, thanking him in high pitched gasps.
“That’s right,” he coos, pecking your lips sweetly in an action entirely in opposition what is happening below your waist, “let me hear it. Let me know how much you like me filling you like this.”
“You- I- ah! I’m going to- mphh!” Another moan is muffled against his lips with a hot kiss, tongues tangling with each other’s. Even the waves cannot cover the sound of his skin slapping against yours, wet plaps that should make you blush, but don’t.
What does make your blood run hot is the squelch of your wetness with every push inside you.
“I- Bucky- I can’t oh!” Your release crashes over you like the waves of the ocean, unrelenting and consuming. The fluttering of your walls around him shatters the remainders of Bucky’s restraint, chasing his own pleasure with sloppy thrusts.
“Sweetheart, I’m close. You’re going to take it, okay? You can- ah- I know you can.” You nodded hurriedly, wrapping your leg around his waist to keep him close to you and encouraging him to fill you. His hand palms aggressively at one breast, nipping and biting at the other while he pushes into you with a fervor unlike before.
His own release came with a grunt of your name and a roar of ecstasy ripping from his throat as though it could not be contained. You felt his release fill you, marking you as his like never before. He owned you, from the inside out. He throbbed within you, kissing languidly at your neck as though he never wanted to let you go.
“I know you,” he whispers, so quietly you can barely hear him, “I don’t know how, but I know you.”
You don’t respond, unable to summon a response through your gooey, pleasure drunk brain. You aren’t even sure if you heard him right, but he knows.
Inside you, his tip kept spurting warmth against your cervix, pumping you so full that you felt the excess of his seed overflowing out of your tired cunt.
Neither of you move or say anything for a long moment, sharing breaths. Bucky softens inside you, slowly pulling himself out with a ‘pop!’ and a whimper from your lips at the sudden ache of emptiness. He sits up and freezes, looking over you with something akin to horror.
There is something about you so familiar, so comforting, the back of his mind whispers. The eyes of his angel peirce his brain, blood running cold.
“I-” You begin, still starry-eyed in your post-orgasmic haze, but Bucky stops you.
“We should get back.”
He helps you to your feet, tucking himself away with precision and avoiding eye contact. Bucky refastens the buttons of your dress and replaces your skirt with tactical precision, as though you’re an essay that needs editing. His touches are fleeting, all warmth and tenderness gone. Silently, he leads you back up the beach and picks up your shoes, carrying them to the carriage. Something cold and rotten settles in your stomach, feeling as though ice has begun to run through your veins.
When he begins to guide the horses back towards the main road to the palace, you feel tears prick your eyes.
“Did I-”
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, but doesn’t look over at you either. “No. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.”
You want to scream, for the first time feeling like leaving Clare-Auberge was a mistake, that the man you’d dreamed of for years wasn’t what you had imagined.
“Okay,” you say thickly, barely a whisper. Turning to look at the cliffs, a cloudy sunset over them, Bucky doesn’t notice you swiping furiously at the one tear you’ve allowed to fall.
PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader
SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.
WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?).
WORD COUNT: 6k
A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!
The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.
Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up.
His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.
The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.
Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.
Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space.
He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.
The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.
The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.
He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.
Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.
Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.
He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.
This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.
Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.
“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.”
“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.
“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.
“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.
“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.
“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.
Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”
Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”
“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.”
“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.
“What?”
It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.
“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.
Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”
The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”
The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway.
“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.
He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.
Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”
He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.
She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”
Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup.
She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.
“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”
With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.
A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling.
“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.”
Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.
Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”
His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”
Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—”
“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”
Is he pouting?
“I finished the whole thing in two days.”
Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter.
“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”
And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.
It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”
Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.
The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.
Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.
“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”
“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.
“Excuse me?”
“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it.
“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.
“Louder.”
“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.
Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”
Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb.
Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.
Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.
“My wife has a beautiful garden.”
Madison goes still.
“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.
She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.
“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica!
“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.
“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”
Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”
And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures.
“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”
Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream.
“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”
“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books.
Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.
“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”
Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”
“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.
“Such a brilliant woman.”
Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.
It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.
Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.
“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”
He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”
Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.
“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.
James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?
“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”
Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.
The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.
Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!
Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.
“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression.
“My wife.”
Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”
“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.
Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.
“I—”
“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.”
“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.
“FUCK!”
Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise.
It's Madison and she is... a mess.
Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee.
They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here.
“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks.
“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk.
“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.
“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface.
Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.
“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”
“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.
“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”
“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?”
At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.
“For God’s sake, is she even real?”
As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.
The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts.
“Sweetheart.”
Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room.
“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms.
“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs.
“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”
“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words.
“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.”
Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl.
“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.
“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.
The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”
“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.
It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month.
Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time.
And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling.
So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.
Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.
From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing.
“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders.
He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.”
“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.
“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”
“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.
“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”
Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.”
“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases.
“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.
“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”
Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up.
“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.
“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”
He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.
“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”
“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”
Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.
“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?”
Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps.
“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more.
“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”
Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice.
“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”
You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.
Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream.
“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses.
“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips.
“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.
His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.
“I have a hunch we did, my love.”
She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life.
But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown.
And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.
It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular.
With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”
Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator.
⟡˙˖ ıl. pairing. sugar daddy bucky x female reader
⤷ ⟡˙˖ ıl. synopsis. you have been feeling neglected and undesired for the past couple months due to your sugar daddy being called in for work multiple times a day—in solution, you offered a festive ultimatum: "be here, with me, or else i’ll have to remind myself that i have options."
⟡˙˖ ıl. content warning. 18+ MDNI smut (multiple sex scenes. unprotected p in v, teehee shower sex, hair pulling, creampie, fingering, oral - m & f receiving, breeding kink if u squint) porn with a dash of plot, age gap (early twenties reader and mid forties bucky), no use of y/n, lower-case intended. reader is def dickmatized but who wouldn’t be? & bucky is downbad + bucky has a metal arm but this is a modern au (i just have a kink for that metal arm, man. sorry not sorry xx) BDB (big dick bucky heehehhehe)
⟡˙˖ ıl. from lovie. coincidentally, @houseofhyde and i had the same idea for “buy me presents” and decided to write sugar-daddy!bucky. totally different plots, though, so don’t come for me. go check out her hyde-mas masterlist!
to quote what hyde told me, “maybe sugar daddy bucky will be our joshua basset, aka the man that connects us <3” livbrina stans, we rise! insert that low-resolution, zoomed-in photo of sabrina and olivia hugging at the 2025 grammys. (it was monumental.)
main masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ winter masterlist
you met bucky barnes by accident. not the cinematic kind—no spilled drinks, no knowing glances across a room. just you, killing time in a hotel bar you didn’t belong in, wearing something too soft for somewhere that expensive, wondering if you could justify ordering a second drink on someone else’s card.
it started when your supposed date didn’t show up. or maybe he decided he didn’t want to—that part becomes irrelevant the longer you stare at the empty seat across from you.
the plan was simple. nothing fancy, nothing that required effort beyond showing up. that’s why you wore a hoodie, a jacket layered over it to keep the cold from settling into your bones. sweats, your everyday shoes. practical and comfortable.
the diner smelled like coffee and grease. a bell chimed when you slid into the booth, the vinyl was cool against the back of your legs. you set your phone on the table, face-up.
minutes passed. then more.
the waitress refilled your water without asking, her eyes flicking briefly to the empty seat across from you.
then your phone buzzed.
can’t go, sorry lol.
that was it. no explanation. no apology worth the word. just a lazy little lol, tossed in like it might soften the blow. like it might turn embarrassment into something laughable.
you order a drink you don’t really want, just to justify sitting there a little longer. when it comes, you tip the waitress generously because she smiles like she knows you’ve been stood up.
outside, the cold air of december bites through the fabric and straight into your chest. you walk without direction, hands shoved into your pockets, and breath fogging in front of you, until the warm glow of a nearby hotel pulls you in like gravity.
the bar is dim and polished, all low lighting and murmured conversations. you take a seat and immediately order something strong. men notice you quickly—they all offered to buy you a drink but you declined them all politely.
you’re not here to be picked up.
until one businessman manages to break through the blur.
he stops beside the empty stool and asks if the seat next to you is taken. his voice is low, the kind that doesn’t need to compete with the noise of the bar to be heard. it slides in easy (wink wink), almost hypnotic, and you feel yourself straighten up without meaning to.
you tell him no, though it technically is. reserved for your dignity, which you misplaced somewhere between the first sip and the halfway mark of your second drink.
“i’m james barnes,” he says, and instead of immediately sitting, he offers his hand.
you tilt your head, studying him. men who introduce themselves like that usually want something more than a quick night. as attractive as he is—and he is—you’re not here to be impulsive. not tonight.
still, you take his hand. “and i’m married.” you say, flashing him a smile that’s sweet on the surface and unmistakably sarcastic underneath.
he laughs softly, clearly picking up on the tone—and just as clearly taking your words at face value. “you look pretty young to be married, no?”
his eyes sweep the room in an exaggerated, almost theatrical search, scanning nearby tables and passing faces. “i don’t see your husband anywhere.”
“marriage problems, s’why i’m drinking tonight.” you reply easily, lifting your glass and taking a slow sip, letting the lie settle comfortably on your tongue.
“like what? he had an affair?” he signals the bartender for a drink with two fingers.
his gaze never leaves you—not in a way that feels invasive, but attentive. definitely not like the other men who looked at you and immediately started imagining where you’d fit into their night. his gaze lingered, thoughtful.
“look, mr. barnes,” you begin, turning fully toward him this time. “i was lying about being married. i just wanted you to leave me alone.”
he doesn’t interrupt. he watches you with quiet focus, as if weighing the confession rather than reacting to it. then his mouth curves and a low chuckle slips out.
“tell me to leave,” he says. “and i will.”
everything sensible inside you screams to nod, to murmur a polite thanks, retreat back into yourself and finish your drink alone.
but he hasn’t looked away. hasn’t shifted or filled the silence. he’s still there, patient, waiting like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be.
“fuck it,” you whisper, barely louder than your breath, the words tasting reckless as they leave your mouth.
you lean in closer, close enough that the warmth of him seeps into your space, he tilts his head just slightly to hear you over the murmur of the bar.
“stay.” you say softly.
the night moves forward in a way that feels unplanned, shaped by shared glances and the slow warmth of alcohol.
for a while, the two of you sit beside each other without speaking. it isn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar, like you’re both aware of the space you’re sharing and waiting to see who will cross it first.
the music hums low in the background, glasses leaving damp rings on the bar as minutes slip by.
eventually, the alcohol settles in enough to loosen your nerves. conversation finds its way back easily, as if it had only stepped aside for a moment.
“i don’t mean to be offensive,” you say, pausing when your words start to blur together. “but how old are you?” the question comes out softer than you intend.
he turns toward you with a quiet laugh, clearly amused. “how old d’ya think i am, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning closer so his voice doesn’t have to compete with the noise around you.
you look away, fixing your attention on the bar instead. even through the haze, you catch the intent behind his tone. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he isn’t trying to hide it.
“no offense—again,” you add quickly, lifting your glass for a sip. “i’d guess… mid-thirties?”
his laughter comes, deeper this time, like the answer genuinely entertained him. “try older.” you glance back at him, brows lifting despite yourself. “older how?”
he takes a moment before answering, studying you with an expression that feels measured rather than guarded. “old enough to know what i want,” he says. after a brief pause, “and old enough not to pretend otherwise.”
something about the certainty in his words settles into your chest. there’s no embarrassment there, no need to explain or justify himself. just confidence shaped by time and experience.
you turn your glass slowly between your fingers. “and does that usually work?” you ask, attempting to sound casual.
his gaze shifts to you, steady and unmistakably focused. “depends,” he replies. “is it working on you?”
you don’t answer him right away. instead, you turn your head and look toward the bar, letting the moment pass without filling it.
the quiet settles between the two of you again until it fades into the background with every drink you both keep ordering.
after a while, you glance back at him, brow lifting as the thought returns. “it’s a reach if i go past mid thirties?” you ask, voice steadier now that you’ve decided to revisit the topic.
he hums in response and lifts his glass of bourbon, taking a measured sip before shrugging. “i’m flattered.” when he sets the glass down, his attention settles on you again. he looks at you longer than necessary, not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but with a kind of focus that makes you aware of yourself.
you meet his gaze without looking away, letting it linger right back. the moment stretches until the band hits a louder note, the sudden swell of jazz pulling both of you out of it at once.
you clear your throat, using the interruption to shift things. “can you guess me?” you ask, raising your glass and taking another sip.
he looks at you with mild confusion. “your age?”
you nod, swallowing the sharp taste of your drink. you straighten your posture slightly, pushing your shoulders back as if it might give him a better view to identify how old your features are. you angle your face toward him, silently daring him to get it wrong.
he studies you for a few seconds, his gaze moving over you before dropping back to his glass. “early twenties,” he says, like the answer came easily.
your mouth curves into a wider smile immediately. “ding ding ding,” you reply, playfully, imitating a bell on a game show. “how did you guess that so fast?”
he tilts his head just a bit and clicks his tongue once before answering. “intuition, i guess.”
you watch him for a moment after that, the word settling in your mind. intuition. the way he says it makes it sound like he trusts it. like he’s used to reading people and being right about them. and sitting there beside him, feeling the warmth of alcohol and attention wrapped together, you get the strange sense that he already sees more of you than you meant to show tonight.
and instead of making you pull back, it makes you stay.
silence settles between you again. you busy yourself with your drink, tracing the rim of the glass with your thumb, letting the noise of the bar fill the space instead.
this time, he’s the one who breaks it.
“what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice laced with curiousness. his gaze moves over you, starting at your face and drifting down to your shoes.
it isn’t judgmental. there’s no disapproval in it. if anything, he looks puzzled, like he’s trying to understand how someone dressed like you ended up in a hotel bar filled with tailored suits and polished heels.
you catch on immediately to what he’s asking.
“ah,” you say first, buying yourself a second as you take a sip. the alcohol gives you just enough courage to talk about it.
“a friend set me up with this guy. told me to dress casual.” you let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the bar. “then he bailed when i finally reached the designated spot. didn’t even bother with an explanation.”
your cheeks feel warm, and you keep your gaze fixed anywhere but on him. it isn’t just the outfit that makes you self-conscious. it’s the fact that you got stood up. that you’re sitting here alone, dressed wrong for the room, pretending it doesn’t bother you.
still, you tell yourself it’s better than being overdressed.
“i’m sorry,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing nor flirtiness in his voice. just understanding.
“don’t be,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “he was an ass over text anyway. i don’t even know why i agreed in the first place.” you huff out a small laugh and take another sip. “dating’s really hard these days.”
he nods, lifting his glass in quiet agreement before taking a slow drink. “tell me about it.”
the way he says it makes you think he means it. like he’s been through it too. and suddenly, sitting here with him, the night doesn’t feel like a loss anymore. it feels like it went exactly where it was supposed to.
as the night stretches on—and as drunk as you allow yourself to get—the flirting stops pretending to be subtle.
you lean closer without thinking, the space between you dissolving drink by drink. your palms slide up to the back of your neck, rubbing at the nape as if to ground yourself.
somewhere between shared laughter and the kind of silence that feels companionable rather than awkward, he settles both your tabs without saying a word.
you only notice when the bartender gives a polite nod in his direction and moves on, already wiping down the counter as if the decision had been expected.
it shouldn’t mean anything. it’s just a gesture. still, it makes your cheeks and chest warm.
you glance at your phone, more out of habit than necessity, and decide this is your cue.
you open your mouth to excuse yourself, already lining up the usual reasons. that it’s late. that you have somewhere to be early the next morning. that you really should go. all the polite exits you’ve perfected over time.
but before the words can leave you, his gaze lifts to yours and holds. he sees it immediately. the shift in your posture, the way you’re already halfway out the door in your head.
the corner of his mouth curves upward as he lets out a soft chuckle. “so soon?” he asks, clicking his tongue once, the sound easy and accepting. there’s no disappointment in it, no attempt to change your mind. just acknowledgment.
he stands from his seat and turns toward you, extending his hands again like he did earlier. polite. a goodbye made to look like a formality.
something about that does it.
you find yourself silently grateful for whatever impulse dragged you into this bar tonight, grateful you didn’t go straight home. before you have time to think better of it, your fingers curl around his tie. you tug him down just enough to meet you, and your lips collide with his.
he stills for a brief moment, caught off guard. surprise flickers across his face. he responds without hesitation, hands settling firmly at your hips, grounding and sure, pulling you closer as if it comes naturally to him.
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you don’t remember the night clearly after that. the details blur together, softened by intoxication and the way everything seemed to move too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
what you do remember comes in fragments.
bucky’s veiny, hard shaft stands upwards, tip leaning against your pussy. slowly, he pushes his whole length inside you. he takes a moment, letting your tight cunt adjust to his size before he starts to slide in and out.
“fuck… hmphh—“ you moan out, eyes closed shut as your nails dig and scratch on his shoulders, whimpering. his pace deliberately starts to fasten. his metal hand—which you had just noticed—squeezed your round tits, moulding them ruthlessly like he owns them.
the bed creaks under as bucky continuously thurst his throbbing cock in and out of you, whispering incoherent sweet nothings into your ear.
your moans were muffled by some fabric—the hotel’s comforter, maybe—as he brings his metal hand that was once placed on your left bosom down to your clit, rubbing the bud.
the feeling of overstimulation washes over you as you scream, hard, onto the pillow. “fuck—james…” you moan but before you could utter another word out, he presses both your lips together, swallowing your moans.
he pulls back, his thrusts sloppy but deliberate. “bucky…” his name leaves his mouth in a breathless whisper. he exhales hard at the sound, close enough that you feel it. you would’ve tilted your head in confusion if the sensation he’s giving you hadn’t already stolen your balance. “call me bucky.”
his palms slowly starts to wander around until it falls upon your thigh, he pins your legs on your shoulders as his thrust starts to fasten, reaching for both your highs.
within a minute, he pours his warm load inside, earning a loud moan from you. “f–fuck! bucky…” his thurst doesn’t stop, he continues to jerk his hip to fill you to the brim of his every drop.
a blink, and you’re standing beneath the spray of a shower, warmth sliding down your skin before disappearing against the tile. the water pours over your back, warm and steady—until you feel him step closer behind you, his presence unmistakable even before he touches you.
his cold metal hand contrasts with the warmth of the water tracing your body, making you shiver at the unexpected chill of his touch. you feel him pressing his body against your back, his lips slightly kissing your shoulder as his big, rough and calloused hands start to roam on your curves.
your breath catches when you feel his cock, already hard, press between your thighs, his lips press soft, gentle kisses on the curve of your shoulder.
his metal hand that was once placed on your hip to ground you slowly slides up, cupping your breast, his thumb circling your nipple, slow and torturous. you press back against him, moaning.
you feel his flesh hand grip on your hip before it leaves to guide his hardened cock between your folds. he slides it through your slick heat, letting the water and where your flush of desire gather.
he groans like he's been holding back for too long, and then he slams into you. you cry out, pulling away from his chest as your forehead hits the wet tiles, softly,
your arms are braced against the wall as he starts thrusting hard, relentlessly driving into you with the sound of water as skin and moans echoing all around.
“fuck, you feel so good like this,” he pants against your neck, one hand on your waist, the other sliding around to rub your clit in rough little circles. “s’fucking tight, sweetheart.” he groans.
you feel the pressure building fast as his cock hits deep and perfect, brushing over your spot over and over again. bucky then grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so your back arches just for him.
“look at you,” he growls, fucking you harder, deeper. “y’gonna come for me in this shower? make a mess all over my cock while the water washes it down the drain?”
you nod furiously, “shit—yes!” you screamed, nails scratching on the glass barrier, your breasts are pressed against the wall. a small, subtle smirk forms at his lips when he feels your walls clench around him.
your body intensifies as your climax shatters. your legs start to tremble, voice breaking as your orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat pulsing around his cock while he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
“fuck baby, i’m g-gonna fill you up.” another more brutal thrust, he groans, spilling inside you, filling you to the brim as the water keeps pouring down your bodies.
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it didn’t start as an arrangement. not officially. it began quietly. dinners that stretched late into the night. one meal turned into another, then into weekends away where time seemed to loosen its grip on both of you.
weekends turned into small, careful gestures. envelopes slipped into your bag “for convenience,” always phrased like an afterthought, never framed as obligation. gifts followed, expensive but considered, chosen with enough attention that they felt personal rather than transactional.
he never said the word sugar. neither did you.
you liked how steady he was. how he never seemed in a hurry to define things, to rush toward labels or expectations. he moved with certainty, like he already knew where he stood and didn’t need to prove it. being with him felt grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.
he never asked you to be his girlfriend.
and strangely, that never bothered you.
the relationship stayed unlabeled, floating somewhere between companionship and something deeper. you didn’t need a title to understand what it was. the way he spoiled you without hesitation, the way he paid attention to the small details of your days, the way he made space for you in his life without making it feel like a negotiation. it all spoke louder than any label ever could.
you already knew what it was, even if no one said it out loud. and for a long time, that was more than enough.
one night, during one of your date nights—the seventh, if you were counting—he takes you somewhere romantic, a table tucked in a quiet corner for just the two of you.
amid shared laughter and stolen bites from each other’s plates, the evening takes on a softness you don’t quite know what to do with. candlelight reflects in his glass, in the careful way he watches you like he’s memorizing the moment.
at some point, he reaches across the table. not abruptly. not like he’s about to make a grand declaration. his hand comes to rest near yours, close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
his voice stays steady, calm, but there’s intention behind it. his eyes don’t wander. they stay on you.
he tells you he wants you to move in with him.
the words land heavier than you expect, tightening something in your chest. not with fear, but with the weight of being chosen so plainly. there’s no dramatic buildup, no pressure in his tone. it feels like an offer he’s already thought through, one he wouldn’t make unless he meant it.
the answer comes easily, instinctively, before doubt has a chance to creep in.
you say yes.
the relief that crosses his face is subtle, but you catch it. his thumb brushes against your fingers. and in that quiet exchange, it feels like something shifts.
by the next day, boxes are stacked neatly around his house, your favorite things already finding corners and shelves as if they’d always belonged there.
you stand outside, watching as the movers carry box after box into his sprawling home. the sound of wood scraping against the porch and the faint hum of conversation from the movers fills the space between you, but it feels distant, like background noise to everything else.
he’s behind you. arms wrapped around your waist, firm and warm, sliding down until his palms settle casually tucked in the back pockets of your jeans.
he turns just enough to greet the movers with a polite smile. you notice the neighbors peeking from behind curtains and over fences. judging, no doubt, silently questioning what a girl your age is doing moving in with a man like him.
and yes, bucky isn’t exactly young. far from it, actually. his crow’s feet become visible when he smiles, and the salt-and-pepper streaks in his beard have grown long enough to remind anyone who looks that he isn’t getting any younger.
but that’s exactly what you like about him. the way he carries himself—not frantic, not chaotic. bucky’s relaxed, more intentional than most men your age, who wake up at five in the afternoon just to hit the club, chase fleeting highs, or pretend they have their lives together.
bucky doesn’t need to prove anything, and somehow, that makes him irresistible. you rest your head briefly against his chest, inhale the faint scent of his cologne mixed with leather and old books, and feel a rare, quiet kind of contentment settle over you.
the first night you stay over properly, you wander through the cabin barefoot, touching things like you’re cataloging them. the place smells like cedar and coffee and something faintly metallic, like winter air trapped inside wood. it’s too big for one person, you think.
bucky watches you from the doorway, arms crossed. he doesn’t hover, he just lets you exist in the space, lets the place learn you.
you stop in front of a bookshelf that takes up an entire wall. hardcovers, spines worn, margins bent and annotated. nothing decorative, everything looked used.
“you’ve read all of these?” you ask, glancing back at him.
“most,” he says. then, after a beat, “some more than once.” he shifts his weight slightly, pushing off the table with his hip. his gaze never leaves yours as he walks over toward where you’re standing.
you hum, running a finger along the spines. “that explains a lot.” he arches a brow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“you don’t talk like a guy who lives on energy drinks and podcasts,” you reply lightly. he laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
“is that the bar now?” bucky takes a careful step closer. the space between you shrinks until you’re well within his reach, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, the quiet steadiness of his presence.
his arm slips around your waist, drawing you back against him until your breasts meets his chest. his hand settles at your side, thumb brushing lightly as if to anchor you.
“for men my age?” you glance up at him, chin tipping just enough to meet his eyes. he raises a brow in response, the corner of his mouth twitching as the unspoken question hangs between you—“are you calling me old?”
you laugh softly. fingers trail over his chest, following the solid line of him like you’re proving a point. “absolutely,”
your fingers drift lower, brushing against the edge of his pants, a teasing touch you can’t seem to stop. without a word, bucky leans in.
his lips meet yours. your body instinctively leans into his, the press of him against you warm and steady. his hands find your waist, holding you closer, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
he pulls back slightly, just enough that he can study your expression, and silence settles between you. it isn’t heavy or uncomfortable, but it hangs in the air, expectant.
his eyes roam over your face slowly, slipping from your eyes to your lips and back again.
“doll,” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his arms that circle around you, pulls you closer. it’s not possessive; it’s steady, grounding. the press of his chest against yours feels like an anchor, tethering you to the moment and to him.
your palms rise to rest lightly against his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt as if for reassurance. you tilt your head upward toward him, letting out a soft hum in response.
“remind me,” he says, voice low, carrying a weight that pulls your attention fully to him.
you raise a brow, a small, confused smile tugging at your lips. “bucky… what are you talking about?” you ask, curiosity laced behind your tone.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, he studies you, his gaze patient, like he’s weighing how much to reveal, or maybe just savoring the anticipation.
“that night,” he starts, voice softer now. “when we both were drunk.”
something clicks in your mind. the memory surfaces, hazy at first, like smoke curling in the air, then sharpening. you know exactly what he’s talking about.
you shift slightly, still pressed against him, your head brushing his chest, and you let out a small, soft sigh. he tightens his hold just a fraction.
that night in the hotel bar feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. the drinks blurred the edges of everything. and the next morning, you woke up to the quiet weight of him beside you, the sheets tangled around both of you, bodies bare and pressed together.
as much as you cherished how that one night had shifted the course of your life, you sometimes regretted being drunk enough to forget. not the act itself—you had no complaints there—but the details, the little fragments of touch, of words, of laughter lost to the haze of alcohol.
since that night, no matter how many dates you had gone on, how many weekend trips or long months spent in each other’s company, that night remained the first and only time you had slept together. not that you minded. you liked that he had been careful—a gentleman in every sense, even when everything else had been reckless.
“i don’t know,” you admit softly, tracing lazy circles on his chest with your fingertips, “i don’t remember half of what happened.” the words come out slow, a little unsure.
“all i know is that i enjoyed myself with you.” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes briefly before letting them fall, offering reassurance.
he doesn’t look away. his gaze holds steady, fixed on you. “i want you sober,” he says, voice low, insistent but gentle. “i want to remember all of it.”
“we can make a new memory of that night, if that’s what you want,” you murmur, letting a suggestive, teasing smile curl at the corner of your lips. it’s subtle enough to catch his attention, enough to pull a similar response from him.
his own lips twitch in amusement, that small, knowing smile that always seems to promise something more than words ever could.
then he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours. the kiss starts soft and you respond in kind, meeting him halfway.
his hands, which had once rested at your waist, slide down, wrapping under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. your arms instinctively loop around his neck, fingers tangling in the strands of his hair as your legs bend slightly, molding your weight against his body.
he doesn’t break the kiss. he deepens it slowly, lips moving against yours with patient intensity, letting the moment build.
he presses your back gently against the wall. your bare feet press against the cold marble floor. bucky’s warmth radiates from his body pressing against you.
his metal hand moves slowly, deliberately, rising to cup your face. the coolness of the metal contrasts with the heat of his touch, sending a shiver through you.
he pulls you in closer, closer than you could have imagined, until your foreheads almost touch and the world around you feels distant.
he pulls back just slightly, giving both of you a moment to catch your breath from the kiss. both your chests rise and fall rapidly, breaths heavy and uneven, as your eyes lock.
his gaze is intent, questioning almost, the kind of look that asks for your consent without words, his doe eyes asks if this is still what you want.
you don’t hesitate. you nod, letting him know that yes, this is what you want. yes, he has permission, even if it feels like he’s asking just to be certain.
he leans down again, slower this time, letting the moment linger. his lips brush yours briefly before moving lower, and you feel the warmth of him against your neck.
his teeth graze slightly, teasing, before settling into a more insistent press, lips and tongue tracing your skin in a way that makes your head tilt back instinctively.
the wall behind you holds you in place, your hands find their way to his shoulders, then his hair, as your body reacts to the steady motion of his touch.
reflexively, you let out a moan when bucky’s lips start to suck on your collarbone, leaving behind red marks that you know for sure will darken overtime.
his tongue traces over your bruised skin, almost comforting, before his knees start to bend down. finally, he kneels in front of you as he holds straight and steady eye contact.
your hands never leaves his hair, fingers tangling along while he stares at you with complete admiration. his hands move lower along with his body, until it stops to tug at the waistband of your pajama pants.
again, his eyes asks for consent to which you unspokenly respond to by the second time. you nod. and immediately, without hesitation, bucky pulls your pants down, exposing your lace panties and bare thighs to his greedy, lustful gaze.
he places his palm in your inner thigh, gesturing you to open wider for him to which you undoubtedly obliged. his hands slowly crawls upward to your pulsing heat.
he pushes your panties aside as his fingers work their magic on your clit. “fuck… you’re so wet.” he says, his fingers—two, to be exact—slowly slides inside of your hole.
he pulls his digits away as fast as he enters you. immediately, in response, you whine. “bucky…fuck—what? are you kidding me?”
he doesn’t give you time to even utter another sentence out, he pulls your panties down and takes your leg, one by one, placing it each on his shoulders.
all your weight shifted to his upper body and bucky—strong and steady as ever—hasn’t so much as flinched nor has complained.
he latches his lips on your clit and immediately, almost as if on instinct, you throw your head back, moaning, as your eyes roll backwards caused by the immense pleasure of his tongue.
his metal hand move from your thighs down to the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he frees his throbbing cock. his length sprung out, hitting his abs in the process, your take a glance down, and a gasp leaves your mouth.
sure, you’d been drunk that night—but you definitely didn’t expect, nor remember, him being that big. bucky’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk the moment he hears a sharp gasp leave your lips.
he pulls back, looking at you with the softest, almost puppy-like eyes he can manage—like whatever he’s doing is completely innocent, which only makes the irony of it all worse.
he takes his large cock in his hands, stroking it up and down gently as he maintains soft, steady eye contact with you. “that’s gonna stretch your pussy open, baby.”
he guides your right leg back down until your foot meets the carpet. your knees nearly give out when you realize they don’t quite work the way they did before. you would’ve fallen if not for bucky’s arms catching you just in time, steady and firm around you.
“careful now, honey,” he murmurs.
he lowers your left foot to the carpet as he slowly straightens, his flesh hand lingering, tracing the familiar lines of your curves. now you’re face to face with him—almost. you still have to tilt your chin up, just a little, to meet his gaze.
bucky teases his large tip to your entrance as you whine, rocking your hips, desperate and searching for any type of friction. “shit—bucky… bucky, please.” you beg, needy for the stretch.
“oh, honey. there’s no need to beg.” without giving you much space to respond, he thrusts his hip so quick that you didn’t even have the time to adjust to his size. your newly painted nails dig on his back as he continues to fuck himself into you.
“b-buck…” his pace fastens, his large cock slides in and out of you easily. he leans over, colliding both your lips together as he swallows your moans. “fuck…” he groans, biting your lower lip before dipping down to press a trail of wet kisses down your collarbone.
his metal hand grabs ahold of your bosom, squeezing onto them, thumbs flicking across your perky nipples as he makes use of his mouth. as you throw your head back, he takes it as an opportunity to make your body his own canvas.
“remind me—fuck—remind me how hard i came that night because of you.” he thrusts harder. his words were so explicit but you could still hear a gentle sweetness behind his tone. and as much as you want to answer him, you can’t help it—soft moaning sounds slip past your lips before you can even stop them.
“i’m gonna—” the words leave you unfinished, breathless, but he understands anyway.
“yes, baby. that’s right,” bucky murmurs softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “let it out f’me, hm?” his metal fingers glide over your skin, a gentle encouragement, like he’s guiding you all the way through it.
his flesh hand cups your face, caressing it as if to help you reach your climax. it wasn’t long before you a wave of pleasure washes over you when you reached your high.
bucky, though, hasn’t stopped fucking himself into you while he chases for his climax making your knees weaken, barely holding you upright as you cling to his muscular arms, relying on him to keep you steady.
he pulls out when he finally feels that he’s only a couple strokes left to finish. he holds onto you, grounding you to stay up while he jerks his cock, lining it up to your stomach as he spills his hot load to your skin.
“fuck, look at you.” he says with the most admiring expression. “y’gonna have to clean up,” he murmurs before pressing his lips onto yours for a quick peck.
“you’re not tired, are you?” he asks softly, searching your face when he notices how close you are to slipping away from reality and straight into dream land—eyes heavy, grip loose, barely anchored to the moment. you manage a small shake of your head in response.
“good,” he murmurs, a faint smile playing on his lips. “let’s take a shower… and recreate that night.”
for someone you’d half-jokingly expected to be slowed down by age, bucky’s stamina completely caught you off guard.
that night left you pleasantly sore and thoroughly spent, to the point where morning came with stiff movements and a slow, careful waddle from one end of the room to the other.
he trailed after you the entire time, apologizing under his breath, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to help or admire—though the fond amusement in his eyes gave him away.
still, guilt won out. by the time you were fully awake, bucky was there with flowers in hand, your favorite breakfast laid out neatly, and that apologetic smile he only ever wore for you.
he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, like he was making a quiet promise to take better care of you—at least until next time.
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it’s been months since you moved in. long enough that his place no longer feels like a hotel you’re visiting, but not long enough to forget that it was his long before it was yours.
at first, it was fun. waking up in his bed, barefoot mornings in a kitchen with his shirts finding their way into your laundry without either of you acknowledging it.
you liked how easy it felt. how everything just appeared where you needed it. groceries stocked. gas tank full. your card already linked to his accounts.
you didn’t even notice when his attention started splitting. not at first.
it happens on a quiet afternoon. you’re stretched out on the couch, legs draped over his lap while he scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other resting loosely on your thigh. it’s absent, casual, like you’re something he’s used to touching without thinking.
then his phone buzzes. once. twice. and the third time earns an eye roll from you.
you feel it before you see it. the shift in him. the way his jaw tightens slightly and the way his thumb stills against your skin. “work,” he says, already halfway gone.
you hum in response, pretending not to care how his hand slips away as he stands. you tell yourself you’re not that person—the jealous one—you’ve never needed to compete for attention before.
still, when he comes back, phone tucked away like nothing happened, you don’t move your legs back into his lap right away.
and then work started calling more often. you tried to fill the gaps, the hours he was gone, with distractions that looked beautiful from its exterior. long shopping trips where the weight of bags did nothing to fill the emptiness inside.
dinners in softly lit restaurants where the wine tasted sweet, but conversation didn’t quite reach your heart. the quiet of the home, once comforting with him there, now felt hollow, even if every corner still smelled just faintly like him.
you kept busy, told yourself it was normal, told yourself he would return. and for a while, it worked.
until the days grew shorter, and the calendar flipped to late november, and you realized how long it had been since he’d been fully present—not just physically, but fully there, the way he always used to be.
and then december came faster than you expected. the season of giving, of warmth and cheer, of expectation wrapped up in shiny paper and ribbons.
everywhere you looked, lights blinked, bells jingled, and every corner of the city seemed to promise togetherness.
yet here you were, counting the hours, watching the calendar tick forward, feeling the absence more than ever.
it wasn’t that you wanted gifts, not really. it was the reminder that even as the world celebrated togetherness, you were waiting. and you had options.
now, that unlabeled relationship you had with bucky started to gnaw at your mood. it wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was that the absence, the uncertainty that begun to settle into your chest like a quiet weight.
you sighed, curling deeper into the throw blanket on the couch, letting it envelop you like a shield against the emptiness.
your fingers scrolled mindlessly over your phone, until the screen lit up with his contact photo. for a moment, your chest tightened, and then a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.
without hesitation, your thumbs slid over the screen, tapping accept before the third ring even finished.
his face appeared, slightly grainy through the video, framed by the dim light of the hotel room he was staying in for the meantime.
tired, yes—but still devastatingly handsome, the way he always seemed to be even at the end of a long, exhausting day.
“hi, pretty,” he said, his voice low and warm. his eyes, heavy with fatigue, held yours through the screen, and your gaze lingered.
the white shirt he wore clung slightly to his chest, the buttons straining just a touch, and his tie was loosened, lying casually around his neck. he was sitting on the floor as it seems, laptop propped up on a small table, and the sight of him made your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t expected.
“hey,” you whispered back, wishing more than anything that you could reach through the screen and pull him into your arms. “busy day?”
“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through the disheveled hair at the back of his neck. “sorry i didn’t call sooner.”
you forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “it’s fine. i get it… work’s been… work.”
he nodded, his gaze never leaving yours, but you could see it—etched into the lines of his face, the slight slump of his shoulders. the weight of stress pressed on him, and despite all your attempts to stay busy, to distract yourself with shopping trips and dinners and meaningless errands, a wave of longing swept over you.
you missed him. missed his laugh, the low rumble that always made you grin. missed the way his arm would find its way around your shoulders, holding you close without a word. missed how even the most ordinary days, when shared with him, felt somehow extraordinary.
“i was, uh… i was about to eat dinner,” you tell him, holding up the wooden spatula you’d been using to cook so it appeared in the frame.
his eyes widen slightly—not in surprise, but with that quiet interest he always had, the way he seemed curious about the smallest details of your life, as if he wanted to watch everything you did, even something as simple as eating, through the screen.
“what’re you having?” he asks, leaning a little closer to the camera, as if he could somehow peer past it. you shrug, letting your shoulders relax, and reply, “oh, just some veggies.”
he sighs, a low sound that carries more than just longing. “fuck, i missed your homecooked meals,” he mutters, the words soft but heavy, carrying a quiet weight of nostalgia and desire.
you stab a vegetable with your fork, lifting it slowly to your mouth and chew. the mundane motion somehow feels intimate now, shared across distance. “better come home soon,” you joke lightly, but even as the words leave your lips, there’s an undercurrent of truth neither of you needs to say out loud.
he watches you, eyes attentive, jaw slackening just slightly at the sight, and in the quiet that follows, you both feel the weight of the missing pieces in your days.
a small, playful thought nudged at the edge of your mind. maybe he just needed a little reminder. you leaned closer to the screen, tilting your head in that way you knew made him pause, smile threatening at the corner of your lips.
“bucky…” you began, teasing, letting the word linger just long enough to catch his attention. “it’s december… the season of giving gifts.”
he raised a brow. “yeah?” he asked, his voice lazy but amused, warm enough to make your chest tighten.
you leaned closer to the camera, letting the light catch the curve of your cheek, the small, sly smirk that formed unbidden.
“when are you gonna buy me presents?” you asked, words laced with playful mock seriousness, though neither of you needed to pretend. you didn’t need presents—not really. what you needed was him, just him.
“you have my card, doll,” he said, chin resting on his palm as he leaned toward the camera, the dim light casting shadows that made his tired eyes look sharper, intent. “you can spend as much as you’d like.”
you forced a casual shrug, pressing your lips together as if to hide the flicker of disappointment, shoving another vegetable into your mouth.
“right,” you muttered, chewing slowly, trying to seem indifferent.
you swallowed, glancing up at him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of you, his smile faint but knowing, and the unspoken understanding that what you truly wanted wasn’t something wrapped in paper. it was him.
“when will you be coming home?” you ask, trying to keep your tone casual, though there’s a tightness in your chest you can’t hide.
“soon,” he replies, voice calm, measured.
“soon?” you echo, but this time the word is edged with frustration.
it’s not just the hours he’s spent away—it’s the accumulation of weeks, of vague timelines, of an unlabeled relationship that’s been hovering over you for a year.
maybe it’s because you miss him. maybe it’s because the ambiguity of it all gnaws at your nerves. maybe it’s because he has this way of keeping everything vague enough that your mind can’t stop wandering down paths it knows it shouldn’t.
as much as you trust bucky—and you do, more than anyone—you can’t help it. the doubts creep in, tiny at first, then growing.
what if he’s cheating? what if he’s… married? had kids? the thought is absurd, impossible even, yet your mind insists on entertaining it. the unspoken lack of labels only gives these fears fuel.
bucky’s face on the screen shifts slightly, his brow furrowing as he tilts his head, perceptive even through a call. “y’mad at me, doll?” he asks, voice gentle, unaware of just how sharp your irritation has grown.
you let out a short, bitter laugh, pressing your palms to your face for a moment before pulling them down. “i don’t know… just—just come home. soon.” you emphasize the word soon, dragging it out like a warning, a plea, and a demand all at once.
before he can respond, before you can hear the soft reassurance you know he’d offer, you hang up. the screen goes black, and the quiet hits you in full force.
and even though your chest aches and the frustration still lingers, you can’t deny the truth underneath it all: you just want him. not excuses, not explanations—just him.
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the fight from that night was resolved when you woke up the next morning to a knock at the door instead of an apology in person—a massive and excessive arrangement of flowers delivered straight to the house, petals still cold from the morning air. tucked between them was a simple card, written in his familiar handwriting.
i’ll make it up to you.
and he did.
calls came more often after that. gifts—expensive ones at that—started appearing where arguments used to sit. it was his way of smoothing things over, of fixing without ever quite naming what had gone wrong.
by the time he finally returned from the business trip, jet-lagged and smelling like his usual expensive cologne, that’s when the thought crossed your mind.
an ultimatum—petty? maybe. selfish? definitely.
but who could blame you, when you were expected to share him with work like it was another person in the relationship?
at this point, you would even consider this “relationship” a three-way.
he drops his bag by the door as he loosens his tie, walking in, his eyes are already scanning the room until they land on you. you’re seated comfortably, legs crossed, drink in hand—a red wine, to be exact—watching him like you have all the time in the world.
“miss me?” he asks, voice warm and teasing.
you hum noncommittally, taking a slow sip. “maybe.”
he smirks, taking a deliberate step closer, his hand stretching toward you but you shift just enough, and his fingers meet nothing but air—not rejection, just a subtle claim of control.
his smirk falters for the briefest second as he pauses, studying you, noticing the small defiance in your movement.
“what’s that look for, doll?”
you tilt your head, eyes flicking to the still-packed bag, then back to him. “nothing,” you say, believably sweet but there’s a pause that betrays you. “just thinking.”
he knows better than to push. instead, he shrugs off his jacket, rolls his sleeves up, lets them fall just right, and sinks into the space like he owns it. like he owns you. the faint scent of him fills the room, close enough that your skin prickles.
maybe that’s exactly what sparks it—his calm confidence, the way he moves without asking, the way he expects you to notice and not resist.
you hadn’t meant to become that person. the one who watches the clock. the one who feels irritation bloom when his phone lights up. but somehow, somewhere between silk sheets and shared closets, you did.
tonight is no different.
he’s halfway through loosening his cufflinks when the phone buzzes. without even glancing at the screen, he lets out a low sigh and shakes his head.
“they need me,” he mutters, already reaching for his coat, the motion practiced, habitual.
you don’t respond immediately. instead, you take your time swirling the last bit of your drink in the glass—like an overdramatic villain in some silly movie—letting the amber liquid catch the light. your eyes follow him with a slow, deliberate intensity, noting the slight crease between his brows, the way his shirt clings to his chest beneath the tailored jacket.
“of course they do,” you say lightly, voice calm, casual as you let the words hang just long enough to catch him off guard.
he pauses, hand frozen on the coat, glancing back at you. “i’ll be quick,” he says, tone soft and apologetic, like he assumes he’s already forgiven before you’ve even spoken.
a smile tugs at your lips, but it isn’t warm, and it certainly isn’t sweet. it’s edged with mischief and a pinch of irritation you don’t bother hiding. “you always are,” you reply, watching the faint flicker of recognition—or is it guilt?—cross his face.
he hesitates again, suspiciously watching your careful movements and your slightly condescending undertone.
the phone in his hand, the weight of it heavy against his palm as you let the silence stretch, letting him feel it, letting him wonder how long you’ll let him get away with it this time.
the unspoken ultimatum hangs thick in the air. he can feel it, just as clearly as you do, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—curiosity, maybe caution—but mostly, he knows exactly what’s coming, and for once, he’s powerless to stop it.
he stops in his tracks. his brows knit together as he turns to face you fully. “what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, the edge in his voice betraying that he’s already feeling a mix of anticipation and apprehension.
it’s not that you want him to put you before his work, but his constant comings and goings have started to feel like more absence than presence. the stretches of time he’s gone outnumber the moments he actually stays, and you can’t help but notice, counting the hours and the empty space he leaves behind.
you set your glass down with slow precision, the faint clink punctuating the tension. standing, you move with unhurried confidence, heels clicking softly against the floor in measured rhythm.
each step closes the distance between you until the space separating you is negligible.
“it means,” you murmur, letting your fingers slide over the fabric of his chest, smoothing the jacket he’s about to leave in, straightening the lines as if correcting more than just fabric, “that you’re very good at disappearing.”
his jaw tightens, a flicker of irritation crossing his otherwise calm features. “doll—” he begins, but you stop him effortlessly with a single, soft tap to his tie, a corrective motion that feels casual yet commanding.
“no,” you say, “let me finish.”
and he does. because he knows better than to interrupt when the tension in your tone carries authority, when your presence alone demands attention.
he lets you, eyes darkening with curiosity and something far more instinctive, as if he already senses that this moment has shifted. that whatever control he thought he had is slipping right through his fingers.
you step closer. not enough to touch him—just enough that he can smell your perfume, feel the warmth of your body in his space. it’s intentional. you want him aware. you want him focused.
“i moved into your house,” you continue, voice calm in a way that makes the words sharper. “i wear your clothes. i sleep in your bed. i get spoiled, taken out, bought things without asking.”
your fingers trail down the front of his jacket, slow, almost idle, tracing the line of his torso like you’re inventorying what’s yours.
“but lately?” you pause, looking up at him through your lashes. “i feel like a very well-kept inconvenience.”
that lands exactly where you want it to.
his shoulders drop just a fraction, the smallest crack in his composure.
his jaw tightens. “that’s not fair,” he says, but there’s no real conviction behind it.
you tilt your head, studying him. “isn’t it?”
silence stretches between you. then his phone buzzes again, intrusive. you glance down at it pointedly, then back up at him, unimpressed.
“here’s the thing,” you say, tone bordering on bored, like this conversation is almost beneath you. “i’m not asking for labels. i’m not asking for you to buy me presents. i’m asking for presence.”
he exhales through his nose, eyes never leaving yours. “and if i can’t?” he asks, testing you.
you smile then, condescendingly, letting the sharp curve of your lips linger just long enough to make him uneasy.
“then i’ll remind myself that i have options.” there it was—the ultimatum.
and that does it.
his hand rises slowly, hovering at your waist, just shy of touching, as if testing the air between you.
the heat radiating off him, the subtle brush of his presence—it’s all deliberate. “you threatening me?” he asks, his voice low but threaded with a tension you can hear, feel, even through his calm tone.
“no,” you answer softly, letting the words stretch. “i’m informing you.”
another pause stretches between you, longer this time, thick with unspoken challenges and anticipation.
your eyes lock on his, watching the subtle shift in his expression—bucky’s tightening at his jaw, the almost imperceptible hitch of his breath, the way his chest rises just a little faster.
every fraction of a movement is magnified, a silent admission that he knows exactly what you mean and exactly what’s at stake.
his phone buzzes again, a faint vibration on the table, and you let your eyes flick to it.
a small smirk tugs at your lips. you let the moment linger, the power dynamics twisting between the two of you like a slow dance. the world outside ceases to exist: the phone, the work, the obligations—it’s all secondary to this precise, taut moment.
finally, with a careful exhale, he reaches for the table. his hand moves over the surface, brushing the phone before he sets it face down.
the click echoes softly, disproportionately loud in the quiet room. and just like that, he’s fully present, if only by intention, leaving the distractions behind the buzzing world outside, his attention’s left only to you and the unspoken challenge between you.
he’s yours now, entirely aware of it—and entirely helpless against the pull you’ve set in motion.
“i’m sorry,” he says at last. no dramatics. no excuses. just the truth, laid bare between you. “i got comfortable.”
you hum softly, the sound slow and pleased, like you’d been waiting for him to say exactly that. “you did.”
bucky steps closer, closing the space you’d left between you. this time, there’s no hesitation. his hand settles at your waist, firm, as if he’s grounding you.
his thumb pressing in just enough to remind you how easily he can hold you there. “won’t happen again,” he adds.
you tilt your head up to look at him through your lashes, letting the silence stretch. “and tonight?” you ask lightly, as if you’re only half-interested in the answer.
he doesn’t miss a beat. he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your lips, his voice dropping into something private, intimate. “work can wait.”
“good.” you murmur.
his grip tightens just slightly at your waist. his other hand—the metal one—comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to keep your attention where he wants it.
whatever came next was no longer about work, or waiting, or options. it was about him making it up to you.
and whatever apology he owes you next, he clearly plans on delivering it without words.
but first, a thought crosses his mind. he pauses, letting his gaze linger on you, taking in the subtle rise of your brow, the soft curve of your lips, the way your hair falls around your shoulders.
for a moment, he just watches, quietly. “tell you what,” he says finally. “i’ll take you somewhere tonight.”
you raise an eyebrow, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “oh?” you murmur, letting your curiosity show, letting him feel that little flicker of anticipation he’s always so good at stirring in you.
“it’s still early in the night,” he adds, lifting his flesh arm to check his wristwatch. “6 pm,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before pulling you closer into his hug.
the heat of his chest pressing against you as his hands settle at the small of your back, firm and warm, and you can feel the weight of him there.
“m’sure there are still stores open,” he teases, his voice low and playful, carrying just the right hint of a challenge. “come on—let’s go spend all that hard-earned money.”
you hum softly in response, nodding, feeling a rush of something that’s equal parts satisfaction and longing.
you don’t actually need to spend anything, not really—you both know that—but indulging in a little retail therapy feels like claiming a piece of him that’s been absent too long.
it feels like reclaiming some control, too, letting the space of the house, the long stretches of empty hours, finally bend in your favor.
“maybe some christmas lights?” you suggest, letting your hand brush over the fabric of his jacket as he draws you even closer.
“whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to the crown of your head, enough to remind you of the warmth and power he carries, even in casual gestures.
you let your own words continue, ignoring the sweetness for now. “this place could use a little lights. i haven’t gotten around to decorating it yet.”
he pulls back just enough to study your face, a mock frown forming that’s more amused than anything. “then what have you been doing all day while i’m gone?”
you tilt your head, pretending to think, letting your smirk widen. “other than being an online tutor… sulking,” your fingers trace the edge of his tie, a small gesture that makes his chest tighten slightly under your touch.
he lets out a low, rumbling laugh, a sound that vibrates against your side as he holds you a fraction closer.
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you both end up spending far more than you’d intended, but it isn’t mindless or careless. each purchase is deliberate—presents for your nieces and nephews, small decorative touches to make the house festive.
what you don’t notice, though, is the quiet mischief bucky slips in. when you linger over a glittering ornament, indecisive between two styles, he murmurs something about excusing himself and vanishes to the “bathroom.”
what you assume is a mundane errand is anything but. somewhere nearby, bucky barnes moves with the precision you’ve come to expect, selecting a small, sleek box. black silk peeks from the corner as he smiles to himself.
it’s intimate and entirely him: a black lingerie set, chosen not at random but with an intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
you’re standing in the kitchen, your newly bought items carefully lined up on the counter, slowly unpacking them, ready to be used—excluding the gifts meant for friends and family, of course.
you had immediately changed into something comfortable the moment you got home, shedding the layers of the day, and so had bucky. somewhere in the bedroom, he was swapping his suit and tie for the casual clothes you rarely see him in.
then you hear heavy footsteps approaching. your attention shifts instinctively, and when you glance up, you catch sight of him. gray sweatpants hug his hips, nothing on top. the sharp lines of his chiseled abs, the curve of his broad shoulders, and the defined sculpt of his biceps immediately draw your gaze, leaving you momentarily breathless.
a slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
reflexively, you glance away, pretending not to notice him, though your pulse betrays your awareness. he steps closer, two feet away, his presence pressing against yours in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
as you carefully pull the decorations from their plastic packaging, untangling the strings of lights and fluffing small ornaments, bucky suddenly places a small, neatly wrapped gift in front of you.
you glance at the gift, then at him, then back again, curiosity prickling at your skin. “what’s this?” you ask, lifting the box from the kitchen counter.
your hands are still dusted with the glitter from the ornaments. you’ve been unpacking the christmas lights, both of you promising that tonight would be about decorating, about being together—and now this unexpected addition catches you off guard.
his eyes glint with amusement—something tells you he’s thought about this longer than you realize. he leans closer, voice low and teasing. “go on, princess. open it.”
you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow, letting your gaze linger on him for a moment before returning to the box. “when did you find the time to buy this?” you ask, voice light but tinged with disbelief.
your fingers brush over the wrapping paper, running along the edges slowly as though savoring the mystery.
his grin widens, that rare, almost boyish look he gets when he’s pleased with himself and knows exactly how much attention he’s caught.
“when i went to the ‘bathroom,’” he replies, as if the explanation is perfectly reasonable, though the slight twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the mischief behind it.
you laugh playfully scoffing, shaking your head. “you’re so full of excuses.”
finally, shifting your gaze back to the box, you tear at the wrapping paper with impatience, letting the crinkle of the paper fill the space between you.
as it falls away, your fingers brush against the smooth black silk inside, and your breath catches ever so slightly.
he watches you like a kid giving their crush a secret santa gift. you notice the way he shifts, he way his jaw flexes as he observes your reaction.
when you finally see what the box contains, your fingers brushing over the silky fabric. you lift the lingerie out of the box, letting it fall back into the packaging and then catching his eyes again. there’s a quiet tension now, a mix of anticipation and playful control.
you glance back up at him, a teasing lilt in your voice. “a lingerie?”
he nods as he takes a step closer, he reaches for your wrist, his touch gentle but firm, tugging you just enough to close the space between you. “is this you… apologizing?” you ask.
he raises an eyebrow, letting the question hang as you step closer. without another word, he takes the lead, guiding you toward your shared bedroom.
“change for me, will ya, honey?” he murmurs as he settles onto the soft bed, his legs manspreading comfortably, eyes locked on you as you stand holding the lingerie in your hands.
there’s a playful gleam in his gaze, a silent command wrapped in warmth, letting you know exactly how he wants this moment to unfold.
“i hope you don’t think this isn’t your christmas present for me,” you state, teasing laced in your tone.
from the bed, you hear him murmur, “no?”—but you choose to ignore it, letting the small, pointed question hang in the air.
with a slow sway of your hips, you walk toward the walk-in closet, knowing exactly how much of his attention you have. the silky fabric of the lingerie in your hands feels heavy with promise, and the anticipation coils in your stomach.
the soft click of the closet door behind you marks the space you take for yourself, even as the tension between you two hangs thick in the air.
the moment you step out, his eyes widen, darkening with a mix of adoration and lust. he rises from the bed, closing the distance between you, drawn to you like gravity.
“don’t ‘ya look more pretty than the mannequin they use to display this,” he murmurs as his gaze roams you in appreciative, slow sweeps.
you can’t help but chuckle softly at his compliment, but before another word can leave your lips, he dips down, pressing his mouth to yours.
the kiss is firm leaving no room for hesitation. his hands find your hips instantly, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, every inch of him focused entirely on you.
his metal hand cups your cheek as it slowly moves its way to your chin, urging you to slightly open your mouth. and when you did, bucky wastes no time inserting his tongue inside your mouth.
your teeth grazes his tongue to which he grunts from. he swirls it as both your tongues collide, mixing both your salivas together.
his metal hand grips your waist firmly, guiding you as he steps backward without once breaking the connection of your lips. your eyes remain closed, hearts and breaths mingling, each step relying entirely on instinct.
you move slowly, carefully, blindly following him as he leads you toward the bed.
the playful tension from earlier melts seamlessly into something deeper, charged, a slow escalation that leaves no doubt who’s leading this moment—and who’s utterly captivated.
he stumbles slightly but eventually manages to guide you both safely onto the bed—careful, never once breaking the connection between both of your lips.
only when you’re both settled does he finally pull back, just enough to catch his breath. his gaze drifts from your eyes to your swollen lips, then back up again, filled with desire.
he murmurs a small, almost incoherent compliment, the words muffled but heavy with intent, before diving back in.
this time, his kisses trace a slow path—first along your jaw, lingering at the curve, then down the column of your neck, finally brushing against the sensitive skin of your collarbone.
the weight of his body against yours, the heat radiating from him, and the way his hands roam carefully over your waist and hips—all of it builds a tension that coils tighter with every second.
your grip tightens on his shoulder as he sucks on your skin, creating a promised purple mark. his tongue grazes over your skin, soothing the area his mouth bruised.
a soft moan escapes your chest, when you feel his trail of hickeys slowly, deliberately, travels downwards to where your breasts lies.
he pulls back only to whisper a compliment. “damn, princess… ‘ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in this lingerie,” his voice slurs, the words vibrating against your skin, leaving a shiver in their wake.
before you can even respond with a moan, he’s back on your skin—his lips trailing down the curve of your breast, nipping lightly, teasing, then pressing against the sensitive skin of your nipples.
his hands roam with purpose, sliding along your waist, cupping your hips, pulling you impossibly close.
suddenly, you press your palms against his chest in a silent motion for him to stop. he hesitates, eyes questioning, searching your gaze for a hint of what you want.
without a word, you shift abruptly, rising onto your knees. the bed creaks beneath you, a soft reminder of your movement. his eyes follow you as he adjusts instinctively, now leaning back against the headboard, letting you take the lead.
he watches you, every subtle motion, every sway, the heat in his eyes unhidden. you gather your hair with your hands, twisting it into a messy ponytail and holding it up for him.
bucky, ever the gentleman, doesn’t hesitate. his fingers move quickly, sliding through your strands as he fashions a makeshift hair tie.
he leans in close, eyes flicking to your neck and the curve of your shoulders, he murmurs, “looks good… but i think i like it even better when i do it myself.”
you lean down, moving with grace, and bucky watches you with undeniable admiration. he exhales softly, not from frustration, but from the quiet awe of having someone as stunning as you in front of him, completely in his presence, licking his toned abs.
“you’re so busy these past few months…” you start out, pressing soft, gentle kisses on his rock-hard abs as you slowly sink downward, every movement unhurried. bucky’s gaze never leaves you. his metal fingers cradle your hair, cool against the skin of your skull, guiding you just enough to keep you close—letting him take in every second, every expression, like it’s something he wants to memorize.
you continue. “i want a gift on behalf of you being busy,” bucky nods without hesitation, already ready to spend however much your heart desires but you shake your head.
your fingers slowly make their way to the waistband of his pants. bucky only then realizes what you’re implying, a teasing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “ah?” he hums, drawn-out and knowing.
“yeah,” he adds, voice steadier now, more sure of itself. confident. “i’ve got a big gift for you, honey.”
his flesh hand cups your cheeks, gently tilting your jaw upwards to face him. “you think you deserve a big gift, baby?” he asks, tone almost condensing. still, you nod anyway.
your hands slip down through the waistband, and with his help, it’s immediately discarded, thrown to god knows where. his throbbing length springs out, already leaking with pre-cum. he does a small gesture before speaking up, “go ahead, honey.”
you lean closer, your lips wrap around his tip. you hollow your mouth as you slowly take him, inch by inch. your tongue darts out, licking and tracing the veins of his throbbing cock and you watch him throw his head back to the headboard from the pleasure.
unfortunately, your gag reflex works to humble you, you pull away, coughing as your lungs steal as much air as it could.
“t—too big,” you whine, the sound only seeming to feed his already massive ego. bucky’s mouth curves into a slow smirk, his gaze dropping to you with deliberate, almost condescending ease.
“aww, c’mon, baby,” he says, tone coaxing and smug all at once. “you can do it.”
his metal fingers slide into your hair, adjusting before curling more firmly than before. he doesn’t force you—never that. instead, he guides you gently, matching your the pace your comfortable with, lets you set it, because that’s the kind of man bucky is.
you take his cock again, gagging as he thrust his hips when he finally notices you adjust to the pace. his metal arm holds a different angle, pushing your head up and down.
“you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” bucky couldn’t help but to compliment as he watches you bop your head up and down with the help of his prosthetic arm.
“fuckin’ perfect.” he says, thrusting into your throat, causing you to suck in, hollowing the hole of your mouth, squeezing his length making him groan in response.
his body shivers when a wave of pleasure washes over him, demanding a release. as much as he wants to spill his release inside your mouth, watch as you have trouble swallowing before flashing him your tongue for proof that you did, he wants to savor this moment with you.
he pulls your hair, mouth leaving his tip with a loud “pop” noise. his gaze watches as you lick your lips, seductively.
“biggest christmas present ‘ya ever gotten?” he asks, teasing. to which all you can do is nod in response, your throat too overwhelmed and used to manage even the faintest sound.
“ride your present, honey.” and you obeyed. deliberately slow, you started crawling over to him, legs already spread, pressed against each side of his thighs, you straddle him.
he takes his cock to his flesh hand, stroking on it for a couple of times before he finally aligns himself to your entrance, pushing the thin fabric of the lingerie aside.
you slowly sink down, your head dipping, pressing on his chest as your warm walls slowly adjust to the stretch of his huge cock.
“fu… fuck, bucky… c-cant.” you moan, his large size almost stifling you. bucky’s hips grinds in a desperate attempt to search for friction as your tight walls swallow his cock deliberately slow.
“you can take it, baby.” he says, flesh hand placed on your hip as if to ground you. “shit,” he lets out, whispering more to himself when he feels you squeeze around him.
you mewled his name out when you finally take his cock whole. you stay there for a moment, catching your breath, chest rising and falling as bucky gently brushes a couple of strands of hair from your face, soothing and unhurried.
when you finally adjust to his size, you slowly bounce on his length. a loud moan escapes your chest just as a loud groan escapes his when the tip of his cock hits your g-spot repeatedly. his hips ruts into you, feeling your walls wrap around his cock almost so perfectly.
his hand—the metal one—makes itself useful as he places them on your bosom, squeezing your breasts while his flesh hand roams to trace every curve of your body.
“and i fuckin’,” he thrusts harder, cock almost slipping itself out of you if not for his gigantic size that makes a home of your sweet cunt.
“chose work,” he continues, “over you—this… fuuuuuck.”
his flesh hand that roamed around found its way to your back as his fingers casually, deliberately unties the strings of the lingerie, letting the thin strands of the undergarment detach from your body, giving his left hand more access to your tits.
your nails dig onto his biceps, leaving a red patch of scratches onto his skin as he completely rails you.
your mouth hangs open, ready to let out a couple of words for him puzzle together but as if he could read you already, he brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, “fuck, yeah, cum for me.”
your walls clench around his shaft and after a couple more thrust, you finally reach your climax, releasing all over him.
it takes bucky a few more strokes before he also reaches his peak, making him spill his orgasm inside of you, filling you up to the brim. you dramatically collapse against his chest, and his arms come around you instantly, like muscle memory kicking in.
“fuck… i’m tired,” you whine, pushing yourself up with your knee—moaning when his cock slips out of you—before finally settling down beside him on the bed, exhaustion sinking in as you relax against the mattress.
he takes a glance at you, smiling proudly, then pushes his fingers inside your cunt, smearing every last bit of his cum inside you, while you let out the loudest moan due to the sensitivity from the post-orgasm.
⟡˙˖ ıl. from lovie. merry christmas, happy hanukkah, or whatever you celebrate! i hope this season brings you warmth, comfort, and moments of joy. wishing you all rest, peace, and lots of love this holiday season. <33333
pairing: 40s!stucky x childhood best friend!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn no plot, light banter, m!masturbation, oral (m receiving), facials, size difference, innocence kink, cucking, sub!steve, soft dom!bucky, stucky homoeroticism, dirty talking, praise, pet names: "doll" "my best girl"
a/n: missing stucky hours + listening to my 40s bucky playlist inspired this fic (totally not another shameless playlist self plug)
word count: 10.1k
masterlist
synopsis:
After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head with a glass of whiskey cold in his hand. “Look at you. Those muscles are practically busting out of your uniform.”
If it weren’t for the dim light of the bar, Bucky might’ve caught the flush creeping up Steve’s neck. Steve shifted, gripping his own glass before bringing it to his lips.
“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Steve said, draining the amber liquid in one go. “I can’t even get drunk.”
“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I can, so we’re drinking. Just admire the notes of oak or whatever.”
Steve scoffed, but he couldn’t stop a smirk from tugging at his mouth. It was impossible to stay moody around Bucky. “It tastes like gasoline.”
Bucky threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh. As he straightened up, his eyes involuntarily drifted over Steve’s frame. Ever since the serum had transformed his friend, Bucky found himself constantly cataloging the… substantial changes.
Steve’s chest strained against his white T-shirt, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves every time he moved. His jaw was chiseled now, his features sharper. Back then, Steve would have choked on a sip of cheap whiskey; now, the burn barely seemed to register. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.
“So, tell me what this serum is actually doing to you,” Bucky asked, his laughter dying down. His eyes trailed down to Steve’s chest. “Other than making you outgrow your damn clothes… how are you feeling?”
Steve let out a long, grounded sigh of satisfaction, setting his glass back on the scarred wood of the table with a thud.
“I feel… good. Like everything is heightened—” he raised a hand to chest level, “—up to here. Both inside and out.”
Bucky raised his glass, blue eyes peering down to Steve’s lap just over the rim. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky took a slow swallow and set his own drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Explain it to me. What exactly is it about you that’s heightened on the inside?”
Steve shifted, the wooden chair creaking under his new, heavy weight. His brows furrowed as he searched for the right words.
“It’s like a mental amplification. Everything that feels good feels… great. And everything that feels bad feels that much worse.”
He swallowed hard, his fingers beginning to fidget against the tabletop—a nervous habit the serum hadn’t managed to take away. He hesitated on whether to keep going.
Bucky, ever attuned to Steve’s patterns of hesitation, leaned in closer, trying to gauge the rest out of him.
“And?” Bucky prodded softly.
Steve parted his lips, his face coloring slightly, before pressing them thin and shaking his head. “That’s about it, really.”
Bucky raised a brow, noting the flush as it crept over his friend’s chiseled features. There was clearly something internal Steve wasn’t mentioning—something he was actively holding back. It felt wrong. Usually, Steve was an open book around Bucky.
“Alright, well,” Bucky muttered, deciding not to pry—at least not yet. He pushed himself off the barstool with a grunt. “Let’s go show our girl your new look, yeah? She should be waiting at the park.”
Steve’s lips quirked into a faint, lopsided smile. He took one last sip of the whiskey—for courage, Bucky suspected—and stood up, his frame nearly blocking out the overhead light of the bar.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Let’s go.”
After the two men settled their bill, they stepped out of the bar and into the crisp night air. They made their way toward the park, the streetlamps casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.
There you were, sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree. You looked like a vision pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, dressed in an off-white collared blouse and a long, pleated skirt, with a simple cardigan draped over your shoulders.
The soft glow of the moonlight caught the curve of your smile as you finally looked up from your book, noticing Bucky and Steve approaching.
“Bucky!” you beamed, standing up and snapping your book shut. “Steve!”
As you drew closer, Steve stopped dead in his tracks.
It felt as though the air had been kicked right out of his lungs. His heart, now amplified by the serum, hammered frantically against his ribs. He had seen you a thousand times before, but seeing you now—with every sense dialed up to ten—was like a man seeing color for the first time.
Your scent—a fragrance he used to only catch when he was standing right beside you—carried on with the breeze, finding his nostrils instantly.
His eyes fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second as he breathed you in.
Bucky slowed to a halt a step behind him, noticing the way Steve’s shoulders locked and how his gaze became hopelessly anchored to you.
Deep down, Bucky had always known Steve had a soft spot for you—hell, everyone did. Even Bucky had one, and he was shameless about it. But there was something different in the way Steve stiffened this time, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder just how much that serum had changed him on the inside.
“You guys had me waitin’ forever,” you met them halfway, smiling eyes darting between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got yourselves drunk.”
“Never that, doll,” Bucky offered you a tipsy, lopsided grin. “Our boy here couldn’t get a buzz going if he drank the whole bar dry.” He gave Steve a pointed nudge with his elbow. “Notice anything… different about him?”
You blinked, eyes drifting up to meet Steve’s. You tilted your head slightly, book held close to your chest. “Did you get taller?”
Bucky snickered as your gaze began a slow, bewildered trail down to Steve’s torso. “And since when did you suddenly start working out?”
“Jeez, you really need to start picking up the morning newsletter, doll.” Bucky laughed, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder and hauling you into his side. You stumbled slightly against him, rolling your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but he kept you tucked firm under his wing. He pointed a triumphant finger at Steve. “This man right here just got injected with the Super Soldier serum.”
“Super soldier?” you repeated with a soft gasp. You stepped out from under Bucky’s arm, looking at Steve wide-eyed. “Steve, what on earth…?”
Your book was now tucked under one arm as your free hand reached out, hovering for a second before your fingers finally made contact with his bicep. The fabric of his usually loose T-shirt was straining and spreading tight across his muscles.
“Is that really you in there?” you teased, your hand sliding up his shoulder, then tracing the broad and wide expanse of his chest.
The propriety of your actions didn’t even cross your mind; you were simply enamored by the sheer mass of him.
You gave his forearm a squeeze, marveling at how your fingers couldn’t even meet halfway around it anymore. Just a few weeks ago, you had been the taller one—now, he was a mountain of a man, looming over you with a shadow that felt protective.
“Steve, you look great… you feel great, too—I mean, how are you feeling?” You blinked up at him, pressing your palm against his to compare their sizes.
Steve looked like he was about to combust on the spot.
The sensation of your small, soft hand wandering over his new frame and resting in his own rough palm was an absolute assault on his composure. Everywhere you touched felt like it was catching fire, the serum amplifying the friction of your skin against his until his blood felt like it was boiling.
He tried to speak, but his throat had gone bone dry. Bucky, of course, noticed immediately.
“I… yeah. Thanks. I feel good,” Steve stammered, nodding firmly as he looked down at you, a stray blond lock falling over his eyes. “I feel really, really good.”
You giggled at his familiar stuttering, finally pulling your hand away from his palm to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
Steve, meanwhile, felt a sudden warm ache pooling in his lower stomach—a physical reaction so intense it made his head spin.
Your giggle, your scent, the way you looked at him—everything he had loved about you before the serum was now heightened to an overwhelming pitch.
He shifted awkwardly, his trousers becoming uncomfortably, visibly tight, but there was nowhere to hide in the moonlight.
Bucky, standing just a few feet away, watched the flush deepen from Steve’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes drifted down, catching the unmistakable, growing bulge that pushed against his friend’s trousers.
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling right there in the park.
“Steve, you’re shaking,” you said softly, completely oblivious to his predicament as you moved your hand to the center of his chest to check his heart rate. “Is the serum making you sick? Your heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute.”
“N-no! No, I’m—I’m fine,” Steve choked out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. He was terrified that if he actually touched you back, he’d lose all of his self-control. “Just… feels like a lot of energy. It’s a lot to take in.”
Bucky cleared his throat, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say he’s got a lot of energy built up right now. Might be a biological side effect—right, Steve?”
Steve returned his words with a glare, and Bucky only snickered louder.
“Let’s not stay out too late,” you said, looking around the quiet park, your voice airy and warm. “My mother baked a fresh batch of gingersnaps before she headed out for the evening. She left them on the counter and specifically told me to share them with you both.”
“Gingersnaps?” Bucky’s grin widened. “My favorite. Your mother always did have a soft spot for me.”
“For us,” Steve corrected, his voice low and territorial. He looked back at you. “We’re excited to try them, sweetheart. I’m quite hungry, actually.”
You laughed softly, playfully beckoning them with a wave of your hand as you turned on your heel.
You began leading the way toward your apartment building just across the street, calling back, “Come on! They’re probably still warm.”
As you walked ahead, the long, pleated skirt of your dress swayed with every step. The fabric clung and released over the curve of your hips in a rhythm that felt far too provocative for Steve’s new, heightened senses.
He couldn’t look away.
His gaze was hopelessly locked onto the way you moved, his mind clouded with feelings that were a mixture of protectiveness and something… unfamiliar and hungry.
Bucky nudged him hard in the ribs, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Careful there, Steve. You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her skirt.”
Steve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, his face flushing. “Shut up, Buck,” he hissed, though his eyes darted right back to you the second he regained his footing.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered beside his friend. “Usually, you’re the one lecturing me about being a gentleman. Now look at you—standing there like a dog watching a steak dinner.”
You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow at their whispering. “What are you two plotting back there?”
Steve stood up straighter, and Bucky shook his hand in a dismissive wave despite the smile he tried to fight. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, doll. Just lead the way—we’re right behind you.”
You frowned playfully, but kept on walking anyway. “I don’t like it when you two keep things from me.”
Steve felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of your lips turned into a little pout. He was still struggling to keep his walk natural, his trousers feeling tighter with every step he took behind you.
“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice coming out a pitch deeper than he intended. “It’s nothing a girl like you would ever want to know. Just… stupid locker room talk.”
He waited until you turned your back to them before leaning toward Bucky’s ears.
“Behave,” he whisper-yelled in warning.
“Oh—come on,” Bucky smiled, adjusting his jacket as he met his friend’s panicked eyes. “I’m a saint, Steve.”
Once the three of you reached the building, you led the way up the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The rhythmic click of your heels on the creaky wooden steps was the only sound in the quiet hall.
Bucky leaned back slightly as he climbed, his gaze hooked shamelessly on the sway of your skirt.
A look of pure appreciation settled on his face, his tongue darted over his lower lip as he considered just how much his best childhood friend had grown up.
Steve, walking right beside him, felt a sharp surge of protectiveness at the way Bucky was cataloging your every move. He jutted a heavy elbow into Bucky’s ribs—a blow that, with his new strength, nearly sent Bucky over the banister.
“Be respectful!” Steve hissed, his jaw locked.
Bucky wheezed quietly, clutching his side.
“Jeez, Steve… watch the hardware,” he grunted, trying to catch his breath. “And don’t give me that lecture, pal. You’re looking just as hard as I am.” His eyes drifted pointedly down to the front of Steve’s trousers. “Probably harder, considering you’ve got the vision of a hawk now.”
You paused in front of your door, fishing the keys out of your purse. You raised a skeptical brow at the two of them. “What is going on with you two?”
Steve caught his breath, smoothing his expression as he closed the distance between you. He forced a stiff smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “We’re just excited for those cookies. Been thinking about them all the way here.”
Bucky let out a muffled snort behind him, but Steve ignored it, keeping his focus on your eyes.
You chuckled and shook your head, pushing the door open. “Well, don’t just stand there like statues. Come in.”
Steve crossed the threshold with Bucky lingering right behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, Steve realized that coming here so soon after the serum had been a mistake.
The apartment was a sensory trap. Away from the biting wind of the street, your scent was no longer just a trace on the breeze—it was everywhere. It was in the perfume lingering on your soft skin, the traces of your familiar vanilla scent in the kitchen, and on the lived-in warmth of the sofa.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” you said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Steve didn’t move.
He stood in the center of the living room, his body as rigid as a bag of bricks. Every muscle in his legs and back was coiled like a high tension spring. His hands were balled into fists at his sides just to keep them from shaking.
You returned a moment later, carrying a ceramic plate of gingersnaps and tea to the coffee table.
To Steve, you looked effortlessly domestic, the soft light of the floor lamp catching the stray flyaways of your hair like a soft halo.
As you sat on the sofa, you crossed one leg over the other, causing the hem of your skirt to hike up an inch or two higher than usual. It revealed the smooth line of your calf, covered only by a flimsy, sheer stocking that Steve felt he could easily rip with the slightest twitch of his hands.
A roar of blood rushed to Steve’s ears. He felt himself straining very painfully against his trousers, his fingers twitching with a desperate longing to touch you.
“Sit down, Steve,” Bucky prompted, giving his friend a nudge in the back toward the sofa. “Relax a little.”
Bucky sank into the armchair, leaving the spot on the sofa right next to you wide open. He looked at Steve, then at the empty cushion, and finally at Steve’s visible predicament, his eyebrows rising in amusement.
“Yeah, come here, Steve,” you said, scooting over and patting the empty space next to you.
Steve swallowed hard, taking long, stiff strides until he finally sank onto the small sofa.
The cushions dipped precariously and the wooden frame groaned under his heavy weight. He found his knees sitting much higher than usual, making him look even more like a giant in a dollhouse.
“Man,” Bucky laughed, lifting a cup of tea to his lips. “You’re gonna break the damn furniture, Stevie.”
Steve mumbled a shy, “sorry,” his face burning.
You just shook your head, ignoring Bucky’s usual teasing. You picked up a gingersnap and brought it to Steve’s lips, cupping your other hand beneath it to catch any stray crumbs.
“Say ah.”
Bucky nearly choked, a spray of tea flying back into his cup.
Steve had turned a shade of red that was impossible to hide, the color racing from his collar to his hairline until even his ears were glowing. He sat there frozen—his jaw hanging slightly as he looked from the cookie in your hand to the teasing glimmer shining in your eyes.
“Well?” Bucky taunted, leaning forward in his armchair and clattering his saucer down on the table.
He was enjoying this far too much.
“Don’t keep the lady waiting, Steve. Go on. Say ‘ah’ for the misses.”
Steve pressed his lips together, giving Bucky a hard glare from across the couch.
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Steve,” you teased, nudging the gingersnap closer to his mouth. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”
Bucky let out a low, wicked whistle. “He’s real hungry, doll. Starving, I’d say. Just look at him—he’s already drooling for a bite.”
“Bucky—” Steve’s jaw dropped in indignation at his friend’s shamelessness, and you seized the opportunity to slide the edge of the cookie past his teeth.
“There,” you hummed, reaching out to catch a small crumb off his bottom lip with a slow swipe of your thumb. “Was that so hard?”
Steve wished the worn cushions would open up and swallow him whole—because hard was exactly what he was. The simple graze of your thumb swiping over his lip was enough to make his whole body shudder. The feel of your lingering touch tingled on his lips, the sensation only making him dangerously need you more.
“Hell,” Steve muttered through the quiet munching. “Would you… please excuse me—”
He stood up so abruptly the sofa groaned. He kept his back turned to you, his hand dropping to swiftly, desperately adjust the painful bulge pushing up against his pants. He took stiff, heavy strides toward the bathroom, each footstep making the delicate floorboards thud and creak under his heavy body.
After Steve disappeared around the corner, you turned to Bucky. He was leaning back in the armchair, looking entirely too smug for his own good.
“Is everything okay with him?” you asked softly. “He’s been acting so… jumpy. Is the serum hurting him? Maybe he needs a doctor.”
Bucky let out a dry chuckle, swiping a gingersnap from the plate. He took a slow bite, savoring the sweetness before his eyes met yours, something mischievous and knowing behind those orbs.
“Hurting him? No, sweetheart. I don’t think ‘pain’ is what Stevie’s feeling right now,” Bucky said, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. “The scientists told him the serum doesn’t just change the muscles. It amplifies everything inside—his heart, his nerves, and his…” He paused, his eyes landing back on yours, “… instincts.”
You blinked, still not quite catching the drift. “Instincts? Like his reflexes?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Bucky replied with a casual shrug, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees to bridge the gap between you. “See, Steve was always the type to keep to himself when it came to women. But that serum? It turned him into a real man—in every sense of the word.”
You tilted your head curiously, and Bucky chuckled at your naivety before pressing on.
“Everything he sees, everything he smells… everything he feels… it’s all ten times more intense than it used to be.” Bucky paused, raising a dark brow. “You followin’ me, doll?”
“I’m trying to,” you murmured, though a slight heat was beginning to prickle at your cheeks.
Bucky glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Usually, Steve’s got a lot of willpower. But you sitting there, feeding him and touching him like that?” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I bet it’s taking every ounce of strength in that new body of his just to remember how to be a gentleman.”
You followed Bucky’s gaze toward the darkened hallway, your lower lip poking out in a slight, troubled pout.
“But… is he hurting?” you asked, your heart aching at the thought of Steve in any kind of distress. “If the serum is making things that intense, it sounds… painful.”
Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re so innocent doll. That’s why we love you.” He shook his head, leaning back as he watched the gears slowly turn in your head.
“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve is a gentleman. Always has been, always will be. He’d sooner jump on a grenade than be disrespectful to a lady—but at the end of the day, he’s a man. And a man has certain… needs. Especially when he’s sitting inches away from the person he’s been head over heels in love with since we were all knee high to a grasshopper.”
Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes went wide to meet his. “Steve… Steve likes me? Like that?”
Bucky gave you a boyish grin.
“Like doesn’t even begin to cover it, sweetheart. He’s had it bad for you for about a decade,” he teased before he tilted his head and gave you a slight pout. “Now, don’t go getting me too jealous, either. I’ve got a heart too, you know.”
A deep, hot flush crept up your neck and nestled into your cheeks. You could hardly wrap your mind around the idea that Steve… kind, stalwart Steve, actually liked you.
Between that revelation and the way Bucky was staring, you found yourself shifting restlessly on the cushion, rubbing your legs together subtly as if to soothe a sudden warm itch.
Bucky’s eyes dropped, tracking the way your skirt shifted over your thighs. He let out a low amusing hum at the way you wriggled beneath his scrutiny, his own expression darkening with interest.
“If he’s feeling… uncomfortable around me,” you started, your voice small and flustered, “is there anything I can do to help him? I don’t want him to be in pain.”
Bucky watched your legs work together for a moment before dragging his eyes back to yours. “You want to help him, do you?”
“Of course,” you nodded earnestly, meeting his stare with wide, sincere eyes. “I’d do anything to help you two if you were in distress. You’re my best friends.”
Bucky’s grin shifted, wider and somehow more predatory. He leaned in an inch closer, his voice dropping deeper. “Anything, sweetheart?”
Steve walked back into the living room. He looked slightly more composed, though his hair was damp at the temples where he had splashed his face with cold water.
His shirt was tucked in tight—perhaps too tight—and he kept his arms stiff at his sides as he approached the sofa. He stopped in his tracks, his frame large in the small room, when he saw how closely Bucky was leaning toward you and the stiff, flustered way you were sitting.
“Everything alright?” Steve asked. His eyes darted suspiciously between his smug best friend and your embarrassed expression.
“Are you feeling alright, Steve?” you asked softly, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Bucky said the… um, the serum… it might be making things difficult for you?”
Steve froze.
He stared down at Bucky, his eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth to stammer out a polite lie—to tell you he was perfectly fine and that Bucky was just talking nonsense—but Bucky didn’t give him the chance.
“I told our girl here all about your little predicament, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted with a gravelly purr. He leaned back, relishing the way Steve’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. “Told her how all those new nerves of yours are screaming for a bit of... relief.”
Steve’s face went from pale to a scorched, blistering red. “Buck, shut it—”
“And the best part?” Bucky continued, ignoring the warning as he looked up at his friend with taunting eyes. “She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. She told me she’s willing to do just about anything to help you out of your distress. Isn’t that right, doll?”
Steve’s gaze flickered down to you, searching your face as if he were waiting for you to deny it—or perhaps, secretly hoping for your confirmation.
“Anything,” Bucky repeated for you, his voice low and suggestive. “She’s got a real generous heart, Steve. I think she’s just waiting for you to tell her exactly what a big, strong soldier like you needs to feel better.”
Steve’s chest felt like it was closing in on his heart. Your eyes—still wide and guileless—never broke away from his, and it only made his restraint weaker.
“What do you need from me, Steve?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “If you’re hurting… if there’s something I can do to make this easier on you, just tell me.”
If you could be any more innocent, Steve swore he would lose his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to pin you down on the couch and fuck you right there.
“I… I don’t…” Steve stammered, his voice trailing off as he heard Bucky push himself off the armchair.
Bucky stepped up behind Steve and reached out and to give Steve a firm nudge toward you, forcing his large frame even deeper into your personal space until he was practically looming over your lap.
“Look at her, Steve,” Bucky cooed next to Steve’s ear. “You’ve got the girl of your dreams sittin’ right in front of you, offering her help, and you’re not gonna accept it?”
Steve felt like he could burst right through the seams of his trousers just from looking at you. Your eyes kept flicking down to the heavy, undeniable bulge in front of you before darting back up to his, your teeth nervously strumming over your bottom lip as you fought the urge to stare.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, Bucky noticed.
He let out a sly grin before reaching around and flattening his palm directly over the straining bulge in Steve’s pants. He had done it so casually that you almost believed this wasn’t the first time he’d handled his friend.
“Fuck,” Steve’s eyes snapped wide, head turning to Bucky’s in shock but not pulling away. “B-Buck—!”
“Look at this, doll,” Bucky hummed darkly. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers flexed, squeezing the length of Steve’s cock through the fabric. “You see how hard he is? How much he’s shaking just because you’re lookin’ at him?”
Steve let out a low, involuntary whimper—a sound so ungentlemanly it made his face burn even hotter. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and desperate, pleading for you to either stop this or finish it.
“P-please…”
Bucky gave Steve a firm squeeze, his fingers curling around Steve’s bulge. The pressure made Steve’s head roll back, a deep, broken groan vibrating out of his throat as his body betrayed him.
A dark, damp circle began to bloom against the front of his light-colored trousers, the fabric darkening as a heavy bead of pre-cum soaked through, marking him right where Bucky’s thumb was pressing.
Bucky let out a low, dark chuckle as he relished the way his friend was falling apart beneath his hand.
“Look at that, doll,” Bucky urged, voice raspy.
He shifted his palm slightly to smear the growing dampness into the cloth, making the stain even more obvious and Steve even more shameful. “See what you’re doin’ to him? He’s so worked up for you, he can’t even keep himself dry.”
Steve was trembling where he stood, his massive shoulders shaking as he looked down at his ruined pants before his gaze snapped back to yours—raw and shamelessly.
“Buck… stop,” he whined. It was a pathetic, needy sound, and despite every ounce of strength in his new muscles he could use to push Bucky off, he didn’t. He stayed rooted to the spot, leaning into the touch. “You’re… you’re scaring her…”
“Scaring her?” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not scaring her. Look her in the eye, Stevie. She wants you just as bad.”
Bucky glanced over at you, tilting his head with a flash of innocence that didn’t match the way his hand was still working Steve through his trousers. “Isn’t that right, doll? Don’t you want to help our poor, big Stevie?”
“How should I…” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the two large men looming over you. “What should I do?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Get down on your knees, sweetheart. A man loves to see his woman on her knees for him.”
A small gasp escaped you, and you looked up at Steve as if waiting for his approval. He didn’t deny it—his brows were pinched together and his jaw hung open as his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. Finally, you slid off the cushions and sank onto the rug. From this angle, Steve looked like a titan, and the damp stain on his trousers sat right at eye level.
Steve swore he could bust right then and there just from seeing you on your knees.
“Now,” Bucky commanded softly. His hand finally let go of Steve’s cock to rest on top of his head, his fingers threading firmly through Steve’s blonde hair. “Open ‘em up. Nice and slow.”
“Slow?” Steve whined.
Bucky clicked his tongue. “He’s been waiting a long time for this, he can wait a little longer.”
With trembling fingers, you reached for the buttons of his trousers. The fabric was strained to the limit, and as you worked them free one by one, the rigid, pulsing heat of him began to push through the opening.
When the last button gave way, Steve’s cock snapped free, heavy and thick.
You gasped at the size. You weren’t sure how it was going to fit in your hand.
“There he is,” Bucky cooed, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair as he forced Steve's head down to look at you. “Now, wrap your hand around him. Take a good grip so he knows he’s yours.”
You reached out, your small hand barely able to meet around the girth of him. The feel of your warm, amateur palm wrapping around his skin made Steve’s eyes shutter closed instantly in pleasure.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve cursed, his hips instinctively bucking forward for more.
“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled.“Can’t even fit her whole hand around you—but it feels good, doesn’t it? So much better than your own hand.”
“So…” Steve moaned, his hips drawing back slightly before he thrusted himself into your palm, “much… better. Fuck—”
You tightened your grip, swiping your thumb over the pre-cum that gathered at his tip and over his cockhead. The friction of your palm against his over sensitized skin made Steve’s knees buckle, his large frame swaying as he looked down at you through his haze of lust.
“See that, doll?” Bucky rumbled above you. “Steve’s a man now—and a man like this… sometimes a hand just isn’t enough to please him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”
Steve didn’t, couldn’t, give him a coherent answer. He was busy babbling broken, desperate sounds into the air, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest. “God… please,” he breathed. “Her hand.. it’s so soft—so warm.”
Your face was on fire. You could feel yourself wetting your panties with every heavy breath and grunt that escaped Steve’s lips. And the way Bucky was shamelessly watching you, that wicked little knowing grin plastered on his face, only made you feel smaller—utterly helpless under both of them.
Bucky’s cock was practically jumping out of his pants as his eyes were fixed on the way your small hand looked against Steve.
“Shit. I think he needs more, sweetheart.” He breathed. “I think he needs more, sweetheart. Stick your tongue out. I want you to use that pretty tongue of yours. Lick it—all the way up—and then I want you to take as much of him as you can into your small little mouth.”
You hesitated, your breath hitching as you stared up at the two men.
“I… I’ve never... sucked before—” you confessed, tiny and trembling.
The admission made you sink back on your heels, suddenly overwhelmed. You had Steve right in front of you, practically panting for anything you were willing to give him, which should have made you feel confident—but the performance anxiety was taking its toll.
You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to satisfy Steve, and the weight of Bucky’s watchful and critical gaze only made it worse.
But Bucky didn’t look disappointed.
In fact, his grin grew wider.
“Even better,” Bucky purred. He leaned over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours. “That just means Stevie here gets to be the one to teach you. And don’t you worry, doll... we’re gonna make sure you learn exactly how to take care of a man.”
Bucky’s hand slid down Steve’s forearm, his grip tightening as he nudged him toward you. “Help her out, Stevie. Grab her hair.”
Steve hesitated. His eyes dropped to the plump curve of your lips, and his cock twitched as he imagined the heat of your mouth wrapping around him. Slowly, as if expecting you to pull away, his thick fingers tangled into your hair.
When you let out a soft, shaky sigh at the feel of his touch, Steve took it as the only permission he needed. He tugged a little firmer now, guiding your face closer to his hard length until you stumbled forward on your knees with a small whimper.
“Tell her, Steve,” Bucky urged, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. “Tell her exactly what you want her to do with that pretty mouth.”
Steve’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, with a hand tight around the base of his cock, he guided himself right to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darted out at the pre-cum collecting at his slit, and Steve’s entire body shuddered with every effort it took from slamming his cock into your mouth.
“How does it taste, sweetheart?” Steve breathed, gauging your expression.
You looked up at him, your eyes a little hazy as the salty taste of him settled on your tongue. It was a completely new sensation—warm, strong, and undeniably masculine.
“It’s… a little salty,” you admitted gently “Is it supposed to taste like that?”
Bucky chuckled darkly, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s shoulder as he pressed himself into his back, his cock subtly rubbing up against the cleft of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his own pants. “Aw. Isn’t that cute? Just a little taste and our girl’s already curious.”
“Open… please,” Steve rasped.
Between the sight of your waiting mouth and the insistent pressure of Bucky behind him, his senses were completely overwhelmed.
“Open your mouth all the way for me, sweetheart,” Steve let out a shaking breath.
He guided his throbbing, slicked head of his cock back to your lips, his fingers tightening instinctively in your hair. “I need to feel how warm your mouth is… I need you to take me.”
Shyly, you parted your lips. At the sight of your tongue, Steve took it as a final invitation to lose himself. He nudged your head closer to his cock until your lips stretched over his sensitive head. Already overwhelmed by the sensation of your plump lips sliding over his sensitive flesh, Steve let out a low, guttural growl and tossed his head back.
“Oh, hell…” he cursed, bucking his hips forward without warning.
Steve’s cock slid over your wet tongue and buried itself deep in your mouth. Your eyes went wide as you let out a muffled, helpless choke around his length. That small sound only made your throat tighten around his shaft, and the combination of your sweet, pained noises and the warmth was enough to shatter Steve’s last bit of control.
“Shit… that feels… fuck,” Steve whined, his hips snapping deeper into your mouth. “Feels too damn good—”
“Whoa, Stevie,” Bucky chuckled, though his own breath was hitching as he watched. He reached down, his hand landing heavy on Steve’s hip to try and still him. “Slow down, pal. You’re gonna choke the poor girl if you keep lunging like a wild animal. Take it easy.”
“I—I can’t…” Steve gasped, his head rolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.
His eyes were blown wide and glassy with a terrifying haze of lust. His thrusts became more frantic, his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, vulgar slapping sound.
“Fuck, Bucky… do you see how she’s looking at me?” Steve grumbled, his voice a wrecked, low vibration.
He looked down at you, watching the way your eyes stayed locked on his even as you struggled to accommodate his size.
“She’s chokin’ around me… I can feel her throat squeezing me… but she’s not looking away.”
He glanced back at Bucky, blonde hair falling over his sweat beaded brow in messy, golden strands. “That—that means she wants it, right? She wants me to keep goin’?”
Your eyes grew wide and teary, your warm, wet throat closing in tight around him as he drove himself in to the hilt. You choked and coughed, drooling helplessly around his thick shaft as his pelvis collided with your nose with every thrust.
The mere idea of it—the very woman he had sought after for years, now pinned on her knees beneath him, servicing his cock—was too much to bear. Your eyes, usually so wide with wonder and kindness, were now glassy and teary as your mouth stretched to accommodate him.
The sight of your vulnerability was the final spark. It was enough to make him cum on the spot.
“Fuck… I can’t—shit, not when she’s looking at me like that…” Steve groaned, rocking his hips faster against your mouth.
“Ste—ve—mmph..”
“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at the messy, beautiful ruin of your face. “My girl… my best girl… taking all of me.”
And then you nodded—a small, subtle little movement you managed to get out despite the possessive grip Steve had on your hair. That tiny invitation made his cock throb violently inside your mouth, pulsing once, twice, before his release finally consumed him and your mouth.
“Look at her, Buck!” Steve beamed, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest as he drove himself into your throat one last time. “She’s so… fuck… she’s so perfect. God, I’m cumming—!”
Bucky watched, enamored, as Steve’s thick seed flooded your mouth. Steve held your head down, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as his release seeped around the stretch of your lips and down your chin, dripping obscenely onto the floor.
Your face—usually so pretty, soft, and composed—was now fucked to filth. Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, and your lips and chin were smeared with a mask of saliva and Steve’s cum.
It was a sight vulgar enough to make Bucky almost feel bad for you.
Almost.
The sensation of Steve’s salty, warm, and thick cum hitting the back of your throat was like a drug filling your head. His cock throbbed tiredly in your mouth, Steve finally coming down from his high. He let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out of your wet, sore mouth with a heavy, sloppy pop.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Steve rasped, his voice filled with regret as he took in the sight of you—kneeling on the floor, breathless and covered in his mess. “Look at you. I ruined you. I didn’t mean to be so—God, please let me help you up.”
He started to reach for your shoulders, his large palms open and trembling, but he was cut off by the sharp sound of Bucky’s belt being unbuckled.
“Get up, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice wasn’t a suggestion but rather an authoritative command that made no move for arguments. He nudged Steve back with a firm, steady hand, his eyes never leaving your messy, dazed face.
“That’s not a way to treat a woman now, Steve,” Bucky purred, finally extending a hand to you. His fingers were steady, a contrast to Steve’s shaking frame. “Our girl has never sucked a cock before—and yet here you are, slamming your pelvis down her throat and ruinin’ her.”
Steve’s face flushed with embarrassment and shame. His eyes flickered to Bucky’s briefly before looking back at yours with guilt.
“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… I lost control.”
You reached up, wiping the corner of your mouth as Bucky’s hand closed around yours, pulling you to your feet. “It’s okay—”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steve,” Bucky interrupted with a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.
He pointed to the seat directly behind Steve—the one Bucky had just vacated. “Sit down. Since you don’t know how to pace yourself, I’m going to show you how to properly please a woman.”
Steve swallowed hard, watching your debauched face blink up at Bucky with a dazed curiosity. His heartstrings pulled knowing how brutally he’d just fucked your face, and reluctantly, he took a seat as instructed.
You felt Bucky’s warm breath hit the back of your neck as he pressed up behind you—his bulge rubbing firm against the fabric of your skirt as his hands circled from behind you to your front, undoing the buttons on your blouse one at a time.
“You have to take your time with a fragile woman like her,” Bucky said raspily, his nose finding the crook of your neck and pressing soft, wet kisses between each sentence. “You need to savor this moment—undress her slowly as if unwrapping a delicate present.”
Your blouse was finally undone, and you heard the small gasp that left Steve’s lips at the sight of your lacey bra.
Swiftly, as if he had done this plenty of times before, Bucky undid your bra in one quick moment, the lace hitting the ground.
“Oh—!” you gasped as Bucky’s hands immediately found your nipples, giving them soft and teasing tugs as he circled his digits around the sensitive flesh.
In reaction, your back arched against his chest, only making your ass rub up against Bucky’s straining cock even more.
“Bucky…” Steve breathed from the couch, his hands already working at his half-hard cock. “What’re you… doing…”
“You’ve gotta play with her for a bit,” Bucky explained, giving your nipple a harsher tug that made you squeal. “Hear that, Steve? Means she likes it.”
He nuzzled his nose closer to your face, blue eyes piercing through yours.
“Do you like it, doll?”
“I… I do…”
You were cut off with Bucky’s hand sliding up to your chin and giving your cheeks a firm squeeze in his direction.
“Look at me when you answer, baby,” he warned. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, Bucky... I l-love it,” you whimpered as his hands continued their possessive roam over your body.
Bucky’s grin was dark and satisfied, his thumb grazing the corner of your swollen mouth. “Good. Eye contact is important. Now…”
He reached out, his hand hooking under your chin and firmly turning your face to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve looked completely spent, his blue eyes wide and glazed with a heavy, post orgasmic haze as he watched you from the couch, his hand resting lazily over the rise of his cock.
“Look Steve in the eye while I touch you,” Bucky commanded, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks to keep your head still. “Tell him how good it feels.”
You shivered, your eyes locking onto Steve’s. He looked so vulnerable, yet so hungry, his chest heaving as he watched his best friend’s hands work over you.
“Don’t keep him waiting.” Bucky urged.
“It… it feels so good, Steve,” you breathed as Bucky continued to grope you. “Bucky’s hands… they’re so warm—I love how he’s touching me—”
Steve let out a choked sound at your words, one hand stroking his shaft while the other gripped the arm rest. “Jesus…”
“He’s got a lot to learn, doesn’t he, baby?” Bucky murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your skirt and unzipping the side, letting the fabric fall over your legs and hit the ground. “Tell him how it feels when I do this.”
A mewl escaped your lips the moment Bucky slyly slid his hand down the waistband of your panties, his fingers gently rubbing at your clit before delving deeper against your folds. He shifted around you, one hand groping at your chest,waist, and hips—while the other fingered your wet cunt.
“Ah—Buck!”
“My,” Bucky chuckled, clicking his tongue. “She’s so wet.”
Steve swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the sight of Bucky’s hand disappearing into your lace. “Is she?”
“Long before I even started touchin’ her, I bet,” Bucky explained, nudging his knee between your legs to force them to spread wider for him. “That’s all because of you, Steve. You worked her up so good—she’s dripping around my fingers.”
Still standing and completely exposed to both of the hungry men, you felt Bucky’s fingers probe against your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before he pushed firmly against the tight heat of your hole.
You arched your back, whining high in your throat as Bucky’s fingers sheathed completely inside you—at first stroking gently before he began to move roughly, enticing shamelessly wet sounds out of you.
“Oh my God—!” you cried.
You squelched around his fingers as he worked your slick folds. Steve’s eyes widened, his breath completely caught in his throat as he watched your body react so easily to Bucky’s hands.
“You hear that, Stevie?” Bucky groaned, increasing the pace in his fingers while rubbing himself against your back. “When a woman sounds like that—it means she’s ready. Ready to be fucked.”
With a sharp tug, Bucky hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the center of the room.
He rested a heavy hand on your lower back, his palm hot against your skin as he guided you toward the couch.
“On the couch, doll. Front and center.”
You stumbled slightly, your knees weak and your inner thighs a slick, aching mess. You barely had time to settle onto the cushions before Bucky was already unbuckling his belt, his pants hitting the floor as he exposed himself completely.
He stepped in, his thighs nudging between your knees and forcing you to lay back until you were spread wide and vulnerable beneath him.
Bucky was big in ways that genuinely worried you.
If you could hardly handle Steve’s length in your throat, you weren’t sure of how your body would react to Bucky’s width.
He noticed the way your eyes widened as he hovered over you, his thumb tracing the seam of his own length as he rubbed his tip against your entrance. He let out a low, dark chuckle, completely satisfied with the way he had you squirming and the way he had Steve pinned to his seat, unable to look away.
“You see how she’s shaking, Steve? That’s what you want. You want her knowing exactly what’s coming for her.”
“Bucky,” you whined, your hands coming up to his shoulders for support—and Steve watched with a pang of envy, wishing it was his skin you were clinging to instead. “Please…”
Bucky laughed again, taking the head of his cock and dragging it slowly along your slit, coating himself in your heat. You let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily twitching, begging for the friction to turn into something more.
“She’s begging so sweetly, Buck…” Steve gave himself a gentle squeeze around his sensitive shaft at the sight of you. “You need to take care of her—”
“Even though she’s beggin’, you gotta make her wait.” Bucky explained despite the strain of holding back in his own voice. “You stretch her out bit by bit until she’s begging you to just get it over with.”
Bucky poked his tip against the soft, warm flesh of your cunt, pressing just enough pressure to make you gasp but not enough to penetrate all the way through.
“Tell Steve what you want, doll,” Bucky murmured, his hand coming down to grip your hip. “Tell him how much you want this.”
“B-Bucky, please,” you sobbed, your back arching off the couch as you tried to force yourself onto him, but he held his ground, as immovable as a mountain.
“That’s not an answer,” Bucky teased, his eyes darting to Steve, who was leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. “Is she asking for a kiss, Stevie? Is she asking for a blanket? I can’t tell.”
Steve’s throat bobbed as he watched the head of Bucky’s cock sliding against your entrance, the size of him making you look so small and fragile. “She wants you inside her, Buck. Just… fuck, just give it to her.”
“I want to hear her say it,” Bucky countered, giving you another shallow, teasing poke that made your toes curl into the cushions. “Tell us, baby. What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you inside,” you choked out, your face warm with embarrassment. “I want… I want you to stretch me. Please, Bucky, fuck me!”
Bucky smirked, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
With one hand propped near your head to hold himself up, he used the other to grip the base of his cock. He pushed deeper against your entrance, your cunt slowly stretching around him with every stinging burn. You could feel every ridge, every inch of his width forcing your tight walls to let him in.
“Shit,” Bucky hissed a curse, “she’s so tight.”
“Buck,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he stretched you with every slide. “Too… too big, I don’t think I—”
“You can, baby,” Bucky countered. He hooked one hand underneath your thigh, hoisting it up toward your chest until you were pinned back, nearly splitting you. “Here—I’ll help you. Steve, I want you to watch me.”
A broken mewl left your lips as you tossed your head back against the cushions. Bucky was filling you—completely and deeply—and he hadn’t even begun to move before your legs were already shaking. With a deep grunt, he finally bottomed out, his hips slamming against yours with a wet squelch so vulgar it made Steve’s breath hitch.
“Her legs are shaking…” Steve pointed out, which only made your body warm even more in embarrassment.
You turned your head to look at him, and the sight made you clench instinctively around Bucky’s dick. Steve was at the edge of his seat, his toes curled into the floor as his large hand pumped over his cock. He was still slick from his own cum and the heat of your mouth, leaking profusely and looking every bit ready for round two.
“S-Steve…” you broke off into a whimper as Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened.
The sudden grip made your eyes flicker back to Bucky’s—his darkening at the way you were looking at his best friend. He let out a sharp, mocking huff.
“Moaning another man’s name while I’m buried this deep inside you, doll?” Bucky pulled back until he was nearly out, the slick wetness around his shaft filling the room before he slammed back in, making you cry out and the couch groan.
“If you’ve got enough breath to call for Stevie,” he growled, pulling his hips back again before thrusting even deeper, “then I’m not working you hard enough.”
The moment Bucky increased his pace, a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. You tried to hide it—to claw back any shred of composure—but you simply couldn't when you were stripped bare and taken so roughly while Steve watched every single second.
Every time Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix, it felt like your nerves were catching on fire.
You were parted completely by him, his width stretching you so thoroughly that your body had no choice but to acknowledge that you belonged to him.
“A-ah! Bu-Bucky… feels so good—!” you cried out, hands clawing at his back as he fucked you into the cushions.
Each thrust Bucky delivered seemed to synchronize with the wet pumping of Steve’s hand. Bucky looked over his shoulder, a dark smirk pulling at his lips as he caught Steve’s eye.
He nearly pulled all the way out, letting Steve see the wet and stretched out version of you before bottoming out again, filling you completely and making you cry out.
“Lying in your bed at night, wondering what it would like to hear her scream like this for you.” Bucky continued with a gritty rasp.
As shameful as it was—every bit of it was true.
Every day you had spent standing next to Steve—acting small and seemingly innocent—you never would have guessed that little ol’ Steve had the filthiest thoughts imaginable running through his mind.
He used to imagine what it would feel like to have a body that didn’t fail him, a body strong enough to pin you down and finally act on the dirty thoughts that made his blood sing. He’d lie awake in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling and picturing your hands on him.
Or better yet, his hands on you—forcing a cry just like the one Bucky was coaxing out of you now.
Every time Bucky’s cock slid out of your cunt, Steve imagined it was his own sinking back into your tight, aching heat. If your mouth had felt that incredible, he could only imagine how it must feel to be buried deep inside you. The thought alone made him pump his cock faster, his body leaking a copious amount of pre-cum thanks to the serum.
He was already on the verge of busting a second load just from the sight of you getting ruined.
“God… ah, fuck,” Steve whimpered, his eyes glazed as his cock became painfully sensitive under his own touch.
“Look at him, doll,” Bucky prompted, leaning down to hiss the words into your ear while he continued to relentlessly pump into you. “Look at how hard he’s working just to keep up with us. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Watching his best friend ruin you while he sits there and plays with himself.”
Bucky pulled back almost to the tip, gripping your other hip and flaring you even wider for the audience.
“He’s imagining it’s him,” Bucky laughed, a dark, sexy sound that made you flare up. “He’s imagining he’s the one stretching you out, the one making you sob his name. But he has to learn how to take care of you first, right? He has to watch me finish inside you.”
Your eyes widened at the thought of Bucky pumping you full.
It was dangerous, but with the way he had you pinned, your body couldn’t help but react. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your heat.
“Oh—” Bucky grunted, his cock twitching violently at the feel of your soft thighs locking him in. “Jesus… fuck.”
“Finish inside her,” Steve pleaded. He was timing his own hand to Bucky’s thrust, body tensing as he was prepared to cum alongside his best friend. “Fuck, Buck… do it. She’s pullin’ you in—means she wants it. I want to see you fill her.”
“She’s—she’s so tight,” Bucky hissed, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He drew his hips back as far as your locked legs would allow before sliding back in. “She’s pulling me in… like she’s trying to drain me.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look you in the eye, his eyes dark with hunger.
“What should I do, doll? Should I cum inside?” he whispered, rocking his hips in a slow, agonizing grind as he fought to hold back his release. “Should I show Steve how to properly breed a woman?”
“Yes!” you sobbed, your hips rising to meet him—trying to rip the orgasm out of him yourself. “Please, Bucky. I want it, please!”
Bucky’s face strained at your words, his hips losing rhythm as he fucked you until his cock twitched and pulsed.
“Christ… you dirty girl,” he grunted between clenched teeth, each thrust making the couch slide an inch against the floor.
Steve watched and listened, tracing the way your body shook and the way your moans pitched higher and higher with every wet slap of Bucky’s hips. He could see the exact moment you both started to go over the edge—and he was right there with you, his hand a blur as he prepared to cum too.
“Shit!” Bucky cursed. “Cumming—fuck—I’m cumming, baby.” He groaned, tossing his head back as you felt his cock twitch inside you, filling you up deeply.
“Oh my god—Buck!”
Your head swam with desire, the feeling of him pumping you full making you cry out as you came alongside him. Your walls clenched around his shaft as he continued to pump lazily into you, his release flooding your core.
Across from you, at that exact second, Steve let out a broken groan as his body jerked in the chair. His hand moved in a blur over his sensitive shaft, his cock twitching in his grip before spilling warm cum all over his fingers and stomach.
The living room that had once been warm with the scent of sweet cookies and tea now smelled of nothing but sex and sweat. Bucky stayed buried deep for a moment, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheek as the tremors in your legs finally began to fade.
“Good girl,” he murmured in soothingly. “You were such a good girl for me.”
Slowly, Bucky began to pull out.
The sudden loss of him left you feeling sensitive and vulnerable, and you could feel the warmth he’d pumped into you beginning to slick down your thighs, staining the worn cushion of the couch. Bucky reached for the floor, grabbing his pants and pulling them over his shins.
“Did you watch carefully, Steve?” Bucky asked, doing his belt lazily.
Steve didn’t say a word.
He just nodded, pushing himself up from the chair.
You were completely spent, your limbs feeling like stones against the couch, but your eyes went wide as you watched him approach.
Despite having just finished, Steve was already half hard again. You didn’t know how it was physically possible, but a man with his desires amplified by the super-soldier serum worked wonders in ways that even you couldn’t understand.
“I did,” Steve confirmed.
His chest was still heaving as he stood over you, his shadow falling across your trembling frame. He looked devastating—undone, messy, and still starving.
“S-steve?” you whimpered, weakly trying to sit up, “… are you okay? What are you doing?”
Bucky let out a dark, knowing chuckle at the shock on your face. He stepped aside, clearing a path as he looked from Steve back down to you, his hand clamping firmly on his friend’s shoulder.
“Good,” Bucky said. “Because it’s your turn.”
3 weeks since i posted my last fic 🚬 this has been in my drafts since jan and i'm glad i got to finally finish it! another stucky one, but from here on out you guys can expect to see more bucky fics soon (probably knight!bucky or model!bucky, depends if i'm feeling depressed or horny)
thank you guys for sticking around, and i hope you enjoyed!
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I need money. I have a CT scan on my brain on the 11th, and I can't pay the hospital bill at all. Im not getting enough hours at work, and I do not get paid enough. And im still having trouble paying off past medical bills. I still have my gofundme up if anyone would like to donate. Even the smallest amount helps! Thank you!!
I haven't raised any money (yes, I know it says I have, but that was months ago, and that paid other debts).
My CT scan is tomorrow, and I haven't raised any money. My CT scan is over 400 dollars. It is 441.18, to be exact. I know that to a lot of people, that's not a lot, but for me, it is. I only have about 6 dollars in my bank. I also have other things to pay for, like therapy, medicine, phone bills, and now this. All together, that would be over 700 dollars this month.
If you can donate, please do, If you can't, reblogging helps too.
bucky x reader
Word Count: 11.1k
Warnings:: au mafia; fluf; angst; mafia!bucky; little a bit stalker!bucky; barista!reader; soft!bucky; f!reader; brif mens of clouse; shy!reader; use of nickname: sweetheart, doll;
Summary: One day you received a gift from a stranger and with each passing day you received more and more gifts…
ʚଓ masterlist
The last thing you wanted was to search for a gift that couldn't please anyone, but you always have to find excuses to please someone at your own expense. However, you didn't want to show up empty-handed, as it bothered no one. Except perhaps yourself.
As you walked, you noticed a flower shop with flowers that looked beautiful. The colors blended beautifully, revealing nothing about the fragrance. The sweet scent delighted your nostrils as you approached. You didn't look inside, just stared. Perhaps it was a gift you could give, but you weren't sure how much it would cost. You didn't want a full bouquet, but three flowers would look sad next to each other.
You didn't touch the flower petals, you just approached them and inhaled.
Pink tulips.
You froze, realizing you couldn't buy them after seeing the price.
Luckily, you didn't see anyone nearby, and without even checking, you quickly walked away. You shouldn't have been embarrassed, but you felt it anyway. It was a silly feeling that also reminded you of how long ago you'd received the flowers.
College.
Which you didn't want to go back to. Which you hadn't even finished, let alone paid off, which you were still paying off to this day. You didn't even know why you went to college, or rather, you did. But you didn't want to think about it, not even about it.
Now you were reminded of your ex-boyfriend, whom you didn't want to think about either.
But before you could delve deeper into your thoughts, which were weighing even more heavily on your mind, someone interrupted you.
"These are for you."
You glanced at the man in front of you. Tall, very tall. You didn't want to say you'd never seen anyone that tall, and that would be a lie, because you'd probably met someone, even knew who.
Don't think about it. You repeated to youself.
Beautiful, handsome. You weren't sure how to assess this person before you. Dressed in dark colors, a little too elegantly. Too elegant. Longish brown hair, a well-trimmed beard. But his eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Reminiscent of a calm sea. But his gaze was strange. There was something behind them. Curiosity? Softness? Or maybe danger. You weren't sure. Or maybe you didn't want to know.
Only after a moment did you realize he was holding something in his hands. You glanced at what he had in them and were surprised to see the flowers. The very ones you wanted to buy. The ones you almost touched. The ones you saw moments ago. You glanced back at the stranger and weren't entirely sure what to do, or rather, what to say.
"Thank you, but I can't accept this." You said timidly, nervously shifting the bag on your shoulder, trying to guess your own feelings.
"And I insisted." "He pushed the gift closer to you. It was almost as if they were already in your arms. "Something beautiful for a beautiful lady."
You stood there, staring at him. Pleasant shivers ran down your spine, and you smiled shyly. You looked away from his penetrating gaze. You felt warmth begin to envelop your face.
"Thank you," you said, but you didn't reach for the flowers. You wanted to reach for them, but…
You hadn't received such a compliment in a long time. Not even from a handsome man. You have fallen so low.
"Accepting them would be a thank you, sweetheart."
You looked at him, surprised when he used that word, because a stranger wouldn't say such things.
"We've known each other for five seconds." It sounded an octave higher than you intended.
"That's enough for me." His self-confident smile was starting to intimidate you with each passing second.
Now you saw that he was older than you, but not so much that it bothered you. You weren't young yourself, but you were definitely younger than him.
It would still make it seem like something was wrong with him, but you weren't sure what. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, almost too intensely, with that smile. Softly, when he looked at you with a slightly chilled expression. As if he saw something in you that you couldn't. Maybe you forgotten what it was like to have someone look at you.
Truly see you.
"These flowers suit you very well. Here." He practically shoved them into your hand, and you couldn't do anything about it.
"They're beautiful." You glanced at them as you said it.
"Just like you."
You glanced at him quickly, trying not to cringe at his words, and returned your gaze to the flowers.
You let out a fake laugh.
"You probably say that a lot." You said before biting your tongue.
"No. Only to you." You glanced at him. He smiled at you as he spoke those words.
You felt yourself melt inside. You gripped the bouquet tightly.
But he began to look, somewhere behind you.
"I have to. See you later."
Before you could do or say anything, he quickly moved away from you. You stood in the middle of the sidewalk in shock, unsure of what had just happened. Your brain needed time to process everything, where your body was, you already knew everything. What a strange, new sensation began to invade your body.
A very, very handsome older man, complimenting you. He gave you flowers. For no reason.
You felt strangely grateful, though you didn't want to accept anything about it so quickly, but the smile on your face said otherwise. You felt your stomach tighten as you glanced at the flowers, because they were the same ones you seen earlier. And as you returned home, you told yourself it was just a coincidence, and even if it wasn't, he probably saw you looking at them. Sometimes that happens, after all.
You've completely forgotten why you even went shopping.
You were just standing behind the counter and didn't expect to see him. The very next day. At your place of work, smiling at you when he saw you. Just like yesterday.
Coincidence, right?
"We meet again." He didn't even say hello.
"Yes…" You said a little late. "What can I get you?" You asked politely, trying to resist his gaze, which made you feel small.
"I'll take your word for it?" he said, leaning against the counter and tilting his head slightly in your direction.
"What do you like?" You asked, trying to sound professional.
"You decide. I think whatever you choose will be good."
You glanced at him for a moment wary. You knew what he was trying to convey with his words, but as you can see, things don't always work. Just like now. Maybe he sounded too much like a man who does too much.
"I don't think so. Not everyone likes the same things." You said it more to yourself than to him.
"Let's find out. What do you recommend?"
You sighed, a little dissatisfied, and glanced at the menu, which you were already familiar with, but you tried to buy yourself some time. Not because you couldn't hold his gaze, behind which there were too many hidden things.
"Icelate?"
"And dessert?"
"Croissant?" It was the first thing that caught your eye.
"And what do you usually get?"
You glanced at him. You were very, very sure he was flirting with you. You tried to ignore it every time. Not only because you had little experience with it, but also because it had been years since you remembered how it worked, though it should have been obvious. You weren't sure if you wanted to get involved either, even if it was nice to have someone notice you. However, you felt a certain distance within yourself. Maybe it was just nerves.
You told him, ignoring your feelings.
"Are you sure?" You asked, looking at him questioningly.
"Yes. I like trying new things." He paid, and you wanted to give him the change. "Keep the change."
"It's actually a hundred dollars." You laughed nervously.
"I know, keep it."
Your eyebrows shot up, and you wanted to give it back to him, but he interrupted you.
"A tip." He said without even looking at you, because he was staring at something behind the window, but when you looked, you couldn't see anything.
"Have you worked here long?"
Your gaze shifted from the window to him.
"Yes." You tried to fill his order as quickly as possible. "Two years." You added after a moment, for reasons unseen.
"It must be nice working in a place like this."
You glanced at him, but you couldn't read much into his expression. Was he interested in knowing more about you, or was he just trying to fill the silence between you?
"It's alright. The area is safe."
He didn't ask another question, just watched you. You tried to ignore him, but it was hard when he didn't even try to hide it. You wanted to tell him to stop, but you didn't want to deprive him of the satisfaction of it, not knowing how he would react. But you also felt ashamed, knowing how those words would sound. You were trapped.
He seemed pleased with the turn of events; perhaps he even noticed your discomfort, how you tried to hide your glances at him when he smiled at you.
"Good." He responded to your words, surprising you. He glanced around the room and then looked in your direction again. "If anyone starts causing trouble, tell me. I'll take care of them."
"What?"
You looked at him, not hiding your shock.
The words sounded like a threat, though their meaning was far more dangerous. You didn't know if it was a warning to you or for you. His relaxed expression seemed to suggest otherwise, but you didn't know how. You didn't harbor any animosity, or rather, you didn't know if you did. You could count on one hand the number of people you'd met, the ones you knew. You didn't think any customer you might have served poorly would want to do anything to you.
"Just tell me if anyone bothers you." There was no hint of hostility in his voice. As if what he was saying was a simple conversation about the weather. "And especially when you're coming home late alone." He finished, seeing your expression.
You placed his order, practically knocking everything down, and without waiting for his words, you quickly headed for the back.
"My name is Bucky."
You stopped and looked at him over your shoulder. But you didn't say anything, hiding from his gaze.
You started rearranging things, just to avoid attracting the attention of the manager, who was sitting in the next room. He could look over at any moment and see you.
You didn't want to dwell on his words and tried to ignore them, but all you could hear were his words ringing in your ears. You didn't want to admit to yourself that at first, when he said the first part, it was even charming, but the next part made your blood run cold. You don't say things like that and you'll get a normal reaction. Take care of. Which you didn't even know what it meant. Maybe if he said it differently. You would have even smiled, but he didn't have to say it that way.
You might be overthinking it. Probably. Right?
Unfortunately for you, you finished everything and had to go back to the counter. Luckily, you could breathe a sigh of relief when you saw he was gone, but there was something lying by the cash register. You knew what it was.
Pink tulips.
The same flowers he gave you yesterday, and you didn't even notice he was carrying them. You were more preoccupied with him than with the gift.
The next day, he arrived at the same time. You barely set foot behind the counter when he was already there, waiting.
As always, dressed in more than averagely elegant attire, you didn't want to dwell on his job for too long. Not realizing that it was also noon, but not lunchtime. You didn't expect him to be an average businessman who came to an average looking cafe.
You felt like the only reason he been here twice more than he should have was because of you. But only twice.
This time, you noticed the flowers. The same ones as yesterday and when you first met.
When his eyes saw you, his face lit up with joy, like a puppy. Which, of course, affected you more than it should have. His eyes warmed and softened. You felt a warm sensation spread through your body.
His words yesterday seemed more distant than you wanted them to be.
"Hi." He said first, leaning closer to you with his whole body so you could see his handsome face. "These are for you." He placed the flower in front of you. "I didn't give them to you straight away yesterday, but you ran away quickly." You felt warmth spread across your face despite yourself, and you weren't sure what you could read in his voice. Regret. Sadness. Just directed at you, to blame you, or at himself? You weren't sure. "And please, the same as yesterday." He didn't wait for you to say anything.
"You shouldn't give me flowers every time." You shoved the bill in your hand, trying to ignore his gaze, which was watching you with far too much intensity. "And you shouldn't say things like that." It shouldn't have sounded quiet, but you weren't controlling your voice at that moment.
Maybe a little scared.
You tried to ignore your own fear, which was creeping up on you despite yourself, but who could blame you, considering how his words sounded yesterday?
He's been looking at you for a moment.
"I know, but I'd rather you know I'm here if you need help." He spoke these words thoughtfully, to reassure you of his intentions. Don't apologize, and he didn't even look like one. "I don't want anything to happen to you."
You glanced at him from the counter, observing him carefully and pondering his words, which didn't exactly bring you much relief.
"You shouldn't say things like that."
"What do you mean? Because I'm not sure what you're getting at." He added the last sentence, seeing your questioning look.
You didn't want to say anything, knowing how it might sound, and somehow you didn't want to upset him, even if he didn't do anything. You just worded your words unconventionally.
You looked away before you could say anything. You didn't want to see his reaction when you whispered.
"As if someone were going to do something to me…" The uncertainty was evident in your voice, as was the nervousness.
"Nobody's going to hurt you." He said abruptly before you could finish a words, glancing at him sideways. His serious voice only confirmed his expression. "I won't allow it." He stood there, only to further confirm his words, and you felt small inside you. His seriousness shouldn't have surprised you, considering his appearance and the way he dressed, but his soft demeanor contrasted somewhat with his current demeanor.
You weren't sure how to interpret this.
Your expression was unconvinced. At least, that's what you thought. Maybe you had a slightly frightened look on your face as well, as his expression softened and relaxed.
"I'm serious." They leaned toward you again as you handed him what he ordered, pushing the flowers toward you. You wanted to give him the change you'd forgotten about for a moment. You should get a grip. "Keep it." He said, taking his order in his hand.
But he didn't start to leave, just looked at you again.
"You have good taste." He gestured towards what he held in his hands. "I think I'll be coming here every day, and not just for the food, but for you too, sweetheart." It was a promise.
Seeing your reaction, how your face began to heat up without your consent, he moved to leave, not even waiting for what you had to say.
You sighed, irritated at yourself, at him, and at the entire station.
At yourself for how you couldn't control yourself and how his words affected you. At him for never letting you get a word in edgewise. At how he always kept you in a corner and wouldn't let you escape. At stations where he had little influence on how things turned out.
There should have been a two-way conversation, but everything was coming from him, and you weren't sure you wanted to hear your opinion on anything. You wondered if he was the only one who found your looks attractive. Was that all he saw in you? Pretty face. It was still nice when someone appreciated your looks, but did that mean your personality meant nothing? Did he have your mind set on what kind of person you were, so he wouldn't let you get a word in?
Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you think too much. Too many of those things, maybe.
You felt a knot in your stomach, though you shouldn't. You had to remember that he was a man first, and like every man, he preferred to focus on himself and what he wanted, not on you.
You wasn't surprised when he showed up again the next day. Again with the same flowers. You felt like your apartment was turning into a flower shop. So you had to do somehow to convince him not to give you any more.
"You know, you don't have to give them to me every time." You said, taking care of his order.
"I want. They suit you. They're just as beautiful as you."
You bit your lip to hold back the smile that was starting to appear despite yourself. You took a breath, trying to control yourself, and focused your gaze on something else. This time, there was no one in the cafee. The middle of the week.
"I'm talking series. I have no room for them." You sighed, ignoring his words and saying what you honestly meant.
"Okay." he said, and this time you didn't see the smile, but before you could thank him, he forced it on you. "So what do you like? Jewelry? Gold? Silver? A bracelet? A necklace? Makeup? Or maybe some clothes?"
You glanced at him quickly, your mouth hanging open. You were speechless.
"Wait. What?"
"No. Maybe shoes—"
"No. Slow down." You gestured for him to stop. "Do you want to give me another gift?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I just want to give it to you."
"That's not an answer."
"It is. I just want to give it to you, so you'll remember me."
"Uh… I don't think it works that way."
"What didn't work that way?"
"Giving gifts. You're supposed to give someone something to remind them of you. Something meaningful, and not the first thing you see. Not to mention that we don't really know each other." You wanted to add that you wasn't sure if you wanted to, but you held back.
He studied your facial expression with his eyes for far too long, because his order was waiting on the counter. He didn't move, just watched you. He didn't say anything. There were no customers, so you couldn't tell him he hold the line.
"Would you like to go on a date with me?" He said as he leaned against the counter with his sly smile.
"That was nice, but I don't have time for that kind of thing." You tried to sound as polite as possible. You hid behind a smile, hoping he get the hint.
"You said i didn't know anything about you." He began slowly. "So you can find out."
"I know, but—"
"Please." He looked at you with his puppy eyes. "Or I could bring you a nice bracelet."
"Are you trying to bribe me?" You gave him a pointed look.
"Maybe?" He was amused by this station, and even by you. "Which one do you prefer?"
"I really don't have a choice?" You asked, even knowing how he would answer, though his eyes spoke louder than words. "Okay." You sighed. "A date. But I don't have time until next week."
"Maybe after work today?"
"No—"
"You doesn't have to change. You look good. We'll just have a nice time."
"Don't you have a job?" You gave him a suspicious look.
"I work for myself. I can take time off whenever I want."
"Okey, but I'm finishing late."
"What time?"
You didn't want to say anything. And just stare at each other.
You knew you should look away, because you felt your heart begin to beat faster with each passing second. You felt yourself beginning to drown in the depths of his blue eyes. You didn't want to, because you felt seen in a way you'd never been seen before. He didn't look away, just stared at yours, contentedly, from the turn of the station.
But you knew that the longer you looked at him, a strange smile began to bloom on your face. You knew you lost.
"At eight." You said, averting his gaze.
"I'll be here at eight." There was no judgment in his voice, or any other unpleasant feeling. Only a sense of freedom.
You ignored the fact that you weren't entirely convinced to go to dinner with him. Remembering how he wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise, you felt your hands freeze.
He didn't care.
He still wanted to get to know you. Maybe you were an idiot.
You didn't know if he noticed the change in your demeanor, and even if he did, he didn't comment.
"See you later, sweetheart." He said, smiling softly at you before turning to leave.
When you finished your shift, you went outside, and you knew he was waiting for you, leaning against a car you didn't know the brand of. However, you were absolutely certain it was one of the more expensive ones. Not the sporty ones that rich people drive just to show off, but one of those very elegant ones.
You knew he had money, but you still felt an uncontrollable urge to retreat into yourself. You felt dirty. Very conscious of your appearance. You weren't sweating, but you were tired, after standing on your feet all day and dealing with unfortunate clients. You were an ordinary person with a quiet, humble life. You shouldn't feel that way, but you did. Not to mention the fact that you'd never done what you wanted. You didn't work where you wanted. You're stuck in a job you wanted to quit, but you didn't have the courage, let alone what you wanted to do next.
"Nice car." You said, trying to ignore the overwhelming emotions that were starting to occupy your mind.
"Not as nice as you." He opened the passenger door for you.
"There's a restaurant just up the road. We can walk." He scoffed at his words, knowing you didn't want to get into Bucky's car, or rather, the stranger you only exchanged a few sentences with.
He glanced at you, holding the door, and seemed like he might disagree, but he steeled himself and closed it again.
"Okay." He said calmly as he approached you. "Leading, sweetheart."
You did as he said. For almost the entire ride, neither of you spoke. You just watched him from afar, his usual expression revealing nothing. You weren't sure if he was happy with the station, or if he had some plan and you'd ruined it. You shouldn't have thought about it so much, considering how familiar you were, although it is a weak word to describe your current situation.
The silence that reigned between you wasn't awkward, but it wasn't comfortable enough for you to relax either. You couldn't quite shake the awkward silence, so you managed to say the first thing that came to mind.
"What do you do for work?" he asked, trying to sound casual, glancing sideways at him.
"Business." You waited to see if he would elaborate when you reached the restaurant.
"That doesn't tell me much." You walked in and immediately felt the stink of fried meat.
"Because there's not much to say. Boring job." he said, looking around the room.
A spacious place in a warm red and brown. Not reminiscent of any of the other typical restaurants, not those modern ones that look like offices you'd rather run away from than eat dinner.
A waitress arrived, who, as soon as she laid eyes on Bucky, became much nicer than before, and she led you to the table.
"Every job is boring. Most of it, anyway." you corrected yourself. "So, don't tell me anything more?" you asked as the woman disappeared to get your drinks.
"Like I said, nothing that would interest you." He smiled at you, and as always, his gaze was focused on yours.
"Sure." You said to himself, tearing his gaze away from him for a moment, unable to bear his penetrating gaze any longer. "So…" You pondered yours next question. "How do you like this place?" You glanced around to emphasize his point.
"Nice place." He just glanced around quickly, not even paying attention, and looked back at you as if he couldn't look away. "Not like you."
You just glanced at him, accepting his words.
"Thank you."
"You don't have to." He smiled wider, causing you to return the gesture. "My pleasure."
Before he could answer, the waitress returned with drinks and menus.
She started to say something about the main courses, but you didn't pay much attention to her words, only to your menu. You didn't eat here often enough to remember every dish, but you also didn't want to order something else and not eat it. So he stuck to his gun when you gestured to the waitress, who was standing near Buacky, but he wasn't paying her any attention. He was looking at the menu and as soon as he looked up in your direction, he smiled cautiously at the waitress.
"She wants to order." He said to her.
"Oh." A red tint appeared on her cheeks, and she turned to you with an apologetic smile.
You said to her what you always order and disappeared from your line of sight.
"Do you come here often?"
You looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and you chuckled under his breath.
"What?" he asked, confused by your reaction
"Nothing, just…" You realized he hadn't done it on purpose, he'd actually asked the question.
"What's the matter? Don't hide anything from me."
You looked at him, sighing, trying to contain yours amusement.
"I'm serious. It's nothing." You took a breath. "Do you like cats?" You quickly changed the subject.
"Yes." He let it go, though his gaze suggested they weren't finished yet. "I has a cat." He pulled out his phone to show you a picture of a white cat. "Her name is Alipe."
"She's adorable." You couldn't contain your excitement.
"Do you have any pets?" "He asked, praising his phone.
"No, but I'd like to," you said, a little strained. You barely had enough money to support yourself, and what's more, an animal.
"If you want, you can come see her."
You straightened up.
"I don't think so—"
"She might scratch you. She doesn't like strangers. But you'll get used to it over time, if you give her time." He interrupted you before she could finish her sentence. Again. When he wanted something he probably didn't want to hear.
"Maybe some other time." You smiled fakely.
You fell silent whenever he spoke, practically paying you compliments he pretended not to hear, even though they were expressive.
It was overwhelming when someone didn't want to hear what you had to say. You had that all the time in his job. Dealing with clients who think you don't have your own thoughts, your own feelings, and are there to agree with them. You hated it, but you had to endure it. The only good thing about it was that you were paid for it, but now. When you was here willingly, or rather, somewhat forced to be here, and treated this way. But here, you should have known you could fight for what was right, and you intended to.
"You know how I have something to say too." You started, interrupting him. "You know, I recently got out of a long relationship." You only half-lied. "I don't know if it'll work."
"You don't know until you try."
"No. I'm not interested. I'm sorry." You replied quickly, despite the fact that you shouldn't.
"Who said we have to be together? Just hang out like this. Have dinner together and that's it." He placed his hand on yours. You didn't pull it away, just stared at your hands.
"You know." You slowly pulled your hand from his, hiding it under the tablecloth. "That's nice, but really—"
"Before you say anything further, I want to say something." You pressed your lips together into a thin line. "I don't want anything from you, except company, just like you are now." He added, seeing your expression. "Nothing more. I enjoy your company."
"You know, you've been hanging out for hours, over the past… three days." You said slowly, searching for words. "And you still know nothing about me, and I about yours."
"That's why we're here, to change that, sweetheart." He said softly.
"I know, but." You looked down at your hands.
"How long were you in that relationship?" You glanced at him when he said those words, only because it was clearly a difficult question for him.
You fell silent for a moment, watching him clench his jaw, trying to hide his negative feelings behind a smile. You should be the one feeling this way, not him. You answered him anyway.
"Ten years." You looked away. You didn't want to talk about it himself. It was a long ten years of your life, which you tried to forget, even though you should have accepted it and moved on, but it was too much.
"A long time." He was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. "How long ago did it end?"
You looked at him uncertainly, yours hand clenching.
"Two years ago…" You muttered.
"I know I shouldn't say this, but this relationship ended two years ago. And understandably, ten years is a long time." He seemed to be struggling to find the right words so as not to offend or hurt you. At least, that's how you interpreted his expression, which was serious at the moment. "But sometimes you can meet someone new."
"Like you?" You rolled your eyes, so you knew exactly what he was offering.
"Maybe."
Before you could continue your conversation, the waitress arrived with your orders, placing them in front of you and marking them at the speed of light. She seemed to understand the hint.
"Do you blame me? You're beautiful, and I want to know you."
You rolled your eyes again, sighing as you began to eat.
"Many people are beautiful."
"Not true."
"True."
"Who?"
"That waitress, for example." You gestured with his fork toward the kitchen.
"She doesn't matter," he assured you, looking you straight in the eye.
You looked at him, surprised by the sudden reaction.
"Okay." you said slowly, watching him as he relaxed at your words.
"I don't even know your name." Amusement crept into his words. "And I still want to get to know you."
You stopped your fork mid-way when he said those words and realized he was right. You weren't sure if you were angry at yourself for letting someone ask you out without even asking your name, or at him. You didn't even know where you'd missed it. Something so simple.
You set your fork down on your plate, but you didn't put it down and introduced yourself. He said your name, wondering, examining the sound. They were searching for something. You couldn't wipe the smile off yours face when you heard him say those words, so you bit her lip.
"It suits you. As beautiful as you are." He smiled, and you looked away from him, embarrassed, even if it was just a name.
The rest of the evening was quiet with casual questions between the two of us. It wasn't strange to want to meet someone, but it was strange that it didn't bother you as much as it had at first. You knew he wasn't just some man who'd just invited you to dinner, but someone who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to show it. It was, is, overwhelming, with each subsequent word, you didn't feel as crushed as you had at first. You also knew you could spend your time with someone else rather than alone in an empty apart,emt, scrolling through your phone. You didn't feel that strange loneliness you sometimes felt, even when you were in the company of others, but now it was different. And you didn't want to admit it to yourself, lest it change.
Still, you felt a little disappointed when he didn't answer some of your questions directly. You managed to ignore it, knowing he'd been avoiding answers himself, and opening up to new people could be a pleasant experience.
"You know, maybe…" You said uncertainly, though you shouldn't have. "Sometimes you interrupt me when I'm saying something." You glanced at him over your plate, watching his reaction. "Especially when you don't want to hear something."
He stared at you with an unreadable expression, and the only thing you could deduce was that he was wondering when you saw the frown on his forehead.
"I'm sorry." For the first time, he looked away from you, unable to hold your gaze, even though there was nothing unpleasant behind it. It was a new, strange, pleasant feeling that you quickly buried. You didn't understand yourself.
"It's fine." You said automatically. "Just don't do it, okay?"
"Okay?"
"But you know…" You rolled his eyes. "Okay."
You said without knowing what you wanted to say, seeing the pleasantly surprised expression on his face that unnerved you, and went back to your plate. Seeing yours reaction, he smiled smugly, but said nothing, just watched you.
Before you started arguing with him about splitting the bill, he'd already paid for everything, which shocked you, because you didn't even know when he'd done it. So, you just said you'd pay your half for dinner late, he ignored you completely. You didn't have the energy to argue with him, it was late and you had to get up for work tomorrow, so you left the topic for tomorrow.
You was surprised at how quickly you accepted that you'd see him at the same time tomorrow. It was quick. Too quick, but seeing a familiar face, not counting people you work with, first thing in the morning, and someone you liked, was nice.
"I'll walk you home." He offered himself. "It's late and you shouldn't be driving alone."
He started to explain before you could say anything, wanting to drive you, but you refused because you didn't live far. Maybe you shouldn't have said that, but it was too late to bite your tongue.
As you gays walked toward your apartment, you tried to hide your yawn, you knew it was already your bedtime.
"We should drive." He didn't hide it well enough.
"Um… Just a little bit more." you said, embarrassed.
When you got there, you stopped in front of your building.
"It's here." You said carefully. "Thanks for dinner."
"My pleasure." You returned his smile tiredly, but he didn't move.
"So… see you tomorrow?" You asked uncertainly, and you didn't move yourself.
"As always." He stood there, staring at you with his dangerous blue eyes. "Can I hug you?"
That threw you off balance and you looked at him with wide eyes. It was a direct question, to something so simple and complicated at the same time, sending shivers down your spine. You felt your body begin to warm, your heart begin to race, and your stomach lurch. It wasn't a new feeling, yet you felt as if it were.
You nodded confidently, not trusting your voice, watching as his hopeful eyes turned to pure joy, and before you knew it, he had you in his arms. You gasped in surprise when he did so, and instinctively tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let you, tightening his grip even more. Not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough to keep you from moving. He rested his cheeks against your head and inhaled deeply.
"You smell so nice."
You freeze when he said those words.
It should have creepy you up, but it didn't. But at the same time, you wanted to, and didn't want to, tell him that you probably smell bad after work. Although you stood there motionless, waiting for something, the longer you stood there, the more he began to brighten up in spite of himself. You didn't want to admit to yourself how nice it felt to have someone hug you. And you weren't sure if he even wanted to let you go.
The warmth of his body warmed you, in a pleasant way you weren't sure how to describe, or rather, you didn't want to. Maybe you wanted to stand there in the middle of the sidewalk, only knowing you were increasingly reluctant to move.
His hand moved, and he began to slowly stroke your back. Slowly. He gently explored your space. You stilled for a moment when he started, but after a few more strokes, you relaxed again, and seeing your reaction, he didn't stop. You felt him smile against your skin, seeing the effect his actions had on you. He didn't seem to want to stop. You didn't want him to stop.
You slowly move your hands hesitantly, stopping before returning the hug, burying your face in his neck, trying to ignore the scent of his perfume.
You only told yourself it was premature, for such an intimate display of honor, simply because you'd only known each other for a few hours, but the way he affected you now was incredible. Terrifying. Because now you felt as if he had power over you and yet didn't, as if you were the most fragile being in existence, someone he should have protected and wanted to protect. You didn't know how it was that you could show someone your feelings in such a simple way. Like now, his body holding you with both gentleness and strength, overwhelming you. You wanted to run away, but you also wanted to stay. But you only tightened your grip to ground yourself, trying to control your own emotions, which were racing in different directions. Screaming for you to do something, but you just stood there, allowing a virtual stranger to hold you securely in his arms and stroke your back.
"I’ve got you..."
He whispered in your ear, keeping his voice low with a softness that gripped your heart.
These words shouldn't have had such an impact on you, but they did.
Pressing yourself into his body even further if that were possible and holding onto him as you tried to hold back the tears that were welling up in your eyes. You shouldn't feel this way. Not with someone you don't know at all.
You didn't consider herself the type to show physical affection. Appreciate the soft touch of another person.
You heard knocking at the door, and for a moment, you didn't know how you found yourself in bed, in your apartment, but then the events of last night hit you.
You were on a date. We chatted, ate dinner, he walked you home, and…
You felt a pang of shame wash over you, but it didn't last long, you heard the bell ring again.
You quickly grabbed your phone to see what time it was. You sighed in relief when you saw it wasn't even seven.
You sighed in frustration, rubbed your face with your hand, and dragged yourself out of bed. A shiver ran down your spine as you left your haven and threw on your sweatshirt.
As you approached the door, the only person you could think of who might come to you so early was your neighbor. She always came to you to help with something, and every time you couldn't refuse her because she was a terrible person, and even if you tried to find an excuse, she still found a way to help her, because who would help an old lady?
You were even warned by other neighbors not to help her because you couldn't escape from her. You helped her once, and two years later, you're still doing it. Without thinking much, without wondering how you looked, she opened the door, and your eyes met Bucky's.
"Hi, I brought you breakfast."
He raised his hands in confirmation, one a paper bag, the other a paper cup.
You stared at him with your eyes open.
You blinked. Once. Second time. But it wasn't a dream. He stood before you with his usual expression, and you'd only just gotten out of bed. You were very conscious of how you looked now.
"Can I come in?" he asked before you closed the door in his face.
"Uh… yeah…"
You said before biting your tongue. Why won't your mouth obey your reasonWhy your mouth won't listen to your mind?
You nodded off so he could come into your apartment.
"Take your shoes off," you said, before he delved deeper into your small commotion and only watched you for a few seconds, long enough for you to wonder what he meant, but he did as you asked.
He didn't hide the fact that he was looking at your space. You felt a little overwhelmed. Not only because of his appearance, but also because of how easily he made himself at home.
It wasn't a huge apartment, but it was enough for you. It had a combined kitchen and living room,one bedroom, and a bathroom next to it. There wasn't much in the room, except for a table, chairs, and a sofa that had already been there when you moved in. Beyond that, there was a bookshelf with books and other decorations you collected over the years, the pillows adorning your sofa, a coffee table with a flower he given you, which was also on the table. A small rug underneath. There were no paintings or photos on the walls. You rented the place, but even then, you didn't have anything to hang. It wasn't much, but at least it was yours.
You tried to discreetly fix your hair as he stood with his back to you, setting things down on the table.
"Nice place," he said as he turned his eyes in your direction, noticing your hand movement and laughing, knowing what you were doing.
You felt warmth surround your face.
"You know, maybe next time you doesn't come at this hour." you tried to sound irritated, but it didn't come off.
"Maybe."
You've just realized one thing.
"How did it know which one of my apartments it was?" You asked with a detached tone, unsure of the answer.
"It knocked on every door and asked about you."He seemed proud of it.
You sucked in a breath, not believing his words.
"At this hour? Bucky," you groaned in frustration.
"I have to know where you live." You looked at him with pity.
"It can wait until I get to work."
"No, it can't wait to see you, doll."
"It's new." You said your thoughts aloud.
"Don't you like it?"
"I said new, not that I don't like it." You couldn't believe waht you were saying.
"That good." He smiled at you. "You should eat something." He nodded towards the tables. "I brought you what you like."
Most of breakfast was silent, but not the kind that made you wonder what was happening, or rather, how much more comfortable it was than it should have been. He watched you the entire time, not seeming to notice anything else, and maybe you'd gotten used to it, because you didn't feel that strange fear in your body.
When you finished, he slowly got ready to leave your apartment and turned to face you.
"I wanted to drvingt you to work, but I can't." He didn't hide the disappointment you could hear as he sighed, his face reminding you of the sad puppy. You almost wanted to move away, tell him he that was fine and he would do it next time. You froze at yours own thoughts. "It was really nice to spend that time with you." The sadness was still there, but before you could do anything, he took a step towards you, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, though he didn't touch you. Even though he kept eye contact with you all the time, this time you felt like him looking directly at your soul. "You're looking so beautiful. I want to look at you every day like that."
You literally felt your face burning, and all you could do was stare at him, who was so pleased with your reaction. It seemed he wanted to do something, touch you, hug you, even kiss you, but you didn't know it when he quickly said goodbye, leaving you there.
You were hoping for a quiet day with no problems, but you were.
At first, you thought that once you pointed out the arguing, they might calm down, and they did for a moment. You heard the voices rise again at the other table. You couldn't quite make out their conversation, which was mostly in Russian.
However, you had to silence them again, because Kate didn't want to interfere, but you didn't blame her either. The older man's appearance didn't encourage conversation, and you couldn't admit to yourself that you didn't want to approach.
You had to, though, because no one else was there.
So you approached again, this time to get them out, because it was taking too long. You didn't want to call the police, who wouldn't do anything about it anyway, and there was nothing more you could do.
The man became more physically aggressive towards the girl, standing up without blinking and angrily grabbing her arm, trying to pull her up. You were between them and were pushed back by the man with the chin. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but you staggered. Instead of falling, you felt hands catching your shoulders, which helped you balance.
Surprised, you glanced back and saw his blue eyes staring at you with a strange, worried expression, though the rest of his face showed no other emotion. It sent a strange pang through your heart.
Before you could do anything, say anything, he moved and grabbed the man in front of you by the arm, hiding you behind his back.
The man glanced at Bucky, dissatisfied, and you saw something else. But it was only a second; you couldn't see much behind him.
"That Lady almost fell because of you." His voice held an unpleasant edge, even if he kept his voice low. "Leave that Lady alone," he said warningly, grabbing the man's forearm, before he grabbed the woman's arm again. "Just leave." He said it in a way that made you want to back away.
He left the café without a word, but before he stepped outside, he glanced over his shoulder and you swear he smiled to himself.
"Thank you and I'm sorry," the woman said, trying to maintain her composure, even though it was clear something was wrong.
"Is fine," you said, trying to get past Bucky, who only gently grabbed your forearm, as if the threat hadn't passed.
You glanced at him and saw the sharpness in his expression, but before you could ask what was going on, the short, blond woman stood up. Without saying anything else, she walked past you.
The woman disappeared behind him before you even said anything to her, she wasn't even paying the bill.
"Wait. You have to pay—"
"I'll pay, doll." Bucky interrupted, still holding your arm.
"No. She—"
"I'll pay." He insisted, and you felt his hands tighten around you.
"But—"
"I'll pay. And that's it." He didn't raise his voice, but you could see he was upset about what he'd done. "Okay?" This time it sounded soft, even guilty.
You were silent for a moment, watching his face. You wanted to ask what was going on, but you held back. You didn't feel you were close enough to him to ask about anything like that, though it was an excuse, because you didn't have the courage to do so.
"Okay," you said coherently.
"Here, this is for you."
You shouldn't be surprised anymore, and you still weren't when he handed you a black box the size of a glass, tied with a red ribbon. You returned your gaze to him.
"Open it." He encouraged you, but a strange shadow crossed his face. You felt like with each meeting, you had more questions than answers. That wasn't how it was supposed to work.
You were a little grateful there wasn't a clique right now, even though you could feel Kate's eyes on your back and knew she wouldn't let you rest, because of the mysterious, handsome, elegant man giving you a gift. Trying to ignore it, and your shaking hands, which you were trying to control, you opened the box. Inside was a heart-shaped bottle marked "107" from a company you didn't recognize.
"I hope I got it."
You pulled it out of the box and sprayed it on your wrist. You were surprised when the scent was very similar to the ones you normally used. You sprayed it on him, not knowing what to say. How could a man possibly know something like that, because you hadn't said anything yourself, and he hadn't asked. Did he have a super sense of smell or something?
"I got it." It wasn't a question, but the satisfaction was written all over his face.
"They're... practically the same."
"But do you like their scent?" Even though he knew the answer to that question, he asked it anyway.
You hesitated for a moment, unsure how to interpret it. Good or bad? Should you bother or not? You shouldn't even ask about it anymore. He knew where you lived.
"They're... pretty." You said slowly. "I like them."
"Me too. They suit you." Happy was the word that could describe his facial expression. Was it even possible to be that happy? Or to be happy for someone else and not ask for anything in return?
"When did you have time for this?" you asked, taking a look on the bottle.
"I had a moment."
But you still had tons of questions.
You hadn't expected to see him today. It was evening when he'd lasted. It felt strange to see him at such an hour. Although strange wasn't the word you wanted to use, because you didn't want to admit to yourself that, in a strange way, you felt relieved when he arrived. You shouldn't feel this way, feeling strangely relieved when you didn't see him. Not even for a minute.
Although he was the one who found personas just to see you, even for a second. It was nice to see someone care about you even a little, though you knew that even a little was too kind, especially when it came to Bucky.
Although when he approached you, you saw that he didn't have the same twinkle in his eyes you always saw him with.
"Coffee here, and with one of those adorable drawings you make." Maybe if you didn't know him well enough you wouldn't have noticed how much effort was hidden behind his voice.
You didn't know what was going on in his mind at that moment, you could only tell it was a lot, because he was always focused on you, even when he didn't say anything. You didn't ask him anything. You still weren't sure how to approach him. It sounded childish, but it was hard to read him, even if he tried, in his own way, to show you how much he cared about you. You didn't quite understand, or rather, you didn't want to get carried away by your emotions and regret it later. It had happened to you too many times.
Something changed in his expression. A deepening worry deepened, a concern you had no idea about. He thanked you and took his order with him to one of the table.
It was a strange image, men wearing elegant clothes, with a cute mug with a drawing of a cat.
It was a charming sight for you, though his gaze didn't do what it always did. Him looked at you. You miss this warmth.
You hadn't seen him like this since you first met him. Or rather never. He was silent, yet his gaze spoke ludly, but not like this. And now you saw the anguish in them, even though he wasn't looking at you.
There was another table besides him, but they were busy with themselves.
You picked up the broom and slowly began sweeping, moving towards him.
You didn't know if you were doing it so the manager wouldn't see you, or because you weren't sure if Bucky wanted your company. You set the broom down in front of another table and reached for it, glancing over your shoulder.
He glanced at you, but he was more absent-minded than looking past you. You propped your chin on your hand and placed the other one flat on your back. You glanced back again. Still nothing.
You did something a little silly and embarrassing. You started to wriggle your finger at him with your free hand, playing. Like a child. You ignored the warmth starting to envelop your face.
You nudged his hand with one of yours fingers, observing his reaction.
"What's going on?" you asked softly, a little uncertain, leaning in towards him.
"Work." "He sighed, observing your hand on the table, then gently grabbed your fingertips with his.
"Don't tell me." You sighed in confirmation, thinking you knew what he meant. "But nothing interesting?"
"Everything's just not going as it should." He slowly began to run his thumb over your hand.
"Reasonably." You were watching his movements with your hand, wanting him to take off his glove so you could feel his skin against yours.
Focus.
"But it's better now." You looked up at him and saw that he'd somehow realized he was himself again.
You didn't want to admit to youself how much the little things, the words, the actions he did, were starting to affect you. You missed the way someone paid attention to you.
"I wanted to give it to you after I walked you home."
You smirked, watching him pull long, black pants from his coat.
"You doesn't have to give me something every time. Series." You didn't accept his gift when he handed it to you, but stared directly into his eyes.
"But I do. I like giving you gifts."
You took a breath, feeling his worry transfer from him to you.
"Even if I do, I feel a little bad when I receive them," you said honestly. "I didn't give you anything."
"It's enough for me that you want to spend time with me."
"Bucky—"
"I'm serious." He squeezed your hand in confirmation. "Just talk to me. You have a nice voice."
You chuckled to youself and accepted the gift hesitantly. You didn't open it, just wandered around it. He wasn't asking you for a lot, for something that somehow a lot of people want, and you tried not to think about wanting to repay him. Although you shouldn't. He did it because he wanted to, and you tried to focus on that.
You opened the box and gasped. You closed it and placed it on the table, pushing it back toward him.
"Bucky." You didn't hide his disbelief in his voice, but also you sharpness. "I can't give this away. It's…"
"A gift." He pushed it back toward you.
"No—"
"Gifts, I don't give away."
She shook her head.
"It's too expensive to carry anywhere." You was starting to panic. "I don't even know where to wear it. What if I lose it?" You started to struggle, trying to find any excuse.
"If you lose it, I'll buy you a new one." It was meant to sound joking, but you didn't get it.
"Bucky!" You cut him off.
He took the box and pulled out a silver bracelet with a diamond star. He held it out towards you, inviting you to give it to him.
You stared at him in disbelief. You gasped, and he extended his wrist toward you, a little hesitantly.
"Bucky, I'm serious, if I lose this…" He gave it to you before you could even take it. It fit perfectly against your skin. Too perfectly.
"You don't," he said to you confidently, pressing his fingers against your skin where the jewelry was. "I'm serious too."
You didn't know what to do with it, because you wanted to do something, but you didn't know what. You'll yell at him to leave you alone, even though you didn't want me to. Say someone else deserves it. Probably.
"You know…" you started to him, even though he was also talking to himself. "Gifts like that are given to wives, not people who barely know each other." You said quietly, trying to joke, avoiding yors own guilt as you watched your wrist.
"I think you give yourself to someone you care about as a gift," he said calmly, tilting his head.
"I have a question," you said uncertainly, you eyes darting to him.
"Just ask."
You sighed, for the second time in a short time.
"Are-are you trying to bribe me so I don't know…" she wondered, raising your gaze agine to him. "Spending time with me."
He glanced away, wondering, trying to hide a smile.
"Does it work?" He asked, raising his eyebrows, trying to hide his own amusement at this station.
"Oh my God. Really?"
"I'm not going to apologize for wanting to give you gifts. You deserve it."
"But—"
"I don't care how long we've known each other," he pressed you. "Let me do it."
You sighed slowly, watching him.
"Okay, but that doesn't mean I like it," she warned him.
You heard someone cough to get your attention. Immediately, when you saw it was the manager, you quickly got to yours feet, almost tripping over them. You didn't notice how much Bucky's face had a dissatisfied expression on his face, but he didn't say anything.
Of course, you got a scolding, even though there was almost no one left in the cafeteria, but you had to clean up before closing, not flirt while working. He didn't help you, you just normal employee, whom should have taken care of everything. Of course, you didn't miss the moment he noticed your new jewelry on your wrist. He also thought you wouldn't see his reaction when he turned to you, pacing to disappear behind the curtains, but you saw him roll his eyes at that. There was a hint of disbelief. Maybe jealousy. How could you get such an expensive gift, and he couldn't even have his own car, which he kept complaining about?
After closing, Bucky did as he'd said earlier, waiting to walk you home, but before you could poke around in that direction, he insisted on buying you dinner. At first, you refused; you kept doing it, but he ignored you, leading you to the restaurant. You sighed, gave in and ordered.
"Is that all?" he asked, seeing how little you'd ordered.
"Yes. Too much." You said, ignoring the worried expression on his face.
This time he sighed and ordered a few more things. You thought he'd order them for himself, but he gave you all the food when you were at your door.
"Is this some way for me to invite you in? - You laughed nervously as you opened your door.
"No," he said, not thinking twice about your question.
"I guess you're not that clueless."
"I'm not, but I'm not that kind of person either." He studied your face before asking, perhaps a little disappointed. "Do you think I'm that kind of person?"
"No!" You surprised youself with you sudden behavior. "It's just…"
"I know. It's okay," he assured you.
"Is not. I shouldn't suspect something like that." You sighed, frustrated with yourself.
He chuckled under his breath.
"Goodnight." He said your name as he got closer to your face, but still far enough away to see your entire face. You weren't sure what he would do, so you stiffened in surprise.
But he moved away and started heading towards the stairs.
You bit your lip and felt guilty, but you wasn't doing it because of that.
"Bucky." He paused before ducking around the corner and glanced in your direction. "That's a lot of food, and I don't want it to go to waste. Want to join me?"
He looked at you for a moment.
"Are you sure?" For the first time, you heard hesitation in him. Not certainty.
"Definitely." You smiled to confirm your own words.
He hesitated for a moment, and you could see it yourself as he headed your way. You entered the living room, and he followed you.
You walked to the table and set down your bag, watching him out of the corner of your eye. At first, he could see his hesitation as he walked through your apartment.
"I'm glad you didn't bring me flowers any more, otherwise we wouldn't have had a drink," you joked as you pulled it mugs.
For the first time, you were the one with more self-confident. You didn't know how to intervene, his reserve. Did he not trust himself? Should you be worried? Or maybe he wasn't sure about the space in your apartment, but when he last came over, he acted differently, just like usual. Now he was quieter, less penetrating, nervous. You weren't sure if that was the reason, but you didn't want to ask either. Although you didn't want to find out what the reason was. So practically throughout the entire meal, there was silence, knowing you, and this time, you were the one watching him the entire time.
He seemed to appreciate the lack of conversation more in moments like these. Was he more relaxed now? Was that his true self? Not the one who constantly surprised you, make you blush, and told you everything he was thinking?
"When we were interrupted." It started slowly, looking at you with their eyes. "I said I was giving you a gift because I wanted to, and it's true. But also…" You waited steadily, until he found the strength or the words he was searching for to convey his thoughts. "Get your attention… Show me that I care. I know how it looks, but it's been a while since I've had anyone I cared about so much." He paused for a moment, trying to find another words before starting again. "And yes, it's simple for me. I know that with time I'll be able to show it differently. I just don't trust myself with my emotions."
"Bucky… I understand what you mean." You smiled at him. "Really. But aren't you afraid I'm here for your money?" You finally gathered the courage to ask one of the many questions you had for him.
"No, do you know why?" Bucky, who was still down to earth, spoke again, but you also see the real him, who was no longer hiding behind his strange mask of certainty. "Because I know that if you were, you wouldn't feel guilty about this, but you do, and I can see it. And I also know you want to reciprocate, but you shouldn't. Just being here, or rather, letting me be here, is enough for me."
You tried to hold back the tears that were pricking your eyes, trying to breathe deeply. You avoided his gaze, though there was no way he hadn't noticed. How he knows what to say to make you feel worthy?
"Can I hug you?" You heard, and your right away you nodded your head in confirmation.
You only heard the chair being pushed back and his footsteps approaching you. He gently lifted you into his embrace. You immediately buried your head in his shoulder as he led you to the sofa. He sat down and placed you on his lap. You melted into him completely, absorbing his warmth and scent.
You cried, but it was a silent palace that grew fainter with each passing minute. You focused more on the way his hand moved soothingly over your shoulder, his head resting on the top of yours. His breathing was calm, even though his heart was beating rapidly.
You took his other hand in yours and he froze for a moment, begging to return to what he was doing, but more carefully.
"I'm sorry." Your weak voice could be heard like an echo moving through the quiet apartment.
"You shouldn't." He hugged you tight.
"I know, but…"
"It's fine. Really. Just breathe in." He guided you when he noticed you couldn't breathe agian. "And breathe out."
Repeat this action a few more times until your breathing calmed down.
"Buck?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
You pulled away to glare at him. You knew you looked awful and tried to compose youself, wiping your tear with your sleeve.
"I don't have to, but I want to." You might not have sounded the most confident, your voice strained from crying, but you didn't care. "It means a lot to me." You gestured between you. "More people would ask me what's going on, but you don't. So thank you."
He stared at you, then wiped the lone tear from your cheek with his hand and settled himself so that all his eyes were level.
"You're welcome." He smiled, now holding your face in both hands to make sure you were absorbed in his blue eyes, which you could easily get lost in. "I'll always be here for you. Okay?" He rested your eyes against his.
You felt your heart skip a beat and wanted to thank him again, but you held it back.
"Okay."
You snuggled into him again, not wanting to let him go.
𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 ⊹ . bucky barnes p!links. minors are prohibited from interacting.
after the worst fight ever with dad, you were a mess… bucky came over “to check on you,” ended up pinning you beneath him and fucking you senseless until you forgot everything except calling him daddy. ✸
dbf!bucky, rough sex, missionary, unprotected piv
his rut sparks and alpha!bucky loses it completely, he hauls you into the forest, flips you onto all fours and fucks his need into you like the world doesn’t exist anymore. ✸
public sex, doggy, unprotected piv
thanks to that damn super soldier serum, bucky cums buckets every single time and can’t be bothered cleaning you up, his load just stays inside you, warm and sticky, prepping your cunt for round two. ✸
the teddy bear he gave you for valentine’s day? yeah, now it’s your pillow while bucky grips your hips and pounds into you, turning his sweet gift into the perfect prop for ruining you. ✸
doggy, unprotected piv
steve’s keys could jingle in the lock any second but bucky’s too deep inside you to stop, pounding his best friend’s girl right there on their shared couch. ✸
rough sex, cheating, missionary, unprotected piv
who knew your sweet, nerdy roommate bucky could get this rough once you teased him enough, now he’s got you pinned to the bed, fucking you hard like all that pent-up frustration finally snapped. ✸
doggy, rough sex, unprotected piv
bucky just loooves staring while his thick cum leaks out of you, metal fingers spreading you open so not a single drop escapes his view. ✸
creampie
successful mission high hits bucky hard, he slams the brakes, drags you close and rails you right there in the car, celebrating by stretching you open until you’re screaming his name. ✸
car sex, rough sex, doggy, unprotected piv
if bucky could, he’d make his home right between your thighs, face smothered, tongue deep, refusing to come up for air until you’re shaking and soaked. ✸
oral sex (f recieving)
you really shouldn’t have made him jealous… bucky’s not stopping until you’ve taken every hard inch as your punishment, hips slamming while he whispers you’re only allowed to look at him. ✸
summary : You survive finals week and escape with Steve and Bucky to a snowy cabin for a perfect weekend until one question shatters it. The drive home is agony, followed by two weeks of crushing silence.
word count : 19,5k
warnings 18+ : college au, no use of y/n, explicit sexual content, threesomes, double penetration, anal/oral/vaginal sex, toys, semi-public acts, filming, masturbation (solo/mutual/encouraged), humiliation, squirting, overstimulation, heavy angst, heartbreak, betrayal, ghosting, miscommunication, fights, alcohol use (drunk sex), academic pressure, exhibitionism/voyeurism
author’s note : I literally cannot stfu 💀 I TRIED to make this shorter than the last part but somehow it ended up being longer… pls bear with me. splitting it into two parts felt like too much so I’m sorry it’s huge but you’ll take it like always <33 hope you enjoy!!
lesson 01 | masterpost | lesson 02
The locker room still stank, but now it was Axe, Monster energy, and the ghost of someone’s weed pen that had exploded in a backpack last week.
Practice had ended forty minutes ago; everyone else had peeled out to pre-game at Sigma Chi or crash before their 8 am’s. Only the leaky shower in the corner kept time, like it was personally invested in their suffering.
Steve was wrestling with a hoodie that had shrunk in the dorm dryer when Bucky kicked his locker shut hard enough to make the whole row shudder.
“You’re in love with her.”
Steve’s arm got stuck halfway through the sleeve. The towel around his waist slipped an inch. “The fuck did you just say?”
Bucky leaned back against the lockers in nothing but a towel riding so low it was basically performance art. His hair was still wet, dripping onto his collarbones. The smirk was there, but it looked like it hurt.
“Don't play dumb, Rogers. I was literally balls-deep in her ass last week and you locked eyes with her and dropped a ‘Love you, baby’ like you were about to whip out a ring in the middle of the fucking threesome.”
Steve yanked the hoodie down so hard he almost strangled himself. His face went nuclear. “It slipped, alright? Christ.”
“Slipped,” Bucky echoed, deadpan. He pushed off the lockers and stalked forward until Steve could smell the Irish Spring on him. “You’ve been ‘slipping’ since she explained integrals to you in the library and you got hard over the fundamental theorem of calculus.”
Steve dropped onto the bench like his legs had given up. The wood was cold against his bare thighs. He scrubbed his hands through his hair; water flew everywhere. “Fine. I’m in love with her. Happy now, you absolute dick?”
The smirk died a quick, ugly death.
Bucky dropped onto the bench next to him, hard enough that their shoulders knocked and stayed pressed together, neither of them bothering to shift apart. His hand curled into a tight fist on his thigh, knuckles going bloodless like he was still holding onto something he couldn’t let go.
“I’m not happy,” he muttered. “I’m fucking spiraling.”
Steve twisted to face him. “Buck?”
Bucky stared at the scuffed tile floor like it owed him money. “Because I’m in love with her too. And this? Us? We don’t do this shit, man. We hook up, we ghost, we send each other the memes the next day like nothing happened. We've never kept anyone around longer than a hangover”
Steve’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. “So what, we just keep pretending we’re chill splitting her like a Netflix account until one of us snaps and she picks?”
Bucky’s laugh scraped out, half-choke, half-wheeze. “Yeah. Picture Thanksgiving. ‘Hey, Mom, meet Steve. Meet Bucky. They take turns railing me, we're still beta-testing the ‘boyfriend’ title. Where’s the gravy?’
She’d pass out. My Ma’s already got the rosary beads out, praying for my soul. Yours would just hit you with that patented disappointed stare, the one that says ‘I raised you better than sharing a girl like it’s fantasy football.’”
Steve let out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh but landed somewhere exhausted and hollow. “Nah, she’d lead with the veggies lecture, ‘Are you boys getting your greens?’ then pivot straight to the condom talk, like we're fifteen again.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a half-smile that almost felt real. “Point is, we’re not the boyfriend type. We’re the guys moms warn their daughters about. Except I’m done pretending it’s casual when it’s not and yeah, admitting that out loud is fucking terrifying.”
The drip from the shower kept going, counting down to something awful.
Steve swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “If we tell her and she picks one of us-”
“Then the other one’s the loser who fell in love and got traded,” Bucky finished. His voice cracked; he didn’t bother hiding it this time. “And everything gets weird forever. We lose her. We lose each other. I can’t-” He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
Steve nodded once, slow. “So we shut up.”
“We shut up,” Bucky agreed, too fast, like he’d been drowning and someone finally threw him a rope made of barbed wire.
They sat there a moment longer, the leaky shower still dripping its relentless countdown in the corner, the fluorescent lights buzzing.
Steve stared at the floor, scrubbing a hand over his face. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“We are so unbelievably fucked,” Bucky finally muttered, voice hollow.
“Yeah,” Steve rasped. He pushed off the bench, grabbing his jeans from the floor. “Until we figure out how to not nuke everything good in our lives, yeah.”
Bucky rose too. His towel finally surrendered and hit the ground. He didn’t even look down.
“I hate us,” he muttered.
“Same,” Steve said.
They got dressed without talking, moving around each other in the same cramped space they’d shared since freshman year. Elbows bumped, hips knocked, same as always.
Bucky slung his backpack on, paused at the door. “If she ever calls us on the bullshit, why we didn’t say anything…”
Steve met his eyes. They were red-rimmed, exhausted. “We tell her we were scared.”
Bucky’s laugh was barely qualified as sound. “Understatement of the fucking millennium.”
They walked out together, heading back to their dorm, two idiot quarterbacks still too scared to gamble the only thing that had ever felt like home.
It’s been three days since the locker room.
The campus café is a war zone: line to the door, some sophomore crying into a $9 cold brew, barista screaming “MADDY-SIN” like the name personally ran over her dog.
You’re already camped in the shitty corner booth nobody else wants, the one with the ripped red vinyl and the table that wobbles like it’s had one too many. Your iced caramel oat-milk latte is sweating a ring onto your notes, and you’re pretending to give a damn about glycolysis when they walk in.
Steve slides in next to you like he owns the seat, thick thigh slamming against yours. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair still wet from practice, smelling like cheap body wash and desperation.
Bucky drops across from you hard enough to make the whole table jump, hand slapping down a crumpled Google Maps directions. Big red circle around some Airbnb cabin that looks like it was built by horny lumberjacks who only owned axes and lube.
He leans in hard, elbows digging into the wobbly table like he’s staking territory, that crooked smirk plastered on but his eyes are blown-out red and running on fumes. He smells like four Red Bulls and bad decisions.
“We’ve been plotting,” he starts, voice rough from not enough sleep, “three-hour drive upstate. Place is in the middle of fucking nowhere, no bars, no roommates blasting Skrillex at four am. Just snow, a fireplace and a hot tub built for three and whatever the hell we didn’t finish last week.”
Steve’s already got your hand under the table, fingers locked tight around yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His thumb keeps sweeping over your knuckles, slow and shaky, more for him than for you. He leans in close enough that his breath hits your ear, low and wrecked, “Long weekend, baby. No neighbors. No rules. Just us.”
His eyes flick to Bucky for half a second, quick, worried check-in before sliding back to you, all gravel and pleading.
You take a slow sip of your drink, let the ice clink, and raise an eyebrow. “Adorable. Except we locked in terms, remember? Ninety-five or better on chem midterms, or nobody gets to fuck me in a hot tub or anywhere for that matter.”
You lean forward just a touch, lips curving into a wicked little smile. “So, boys… remind me again. How’d those grades turn out?”
They trade a look, Steve pink, Bucky clenching his jaw so hard you hear it.
Steve coughs into his fist. “Ninety-eight. Clean.”
Bucky mutters into his steaming black coffee, the words dragging out like they’re caught on something sharp. “Ninety-four…”
Silence. You let it sit there, heavy and mean.
Then you uncoil a smile, slow, edged like broken glass dipped in honey. “Aw, tragic. But rules are rules: ninety-five from both of you. Guess it’s just me and Stevie peeling out for the pines. You can bunker down here Barnes, drilling polyatomic ions till they sing you to sleep.”
Bucky lets his forehead drop onto the table with a solid thud, the vinyl whining in protest. “You’re literally killing me. This is planned murder with a bonus round of cruelty.”
Steve's fingers clamp down on yours, voice dipping into that wrecked rasp that arrow-straights to your core.
“Please, baby. Cut him a break, just this once. He’ll handle your laundry for the whole semester, I swear. Venmo you two hundred bucks right now. Hell, I’ll even toss him the Jeep keys and let this maniac take the wheel. And those toys... the ones you whispered about wanting to try? He’ll bring every single one, whatever you need, no questions, no hesitation. Come on, sweetheart, say yes, for us?”
“Shut up man- please, just... I’m a damn good driver, I swear,” Bucky mumbles desperately, his words slurring against the scarred wood, face pressed down like he's begging the table for mercy.
His voice cracks with a raw, pleading edge, eyes flicking up toward you with that wide, imploring stare. “And yes, baby every single one, I promise. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen. Just... give me a chance here?”
A soft, teasing laugh bubbles from your lips as you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement at their desperate antics. “You boys are so cute when my pussy’s on the line,” you murmur, voice laced with playful mockery that hides the thrill racing through you.
You rise slowly, deliberately, your bag slipping onto your shoulder with a casual flick. The vinyl booth clings to the backs of your thighs before releasing with a sharp, sticky rip that echoes in the charged air, drawing their gazes lower.
“You’ve got until tomorrow to turn that 94 into a 95 Barnes,” you say, your tone firm but edged with that knowing challenge, lips curving into a smirk. “I hear Banner curves if you get on your knees and cry pretty enough, maybe you should practice that look right now.”
You’re halfway to the door, the bell above it jingling faintly in anticipation, when Bucky’s voice explodes through the café like a thunderclap, raw and unfiltered, turning every head in the place.
“I’LL SUCK HIS DICK FOR THAT POINT IF I HAVE TO!”
Beside him, Steve chokes violently on his macchiato, the hot liquid spraying from his nose in a messy arc, his eyes watering as he coughs and sputters, caught between horror and helpless laughter, his broad shoulders shaking.
You don’t glance back, not even a peek but the grin splitting your face is downright devilish, wicked and satisfied, as you push through the door into the crisp winter air.
It nips at your flushed cheeks, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs slick and sticking with every step across the frost-kissed campus paths. Just picturing their panic, the way they’d scramble and beg, has you drenched, aching with anticipation.
They’ll fix it. Oh, they always do especially when the prize is you, wrapped up and waiting like the ultimate reward.
Bucky shoulders through the sex-shop door so hard the bell gives a half-assed ding-dong like it’s personally embarrassed for them.
Place still smells like someone tried to hotbox the latex stench with a Bath & Body Works clearance rack and lost. Neon signs buzz pink and purple overhead, turning Steve’s ears the color of expired ham.
Steve’s got his hood up like he’s on a wanted poster, cap brim so low he’s basically blind. Bucky’s vibrating hard enough to power a small city, hoodie flapping open, pacing the aisle like a caged coyote.
“She’s bluffing,” Steve mutters for the eighth time, thumbing the trigger on a purple rabbit vibrator like he’s checking if a melon’s ripe. Bzzzzt. “She’s just fucking with our heads.”
Bucky snorts, snatches a star-shaped jewel plug off the wall and yeets it into the basket. CLANG.
“Tomorrow, Rogers. That’s fourteen hours to beg for one pity point to bump my 94 to a 95.” He shoots a dry, miserable look. “Otherwise I’m stuck jerking off in my bed while you two send me heart emojis from the hot tub.”
Steve eyes the sparkly star with a raised brow, lips twitching. “Going straight disco ball on her ass now? Bold move, Buck. Jumping from a cute little heart to peak star-spangled patriotism. Very on-brand for you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky hisses, but he’s already grinning. “It’s for science, alright? Different shapes, different sensations… brand-new ways for her to completely fucking destroy me.”
He snags the next size up, a hefty beast of a plug with ridges that promise sweet torment and waves it like a trophy or a threat. “This look like the face of a man who’s gambling with his dick, Steven?”
Steve bursts out a snort so forceful he nearly fumbles the vibrator, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. “You're such a drama queen. She thrives on this, watching us spiral like the world's ending.”
Bucky spins, fingers rattling a row of glitter dildos that look like Lisa Frank threw up on a dick. “I’ll deep-throat Banner’s red pen if that’s what it takes. I’ll write the man fucking limericks about titration. I’ll-”
“Batteries first, you poetic bastard,” Steve interrupts, chucking four packs of AAs into the basket with a smirk. “And don't forget that tripod you're claiming is for 'candid nature photography.' We both know better.”
Bucky flips him off, but his grin turns feral, all teeth and promise. “Plan B’s croissants and crocodile tears. I’m versatile.”
They dump the haul on the counter. Raven, purple buzzcut, septum ring, zero fucks left to give, starts scanning.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
She glances at the mountain of chaos, then at the two overgrown football bros sweating like they’re in a lineup. “Y’all good?”
Bucky leans on the counter like a man who’s aged ten years in an hour. “Define good.”
Raven just smirks harder. “$186.42. Bag or campus parade?”
Steve slaps down two hundreds like he’s trying to bribe his way out of hell. “Bag. Black. Opaque. Preferably lead-lined.”
Raven slides the receipt across. “Have fun, weirdos.”
As they stumble back into the freezing air, Bucky’s already muttering under his breath, half-laughing at himself, the bag of toys clinking together like a guilty little parade with every step.
Steve snags the bag from Bucky’s hand, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing. The toys inside give another incriminating clink as they settle.
He glances at Bucky with a crooked, knowing grin. “You still think she’s bluffing?”
Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “If she’s actually bluffing, fine. If not…” He huffs a laugh that sounds more like surrender. “I’m changing my major to Professional Kneeling.”
Steve almost eats pavement laughing. “Move, clown. Office hours close in fifteen. Go beg for your life.”
The science building after six is a mausoleum: lights flickering like they’re on their last prayer, hallways smelling like scorched coffee and broken dreams. Banner’s office door is cracked open, a single wedge of warm light slicing the gloom like a distress flare for the academically damned.
Bucky doesn’t knock, he just shoves the already-ajar door wide with his boot and barrels in. Steve follows right on his heels.
Banner looks up from the corpse of a freshman lab report, red pen still dripping. One slow blink behind the glasses, then the sigh of a man who has seen every possible flavor of student desperation and is tired of the menu.
“Barnes. Rogers. To what do I-”
Bucky hits the floor. Full dramatic collapse, knees thudding into the carpet hard enough to rattle the periodic-table poster on the wall.
“Dr. Banner, I’m begging. One point. One measly, pathetic point. I’ll tattoo the Henderson-Hasselbalch equation on my ass. I’ll never call stoichiometry ‘math with extra steps’ again. I’ll-”
“You got a 94,” Banner says, flat. “That’s an A minus. Most students would kill for that.”
“It’s a death sentence,” Bucky croaks, voice cracking like he’s thirteen and his balls just dropped. “She’s leaving me behind with nothing but my hand and a tub of lube while he-” he jerks a thumb at Steve, who suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, “gets the entire weekend in a hot tub.”
Steve clears his throat, steps forward, and gently sets the bag down on the floor. “Professor, any chance for a tiny bit of extra credit? A curve? Hell, even rounding up for good behavior?”
Steve’s voice dips, “He’s got some real… pressing circumstances depending on hitting that 95.”
Banner’s gaze flicks to the bag, then back to the two disasters currently having a joint nervous breakdown in his office. Something that might be pity or maybe just exhaustion flickers across his face.
He leans back, chair creaking like it’s in on the joke. “No curve. But there is an optional make-up practical tomorrow morning. Nine am sharp. One hour. Stoichiometry and acid-base. Nail a perfect score, I bump you to 95. Anything less, this conversation never happened.”
Bucky’s head snaps up so fast his neck pops like a glow stick. “I’ll be here at eight-thirty with a latte and a tie. I’ll wear slacks. I’ll-”
“Nine,” Banner repeats, already turning back to his bloodbath of grading. “And Barnes? Leave the theatrics outside. Just balance the damn equation.”
Steve yanks Bucky up by the hoodie before he can drop again or propose. “Thank you, Doc. Seriously.”
They spill out of the science building into the biting dark, breath fogging, the black bag crackling between them like it’s full of contraband fireworks.
Nat’s gone, some “totally platonic hangout” with the archer chick that’s definitely ending with her skirt around her ankles in a car somewhere, so the dorm is dead silent except for the mini-fridge’s dying wheeze and the lavender diffuser pretending everything’s calm.
You’re hunched over your desk in Bucky’s hoodie and leggings, hair twisted into a frantic knot, surrounded by biology flashcards, a half-colored diagram of glycolysis, and your open textbook bleeding sticky notes. Your final is on Friday, your eyes are burning, caffeine’s fading fast, and every time you try to remember the steps of cellular respiration, your brain just shuts off.
Your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Steve calling.
You answer with a murderous glare, propping the phone against your mug so they get the full view of your frazzled, stressed-out face. “This better be important. I’m trying to not fail bio here.”
“Hey, pretty girl,” Steve says, voice warm and low. “Just checking in. How’s the bio grind?”
“Hell,” you snap, rubbing your temple hard enough to leave a red mark. “I’m one chromosome away from a meltdown.”
Bucky’s smirk widens. He lifts the bag slightly into view, thick, heavy, soft clink inside then pulls it back out of sight. “We’ve got something that might help you… relax.”
You narrow your eyes. “If that bag is full of toys you’re about to tease me with while I’m trying to memorize the Krebs cycle, I will end this call and block both of you until after finals.”
Steve’s mouth twitches, amused, but his eyes soften with sympathy. Bucky, undeterred, leans closer. “Come on, doll. One little surprise. You know you’d feel better.”
“No,” you bite out, voice cracking with exhaustion and irritation. “I need to pass this final, not get off. And you-” you point straight at Bucky through the screen “-maybe worry about your own grades instead of trying to derail mine. Still rocking that 94 Barnes? Because until that’s fixed, you don’t get to play with anything in that bag, least of all me.”
The words come out sharper than you meant, stress turning them into razors. Bucky’s smirk falters completely, eyes widening a fraction.
Steve clears his throat, trying to smooth it over. “Baby, we were just-”
But Bucky cuts in, quieter now, almost sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck. “Actually… makeup lab’s tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. Banner’s giving me one shot at a perfect score to bump it to a 95.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. You blink, the fight draining out of you in one breath, replaced by something warmer, softer.
Steve’s smile turns proud. “He’s been cramming all night. Guy’s gonna crush it.”
Bucky meets your eyes through the screen, the cockiness gone, just earnest now. “I’m not gonna let you down baby. Promise.”
You exhale shakily, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. “You better,” you murmur, voice still rough but no longer sharp. “Because if you get that 95… that bag better make the trip to the cabin.”
Bucky’s grin returns, smaller this time, real. “Count on it.”
Steve leans closer, voice gentle. “Get some sleep after one more chapter, okay?”
You manage a tired half-smile. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me study.”
You hang up.
The screen goes black. The dorm is quiet again.
You drop your forehead to the open textbook with a muffled groan, half frustration, half reluctant heat.
The science building reeks of bleach and desperation. Bucky’s been camped out since 8:15, traded his hoodie for the one decent button-down he owns, hair actually neat for once. He’s gripping a venti oat-milk latte and a cranberry-orange scone like his life depends on it.
He knocks once.
“Come in.”
Banner’s already got the practical set up on the side counter: beakers, burettes, a row of reagents that look innocent and will absolutely fuck you if you blink wrong. The man himself is in the same tragic cardigan, sipping from the latte Bucky handed over like a bribe the second he walked in.
“Morning,” Banner says, not looking up from labeling a flask. “You ready to titrate or are we still in the dramatic begging phase?”
“I left the theatrics in the hallway, doc.” Bucky rolls his sleeves, cracks his neck, and steps up to the desk like it’s a boxing ring.
Banner slides the instructions over. “One hour. Stoichiometry problem set first, then the acid-base practical. 100% or you walk out with the same 94 you came in with. Clock starts… now.”
Bucky doesn’t answer with words. He just starts moving.
He weighs samples like a surgeon, pipettes like his life depends on it (because it literally does), labels every single drop of phenolphthalein turns the flask the perfect faint pink and he doesn’t even flinch, just keeps swirling, calm, steady, perfect.
Banner watches the whole time, arms crossed, occasionally scribbling something on his clipboard. He doesn’t say a word.
Fifty-six minutes later Bucky sets the last burette down, wipes his hands on a paper towel, and finally breathes.
Banner takes the answer sheet, scans it once, twice, then pulls up the gradebook.
Clicks.
94.00 → 95.00
“100% on the practical,” he says, voice flat like he’s reading the weather. “Congratulations, Mr. Barnes.”
Bucky lunges across the desk and full-on bear-hugs him, arms locked around Banner’s neck, face buried in sad cardigan.
“ThankyouthankyouHOLYSHIT-”
Banner makes a strangled noise. “Remove yourself before I dock you back to a 90.”
Bucky’s out the door before the sentence is finished.
Bucky 9:57am
95 baby
Bucky 9:57am
[screenshot of grade]
Bucky 9:58am
🍑🍆💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦
He doesn’t wait for your reply.
He’s already sprinting across the quad, button-down half-untucked and flapping open in the wind, yelling “FUCK YES!” at the top of his lungs like he just won the goddamn lottery.
Somewhere in the distance a flock of crows takes off in terror.
Jacuzzi’s waiting.
And this weekend he’s not watching from the fucking kitchen table; he’s gonna be nine inches deep in the only pussy that matters while Steve records it in 4K.
You’re still dead to the world, tangled in the sheets and snoring softly, when Bucky’s SUV roars into the dorm lot around 10 am. Tires chirp on the asphalt as he slams the brakes and kills the engine, the bass thumping low for one last beat before it fades.
He fumbles the spare key you slipped him weeks back, the one for “emergencies only,” but this? This qualifies.
Your room’s still shrouded in morning gray, blinds cracked to let in slivers of winter light. You’re sprawled out in bed, dead to the world, wearing Steve’s old jersey that hangs loose on you like a nightshirt and those tiny cherry-print cotton boy-shorts that ride up just right. Suitcase on the floor half-packed, you’re curled up asleep, mouth parted softly, oblivious.
The door bangs against the wall as Bucky bursts in, no knock, no hesitation. He’s wired, bloodshot eyes gleaming with that manic triumph.
“95, baby,” he rasps, voice raw from exhaustion and victory. You stir awake, blinking groggily in the dim light. “Bucky? It’s barely morning- what the-”
He’s on the bed before you can finish, knees dipping the mattress, hands ripping the comforter away. But you’re not in the mood, not yet. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, taking him in: the wild hair, the desperate glow in his eyes. Pity hits you first, sharp and twisted.
“Oh, Buck,” you murmur, voice dripping with mock sympathy as you tilt your head. “You really begged Banner to fix your grade just for some pussy? That’s... sad. Pathetic, even.”
His face flushes, but he doesn’t back off, hovering there like he’s starving. You can see the bulge in his jeans already straining, and it only makes you smirk. “Look at you, getting hard over a stupid number on a screen. Pathetic little Bucky, so desperate for a win he’ll grovel to a professor.”
You reach out, teasing, trailing a finger down his chest through the shirt, then lower, palming him lightly over the denim. He groans, hips bucking into your hand involuntarily.
“Remember that tutoring lesson? When you ‘accidentally’ spilled water all over my tits, and I was so embarrassed I could’ve died? Who’s the embarrassing one now Buck? Hmm? Begging for scraps like this.”
He’s breathing heavy, eyes darkening with a mix of shame and heat, but he doesn’t pull away. You toy with him a little longer, stroking lazily through his jeans, watching him twitch and harden under your touch.
“So pathetic,” you whisper, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear. “So fucking pathetic, Bucky. Getting this worked up over a grade. Over me dangling pussy like a treat. What would Steve say if he knew how easy you are?”
That does it.
His hand snaps up, fingers clamping around your wrist, stopping your teasing stroke dead. His eyes go dark, dangerous, that switch flipping from pleading to predatory in a heartbeat.
“Steve?” he growls, voice low and rough, yanking you closer until you’re chest-to-chest. “Don’t worry about Steve right now, baby.”
Before you can fire back, he shoves two thick fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, making your words die in a wet little whimper. Your eyes widen, heat flooding your cunt instantly.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, smirking as you instinctively suck, cheeks hollowing. “No more talking about him. Right now this greedy mouth is busy, and this tight little pussy?”
He reaches down with his free hand, cupping you roughly over the cherry shorts, finding you already soaked. “This is all mine.”
He flips you onto your stomach in one smooth move, jersey rucked up to your armpits, shorts yanked off. You hear his zipper, the rustle of denim shoved down just enough, and then he’s dragging the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself.
You try to say something, Steve’s name, maybe a last little taunt but he thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, stretching you open, filling you so suddenly your back arches and the only sound you make is a broken, muffled moan around his fingers still in your mouth.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling your hips up higher, starting a punishing rhythm, deep, hard, relentless. “Told you not to worry about him. He’s not here. He doesn’t get to hear how fucking wet you are for me right now. How you’re already clenching like you’re gonna come just from me splitting you open.”
He curls his fingers in your mouth, pressing down, making you drool a little as you suck helplessly. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, angling you just right so every thrust drags over that spot that makes your eyes roll.
“Thought you could tease me, huh?” he pants against your ear, leaning over you, chest to your back. “Call me pathetic while you’re dripping down my balls? This what you wanted? Wanted me to shut that smart mouth up with my cock?”
You come hard, sudden and shattering, walls fluttering around him, moaning around his fingers like a desperate little thing. He groans, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying deep, pulsing hot inside you, marking you in long, possessive spurts.
He stays pressed against your back for a long moment, both of you breathing ragged. Slowly, he slides his fingers from your mouth, letting you gasp properly, then presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your shoulder.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and low, the sharp edge melted away as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Shower, baby. Grab some breakfast. Your classes start in an hour; we’ll pick Steve up on the way to campus.”
You turn your head on the pillow, still floaty and breathless, lips swollen and tingling. The warmth of him is already slipping away, replaced by a hot, shameful twist of guilt deep in your stomach.
“You’re… not gonna tell him about this?” you whisper, voice barely there, fingers curling nervously into the sheets.
Bucky pauses, jeans half-zipped, shirt dangling from one hand. He looks at you for a long beat, something flickering across his face. Then he crawls back onto the bed, hand warm against your flushed cheek as he cups it.
“Why would I?” he says quietly, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “This was just us. A little morning celebration for my ninety-five.” His mouth quirks, not quite a smirk, but close. “Steve doesn’t need to know every time I make you fall apart before the sun’s even up.”
The guilt spikes harder, sharp and sour.
Bucky leans in, lips brushing yours in a slow, sealing kiss. “Our secret, doll,” he whispers against your mouth. “Makes it hotter, doesn’t it?”
You should argue. You should insist on telling Steve everything, like always. But the words don’t come. Instead you just nod, small and guilty, heart hammering.
He smiles, soft and dangerous, then finally stands. “Shower before you’re late. I’ll make coffee. Act normal when we get Steve; he’s got that 11 am lecture across campus.”
You watch him pull the hoodie on, casual as if he didn’t just come inside you while Steve’s name was still warm on your tongue.
He pauses at the door, glancing back. “Don’t wash me off completely,” he adds, voice low. “I like knowing I’m still dripping out of you while you’re sitting in class.”
The door clicks shut.
You lie there another minute, thighs pressed tight together, his come sticky and warm between them. Guilt burns in your chest, but so does the secret; heavy, electric, intoxicating.
You leave a little of him inside you in the shower. Just enough.
It’s just a normal Wednesday.
Except it isn’t.
It’s Friday afternoon, the day of your finals and after the boys are taking you to the cabin. The cold cuts straight through your coat and burrows into your bones like it’s moving in for the holidays.
Campus is deserted, dorms half-dark, parking lots empty except for frost-rimed stragglers. Everyone’s fled home or to warmer coasts, leaving the rest to claw through finals.
You’ve been holed up in the library since morning, grinding out your last bio exam on a stomach full of Red Bulls and burning eyes. Your brain’s mush. You’re drowning in black leggings, boots, and Bucky’s hoodie, the one that still carries his body wash and detergent, your only armor against the freeze.
You shove through the library doors into a wind that slaps hard, metallic with impending snow and bus fumes. Frozen leaves shatter under your boots.
They’re already at the curb, Steve’s black Jeep running, breath of white exhaust puffing into the air.
Steve leans on the hood in his peacoat, cheeks pink, holding a single red rose with that earnest charm that always works. Bucky’s beside him, phone up, filming your exhausted trudge with a smug grin.
“Wave for the fans, baby,” Bucky calls. “Proof you survived Banner’s final.”
You flip him off, hands numb from cold.
Nat appears like a shadow, smacks your ass sharply through the leggings, and murmurs, “Two days. No flashcards in bed. Safe word only if you mean it. Text if they get weird.” Then she’s gone, red hair swallowed by dusk.
Steve opens the back door like a gentleman. Bucky just hooks an arm around your waist and tosses you onto the warm leather seat. Heat blasts. The world narrows to pine freshener, their colognes and engine rumble.
Your suitcase is already stowed, packed at 3 am in a delirious haze while they spammed the group chat with filthy voice notes.
But beneath the thrill, guilt has been knotting your stomach for days.
It started two mornings ago when Bucky showed up alone, high off a makeup lab grade, eyes blazing. You meant to tease him, but he pinned you against the bed, hands everywhere, mouth desperate. It was fast, raw, him inside you on your unmade bed, calling you his girl while Steve’s absence loomed unspoken.
You told yourself it was just a secret celebration.
No harm.
But the guilt crashed in the moment he left, sour and relentless. You waited for Bucky to confess, for it to surface in the chat, nothing. Then the cabin trip locked in, and the secret grew heavier.
Now you’re in the back seat, sleeves tugged over frozen hands, Bucky’s warmth pressed against you. Steve drives, blond hair glowing under dashboard lights.
You stare at the back of Steve’s head and Bucky’s messy strands, wondering if they feel the weight you’re carrying, this shame like bricks in your chest.
You’ve stayed silent too. Just as guilty.
Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, smiles softly. “Buckled in, baby?”
You nod, force a smile.
Gravel spits as campus fades.
An hour and a half later, night has fallen, mountains black against a bruised sky. Snow drifts in fat flakes. Steve pulls into an empty overlook, pines sagging with fresh powder.
“Bathroom and snacks,” he says, killing the engine. “Five minutes.” Door slams, footsteps crunch away.
The instant Steve’s gone, Bucky turns, crowding you against the leather.
“Still think that 94 was funny?” he growls low, voice rough with leftover triumph and something darker. His hand slides between your thighs over the thick leggings, cupping you possessively, thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles right over your clit through the layers. The pressure is maddening, firm enough to make you squirm, not nearly enough to satisfy.
You try to hold onto the bratty edge, arching a brow even as your hips rock into his touch. “You’re still mad you had to earn your way into my-”
He cuts you off with a dark, filthy chuckle that sends heat flooding straight to your core. “Mad? Baby, I’m replaying the best morning I’ve had in months.”
His tongue flicks out, tracing a hot, wet line along the shell of your ear before dragging down the side of your neck, tasting salt and the faint trace of your perfume. You shiver hard, thighs clenching around his wrist on pure instinct.
“Remember it?” he whispers, teeth grazing your pulse point just sharp enough to sting. His thumb keeps that ruthless rhythm, slow and deliberate.
“I opened the door and there you were, wearing Steve’s old jersey and those tiny cherry shorts, teasing me about begging Banner… acting all high and mighty, like you were gonna make me watch all weekend.”
His free hand slips under the hoodie, palm splaying warm and possessive over your bare stomach, fingers teasing just under the waistband of your leggings but never dipping lower.
“Five minutes later you were on your stomach, face buried in the pillow so the whole floor wouldn’t hear you moaning my name. Spread your legs wider without me even asking, took every inch like you’d been starving for it. Begged me to go harder, to fill you up, voice all sweet and broken, nothing like that bossy little mouth you’re trying to use right now.”
You’re panting, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand, the friction through the layers turning unbearable. He knows exactly what he’s doing, keeping you teetering, reminding you with every stroke how fast you folded for him that morning.
“Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” he taunts, nipping your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue.
“Left it in your dorm along with your glasses? Or did you ditch ‘em on purpose so you could play all tough, when we both know the second I got inside, you went all blurry-eyed and needy, barely able to focus on anything except how good my cock felt.”
You whimper, actually whimper and he laughs low, delighted, the sound rumbling straight through you.
“Shh, baby,” he croons, cruel and sweet. “Don’t want Stevie hearing how fast you fall apart, do you? He still thinks you’re the big bad brat holding all the cards.”
The driver’s door yanks open right then. Cold air floods in, snowflakes swirling. Steve climbs in, shakes white powder from his hair, tosses a bag of snacks onto the passenger seat.
He pauses halfway into starting the engine, catching the scene in the rearview mirror: you flushed and trembling on Bucky’s lap, lips parted, eyes glassy; Bucky’s hand still cupped blatantly between your thighs, lazy grin sharp as sin.
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve mutters, half-laugh, half-exasperated groan as the Jeep rumbles back to life. “We haven’t even hit the cabin yet.”
Bucky shrugs, not moving his hand an inch, thumb giving one last teasing press that makes your hips jerk. “She started running that mouth again.”
You’re still shaking, thighs clenched tight around his wrist, heart racing as Steve pulls onto the snowy road.
Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, blue and amused, no clue about the secret burning between you and Bucky.
“New rule, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice low and rough. “Every time you try that bossy shit between now and Sunday, we make you sit on one of our laps and remember exactly who you belong to.”
Snow falls harder outside, tires crunching over fresh powder. You smile, slow, shaky, filthy, tasting the secret thick on your tongue.
“Then drive faster, Rogers.”
A few miles down the twisting mountain road, the Jeep coughs, dashboard dinging like an alarm clock from hell. Steve’s knuckles whiten on the wheel as the engine dies completely, momentum carrying them onto the snowy shoulder with a crunch of tires on ice.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low and venomous, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. The horn gives a short, pathetic blurt into the empty dark.
You sit up straighter in the back, still sticky and half-dressed under the hoodie, thighs aching from Bucky’s earlier ambush. “Out of gas?”
Steve doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the glowing low-fuel warning like it personally betrayed him. “Gauge is fucked. We passed a station a couple miles back.”
Bucky exhales a laugh that dies fast when he clocks Steve’s jaw. “Shit. Walking?”
“I need something sweet,” you say, voice edged with that sharp, restless hunger that comes from being wound up tight and left hanging.
Your thighs are still pressed together under the hoodie, the ache between them throbbing in time with your pulse, stomach growling louder than the wind howling outside. “Chocolate. Now. Or someone’s getting murdered.”
Steve kills the headlights, plunges the car into cold blue dark. “We walk. Grab the can.”
The three of you climb out into the whipping snow, flakes stinging your cheeks like tiny needles, wind slicing straight through the hoodie. The air smells like pine sap, exhaust, and the sharp metallic promise of a real storm. Boots crunch on frozen gravel; every breath clouds white and vanishes.
The station appears like a mirage: one lit pump under a sagging awning, neon “OPEN” sign flickering pink against the snow. Inside, the heat is stale and smells like old coffee and fryer grease. The clerk doesn’t look up while Steve pays for gas and you grab a Snickers and a burnt-tasting hot chocolate. Bucky snags gummy worms and another Red Bull.
You’re halfway through the candy bar, chocolate melting too fast on your cold fingers, when the itch shifts. The cold, the tension crackling off Steve, the way Bucky keeps sneaking glances at your mouth, it all collides into something hungry and stupid.
“Bathroom,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the side door. “Outside one.”
Bucky’s eyes flick up, sharp and hungry. Steve hesitates a beat, jaw ticking hard enough you can hear it, but he follows anyway.
Keypad code is still the lazy default 1234. Door groans open into the concrete coffin: cracked mirror, dripping faucet, single bulb flickering like it’s on its last breath. Smells like industrial bleach, stale piss, and the ghosts of a million truck-stop cigarettes. Floor’s slick in patches, somehow colder than the blizzard outside.
Door barely clicks shut before Bucky’s on you, hands rough, impatient, shoving you over the sink. Porcelain bites into your hips; the cold faucet jabs your lower back like punishment.
Steve locks the door, leans against it with arms crossed tight across his chest. “Thought we were done with the bratting bullshit,” he says, voice low and edged with warning.
You bend anyway, palms flat on gritty porcelain, ass out like you’re begging for trouble.
Bucky yanks your leggings and panties down just enough; freezing air slaps bare skin.
Steve steps forward, unzips slow, feeds his cock into your mouth, thick, heavy, deliberate. His fingers thread into your hair, guiding at first, steady and controlled.
Bucky doesn’t wait. Lines up and slams in raw, one brutal thrust that punches a muffled cry around Steve.
They find their rhythm fast: Steve fucking your throat in shallow, measured strokes that make your eyes water; Bucky pounding deep from behind, grip bruising your hips, boots scraping the disgusting tile.
You’re lost in it, heat, fullness, the way Steve’s fingers tighten like he’s anchoring himself to you.
Then Bucky, too far gone, hips snapping wild, groans it without a filter.
“Fuck… almost as good as this morning when I had you all to myself after that 95-”
Everything stops dead.
Steve goes rigid. Yanks out of your mouth so fast you choke on air, drool stringing messy from your lip to his cock. His hand stays fisted in your hair, but now it’s iron, holding you in place like he doesn’t trust you to stay put.
“Get the fuck out of her,” he says, voice low and venomous, shaking with barely-leashed fury.
Bucky’s hips jerk once on instinct, then freeze. He pulls out slow, the wet slide obscene in the sudden silence. His fingers spasm on your hips, then drop away like you’re contagious.
Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t zip up yet. Just stares Bucky down over your bent back, eyes blazing.
“You fucked her alone,” he spits, each word sharp enough to draw blood. “That morning. And you both thought you’d just… what? Keep it cute little secret from me?”
Bucky slumps against the opposite wall, cock softening fast under the weight of Steve’s glare. “Steve- it wasn’t some big thing. She was riding me about Banner and it just happened-”
Steve cuts him off with a bitter laugh, zipping up with sharp, angry jerks. “Yeah, I bet it ‘just happened.’ Real convenient.”
You straighten slowly, yanking your clothes up with trembling fingers. Cold rushes in where heat just was; sweat cools clammy on your skin. “I told him not to tell you,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to mess up the weekend.”
Steve finally looks at you, and the expression on his face is pure acid. Hurt twisted up with petty, ice-cold rage.
“Oh, perfect,” he sneers. “You two had a little side meeting and decided I’m too fragile to handle the truth? Or maybe you just figured I’m the safe idiot who’ll keep showing up no matter what you pull behind my back.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight, voice dropping into something small and cutting. “I share everything with you two. Every fucking thing. And you couldn’t even give me the respect of a heads-up that you’re sneaking around like I’m some side character in your story.”
Bucky opens his mouth. “Steve, come on-”
“No,” Steve snaps, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to ‘come on’ me. You got your solo round, congratulations. Hope it was worth it.” His eyes flick to you, sharp and accusing.
“And you- teasing him into it, then begging me to follow you in here like nothing happened. Real classy.”
The words land like slaps. Your throat burns.
Steve turns to the door, unlocks it with a vicious twist. Cold wind and snow blast in, swirling across the wet floor. “I’m walking back alone. Don’t want to crowd the happy couple.”
He steps out, gas can banging against his thigh, shoulders hunched against the storm. Doesn’t look back once.
Door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud.
You and Bucky stand there in the bleach-stinking freeze, listening to his boots crunch farther and farther away.
Bucky exhales a shaky, “Well, shit.”
You grab the half-eaten Snickers off the sink. Chocolate’s frozen solid now. Tastes like cardboard and regret.
You push out into the storm after Steve, but you keep your distance, close enough not to lose him in the whiteout, far enough that he doesn’t have to look at either of you.
Bucky trails last, gummy worms bag dragging.
Snow falls thick and relentless, swallowing sound, swallowing footprints.
The silence is louder than any screaming match.
And Steve’s back, straight and furious ahead of you, doesn’t turn around once the entire freezing mile back to the Jeep.
Whatever was whole this afternoon feels pretty goddamn cracked now.
The last hour of the drive feels like three.
Snow’s coming down so thick the headlights barely cut through it, just a swirling white tunnel. The heater’s blasting but it’s still cold in the car, cold from the silence more than anything.
Steve’s gripping the wheel like he’s trying to choke it, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping even from the back seat.
Bucky’s got his forehead against the window now, watching his own breath fog and disappear, over and over. Nobody’s touched the aux cord. Nobody’s said a word since the gas station.
When the cabin’s porch light finally cuts through the trees, it feels less like relief and more like walking into the principal’s office.
You’re out of the Jeep before Steve’s even got it in park, boots sinking into fresh powder up to your shins. The air’s sharp, pine and woodsmoke. You grab your suitcase from the trunk, mumble something about needing a shower, and bolt inside without waiting.
The cabin’s warm at least, fire already going in the big stone fireplace, the kind of orange glow that makes everything look softer than it is. Smells like cedar and the faint vanilla candle.
Flannel blankets on the couches, string lights along the beams, the whole Pinterest-winter-getaway vibe. It’s perfect. Which makes the knot in your stomach worse.
You dump your suitcase at the foot of the king bed upstairs and lock yourself in the en-suite. The shower’s one of those big rain ones with river stones underfoot. You crank it as hot as it goes and just stand there, letting it burn.
You stay in there forever, washing your hair twice, scrubbing until your skin’s pink, trying to rinse off the gas-station bathroom, the fight, the guilt.
When you finally shut the water off, the mirror’s completely fogged. You wrap yourself in one of the giant towels, wipe a streak clear, and stare at your own blurry reflection until you can’t anymore.
Downstairs, they’ve started.
At first it’s just muffled voices filtering up through the floorboards, Steve’s low, steady rumble cutting against Bucky’s sharper, quicker words. Then the volume climbs, edges sharpening.
You crack the bathroom door, towel knotted tight around you, hair dripping cold trails down your spine. Bare feet silent on the hardwood, you pad to the top of the stairs and sink down onto the top step, knees hugged to your chest. You don’t go down. Just listen.
Steve’s pacing, boots thumping a tight circuit in front of the fireplace, back and forth like a caged animal.
“…so what, you two had a cute little secret and I’m just supposed to be the oblivious third wheel who smiles and drives the Jeep? Real fucking cute, Buck.”
Bucky’s voice is rough, scraped raw. “It wasn’t like that, Steve. It was ten stupid minutes. She opened the door looking like a wet dream and I-”
“Yeah, I get the picture,” Steve interrupts, voice dripping acid. “Spare me the play-by-play. Point is, you finished, zipped up, and decided, ‘Hey, Steve doesn’t need to know his best friend and “his” girl just fucked behind his back.’ Super considerate.”
“I didn’t want to torch the whole weekend!” Bucky shoots back, then catches himself, volume dropping fast.
“We finally had two days with no bullshit, no interruptions, and I panicked. Thought if I told you in the car you’d pull over and deck me. Then by the time we got here it felt too late, and then in that disgusting bathroom it just, slipped out.”
Steve snorts, sharp and ugly. “Oh, bless your heart. What a tragic little accident. Must’ve been so hard carrying around that big, bad secret while I was busy thinking everything was normal.”
Silence stretches, heavy. You hear the fire crackle, wind rattling the windows like it wants in.
Bucky speaks again, quieter, stripped down. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I mean it. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like the odd man out because you’re not. You’ve never been. I just… fucked up. Bad.”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. You hear the fridge door yank open, the clink of glass, the angry twist of a bottle cap. Long pull of beer.
Another.
“Congrats on the apology,” Steve finally says, voice flat and snarky. “Gold star. Really feeling the sincerity while I’m still tasting bleach from that shithole bathroom and wondering how long you two were planning to keep playing me.”
“I wasn’t playing you,” Bucky says, low and earnest. “I swear to God, Steve. It was one dumb, selfish moment and then cowardice. That’s it.”
“Yeah, well, your cowardice feels pretty fucking personal from where I’m standing.” Steve’s boots start pacing again, faster.
“You know what the worst part is? I would’ve been fine. Mad for five minutes, maybe, but fine. Because it’s us. But you didn’t trust me enough to give me the chance. You and her decided for me.”
Bucky’s voice cracks a little. “I know. I know I didn’t trust you with it, and that’s on me. I’m so fucking sorry. You’re my best friend, always have been. I don’t want to lose this. Lose us.”
Another stretch of quiet. A log in the fire shifts and pops, sending sparks up the chimney.
Steve exhales hard. “You remember sophomore year? When I basically lived in your dorm for two months because you were too stubborn to ask for help with that boot?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says softly.
“I didn’t leave when you were a miserable asshole to everyone. I stayed. Because you’re my best friend too, you idiot.” Steve’s voice wavers, anger bleeding into something rawer. “So don’t stand there acting like I’m about to bail over one fight. I’m pissed. I’m allowed to be pissed. But I’m not walking away.”
You hear Bucky’s relief in the shaky breath he lets out. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Steve mutters. “I’m still mad enough to sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t want to be in the same bed as either of you right now. I need… space from the reminder.”
“Steve-”
“It’s not punishment,” Steve cuts in, tired but firm. “It’s self-preservation. I just can’t pretend everything’s peachy while I’m still seeing red. Take the bed. Both of you. I’ll be down here.”
A long beat.
“Okay,” Bucky says finally, quiet and defeated. “Yeah. Okay.”
The couch creaks as someone, probably Bucky, drops onto it heavily. Boots thud off. The fire settles into low, steady pops.
You stay curled on the top step until your toes are numb and the towel’s soaked through from your hair. Then you slip back to the bedroom, crawl under the thick flannel duvet that smells like pine detergent and cold air, and stare at the dark log beams overhead.
Downstairs, the fire burns lower. No footsteps on the stairs.
The cabin feels enormous and suffocating all at once.
You pull the covers over your head, your throat tightening as you fight the tears. College is messy, sure, but no one tells you how much it hurts when the people you care about most are hurting because of you.
And tonight, nobody comes up to fix it.
Eventually the stairs creak softly, Bucky coming up as quiet as his bulk allows. He doesn’t speak, just kicks off his boots, strips to boxers, and slides in on the far edge, leaving a careful, deliberate foot of space between you like he’s waiting for permission.
You don’t let the space stay. You roll toward him, tuck your head against his chest without asking. He exhales like the air’s been trapped in his lungs for hours, arm coming around you slow and careful. His heartbeat thuds fast under your ear.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers into your hair, voice rough with guilt.
“I know,” you whisper back, throat tight.
He kisses your forehead, holds you closer, and you both pretend sleep is coming.
It isn’t.
Eventually your mouth turns to cotton, dehydration from crying in the shower, from the dry heat blasting out of the vents, from the way your heart’s been jackhammering since everything blew up.
You ease out from under Bucky’s heavy arm. He makes a low, unhappy sound in his sleep, brow furrowing, but doesn’t wake. Moonlight stripes silver across his face: stubble dark, lips parted, the scar on his left hand catching the light like a thin white bolt.
Your bare feet hit the wide-plank floor and the cold shoots up your legs like ice water. Goosebumps prickle across your thighs under the oversized shirt you scooped off the floor and yanked on in the dark. You tug the hem down, but it still barely skims mid-thigh, leaving you half-exposed in the chilly room.
The hallway is darker, shadows thick and blue. Every creak sounds like an accusation.
Downstairs, the fire’s burned down to sullen orange coals that pulse low and resentful. The air smells like the faint yeasty ghost of spilled beer. An empty bottle lies on its side on the coffee table, a slow ring of condensation bleeding into the wood.
Steve’s on the couch, blanket kicked to the floor. He’s sitting forward, elbows on knees, head bowed, broad shoulders hunched. His hair’s a wreck, blond strands falling over his forehead like he’s raked his hands through it a hundred times.
He hears you, of course. Lifts his head slow. His eyes are bloodshot, exhaustion carved deep, but they’re sharp, too sharp, glittering with leftover venom.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice scraped raw and dripping sarcasm. “Or did you just come down to make sure the third wheel’s still breathing?”
The words hit like a slap. You stop at the bottom of the stairs, toes curling against the icy floor. “I needed water.”
He watches you cross to the kitchen, eyes tracking the way your shirt brushes your thighs with every step. The fridge light spills harsh white across his face when you open it, highlighting the tight clench of his jaw, the storm still brewing in his eyes. You grab a bottle, twist it open, drink deep. Cold burns all the way down.
He stands when you turn around. Slow. Deliberate. Closes the distance until the heat rolling off him cuts the chill.
“So,” he says, voice low and venom-sweet, arms crossed tight. “You and Bucky have your little post-fuck cuddle fest upstairs? Real cozy, huh? Must be nice knowing exactly who you’re waking up next to tomorrow.”
Your stomach knots. “Steve-”
“Because I’m trying to figure out my role here,” he keeps going, smile thin and razor-sharp. “Am I the driver? The comic relief? The guy who pays for gas while you two sneak quickies? Or just the idiot who thought we were all on the same page?”
The snark lands hard, each word precise, meant to bruise. You can smell faint beer on his breath, woodsmoke in his clothes, cold clinging to his skin. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion and hurt, and it twists something vicious in your chest.
“Stop it,” you say, voice cracking. You step into him, close enough that his heat sears through the shirt. “Just- stop.”
He opens his mouth, more poison clearly loaded, but you don’t let it fire. You fist both hands in the soft fabric of his thermal, push up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.
It’s messy, angry, teeth clacking, then parting. He tastes like bitter beer, salt, and sleeplessness. For a heartbeat he’s rigid, every muscle locked. Then his hands snap to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, hauling you flush against him like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.
He kisses back ferocious, all the hurt and frustration pouring out in the way he angles your head, the way his tongue claims yours like he’s reminding himself he still has the right.
You break only when your lungs scream, foreheads pressed together, both of you panting into the tiny space between.
“There’s no choosing,” you whisper, fierce and shaking. “No favorites. No couples inside the three of us. You know that.”
His breath hitches hard. His hands flex on your hips like he’s fighting himself. His eyes squeeze shut.
“I hate feeling like the extra,” he mutters, voice finally cracking wide open, all the snark bleeding away into something raw. “Like I’m the one who wasn’t in on the joke.”
“You’re not,” you say, sliding a hand up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing rough stubble. “You’re not extra. You’re just as in this as we are.”
He leans into your touch for a shaky second, then exhales like the fight’s rushing out of him. You take his hand, cold fingers laced through his warm ones and tug.
He follows.
Up the stairs, quiet and slow. Bucky’s still sprawled in the center of the bed, one arm flung out, sheets tangled low on his hips, breathing deep and even.
You climb in first, slide to the middle, shirt riding up as you settle facing Bucky. Steve pauses at the edge, shadowed, looking down at both of you like he’s still deciding if he belongs here tonight.
You reach out, catch the hem of his thermal. “Get in the bed, Steve.”
He huffs a tired, wet half-laugh that’s mostly surrender and crawls in behind you. The mattress dips deep under his weight.
For a long moment it’s awkward: three bodies negotiating space, the chill of the sheets, the leftover static crackling in the air.
Then Bucky shifts in his sleep, instinctively seeking warmth, arm draping heavy across your waist, face nuzzling into your neck, stubble scratching softly.
Steve hesitates one last beat, then mirrors it. His chest presses to your back, solid and warm, arm sliding over your hip to rest loosely on top of Bucky’s forearm. His fingers curl, not quite holding Bucky’s wrist, but close like muscle memory overriding the mess.
You’re sandwiched tight: Bucky’s steady heartbeat against your front, Steve’s against your spine, legs tangled in flannel and limbs.
The hurt lingers, heavy and unspoken. The anger’s still there, banked low like the embers downstairs. But the bed is warm now, snow muffling the world outside to nothing, and nobody pulls away.
Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, barely there, more breath than kiss. Bucky’s nose nudges your collarbone, a sleepy sound rumbling in his chest.
You let your eyes close.
Tomorrow will still be messy. Words will still need saying. Boundaries will still feel bruised.
But tonight, tangled together in the dark, breathing slow and syncing up, the three of you just sleep.
And for the first time since the bathroom, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken beyond fixing.
Morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains in thin, pale blades, soft winter sun bouncing off the endless snow outside, turning the room golden and quiet. The wind died sometime in the night; the world feels paused, muffled under a thick white blanket.
Bucky wakes first, the way he always does: instant and alert, eyes snapping open like a switch flipped. He’s on his back, arm pinned under your hip, other one still draped loosely over your waist. Steve’s pressed along your back, face tucked into the crook of your neck, slow breaths stirring the fine hairs there.
For a long minute Bucky just stares.
You’re deep under, curled slightly toward him, lips parted in soft, even breaths, one hand fisted loosely in the sheets near your chin. Your has shirt ridden up in the night, exposing the gentle curve of your waist, the long line of your spine.
Your hair’s a wild tangle across the pillow, still faintly damp from the shower. There’s a warm flush on your cheeks from being sandwiched between them, and the tiniest crease between your brows like even sleep can’t fully erase yesterday.
Bucky’s voice is barely audible, rough with sleep and leftover guilt. “Look at her.”
Steve stirs immediately, lifting his head just enough to see over your shoulder. His eyes are puffy, lashes clumped, but they soften the second they land on you.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Christ.”
He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.
Bucky reaches out, slow, careful not to wake you and brushes a stray strand of hair off your forehead with the backs of his knuckles.
“She’s got that little freckle right here,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the bridge of your nose. “Never noticed how much I like it when she’s not using it to look down at me like I’m an idiot.”
Steve’s hand moves too, palm sliding gently over the exposed skin of your hip, tracing idle, reverent circles. “And the way she does that tiny huff on the exhale. Like a pissed-off kitten dreaming about revenge.”
Bucky huffs the softest laugh. “She’d murder us if she heard that.”
“She’d try,” Steve agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting for the first time since the gas station. “We’d have her pinned and begging for mercy in ten seconds flat.”
They fall quiet again, just watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the occasional twitch of your fingers in sleep.
“She looks… peaceful,” Bucky says after a long moment. Voice low, almost awed. “Like yesterday didn’t follow her in here.”
Steve’s throat works visibly. “We were reckless as hell.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “I was. That morning was on me, lost my head the second she opened the door. And then I kept my mouth shut like a coward because I didn’t want to lose the weekend. I’m sorry, man. For the fuck, for the lie, for all of it.”
Steve’s hand stills on your hip. He meets Bucky’s eyes over your sleeping form. “I’m sorry too. For the way I acted, like a petty asshole with a bruised ego. I turned it into a competition in my head when it never needed to be. You didn’t deserve me icing you out.”
Bucky nods once, slow. “We good?”
Steve exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “We’re good.”
They lie there a little longer, trading the kind of quiet, sappy observations they’d never say if you were awake.
How your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks in the morning light.
How soft your mouth gets when there’s no smart remark loaded behind it.
How perfectly you fit between them, like the space was always meant to be filled by you.
Eventually Bucky untangles himself with military precision, sliding out of bed without moving the mattress more than an inch. Steve follows a second later. They trade a look over your still-sleeping body, silent agreement.
Bucky mouths: Breakfast?
Steve nods, already reaching for his sweatpants.
They pad downstairs together, shoulders brushing in the narrow hallway. The fire’s dead, just gray ash and cold stone. Morning light floods through the big windows, turning the snow outside blinding white.
In the kitchen they move like a quiet, practiced team, Bucky starting coffee, strong, black, with the oat milk waiting on the side because he knows you’ll want it, Steve pulling out the cast-iron skillet, eggs, thick-cut bacon, English muffins. There’s even a punnet of fresh berries someone thoughtfully left in the fridge.
They don’t talk much at first, just the soft clink of mugs, the sizzle of bacon hitting hot iron, the low gurgle of the coffee maker. The smells build fast: rich coffee, smoky pork, butter melting in the toaster.
Halfway through, Bucky leans against the counter, watching Steve flip eggs with that intense focus he gets about everything. “We’re really fixing this, right?”
Steve glances up, mouth softening. “Yeah. Starting with feeding her until she can’t stay mad.”
They load up the big wooden tray like it’s a peace offering: fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon arranged in neat rows, toasted English muffins with butter and a drizzle of honey, bright berries in a chipped bowl, coffee fixed exactly right. Steve tucks the single red rose, still perfect, into a water glass and scribbles a note on a torn piece of brown paper bag:
we’re idiots but we’re your idiots
eat this and then come yell at us if you want
we’ll be waiting
– your two favorite assholes
They carry it upstairs together, moving slow so nothing spills. You’re still dead to the world, curled on your side now, shirt twisted around your waist, one knee pulled up, mouth open just enough for the softest little snore.
They set the tray on the nightstand carefully. Bucky kneels on his side, brushes your hair back gently. Steve sits on the edge, hand resting lightly on your bare ankle.
You stir slowly, first the rich smell of coffee hits, then bacon, then warm butter and honey. Your eyes crack open to soft golden light and the loaded tray: eggs golden, bacon perfectly crisp, muffins glistening, bright berries, coffee steaming and perfect. The rose stands proud in its makeshift vase.
“Morning, baby,” Bucky says, voice scratchy and soft. He brushes a knuckle along your cheek. “We made you breakfast. Figured you deserved it after we spent yesterday acting like complete jackasses.”
Steve’s thumb strokes slow circles on your ankle. “Especially me. I was a petty dick about the whole thing. I’m sorry... for the attitude, for the distance, for making you feel like you had to drag me back into bed.”
Bucky nods, eyes earnest. “And I’m sorry for that reckless morning fuck. For starting it, for hiding it, for letting it blow up in that nasty bathroom. I should’ve told him right away. No excuses.”
You push up on one elbow, shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair falling in your face. You blow it away and eye the tray like it might be a trap. “You two cooked without burning the cabin down?”
Bucky snorts. “Minor smoke-alarm incident. We contained it.”
“Twice,” Steve corrects, mouth twitching. “But we survived.”
You reach for the coffee first, wrap both hands around the mug, inhale deep. First sip is perfect. You hum, involuntary and pleased, and watch both of them visibly relax.
“Good?” Steve asks, quiet.
“Dangerously,” you mutter. “You’re definitely trying to bribe me.”
Bucky grins, snags a piece of bacon and holds it to your lips. “Is it working?”
You take a bite, salty, smoky perfection and chew slow just to watch him fidget. “Little bit.”
Steve shifts closer, elbow on the mattress. “There’s a note too.” He nods toward the torn paper under the rose.
You fish it out, read it aloud in a flat voice: “‘We’re idiots but we’re your idiots. Eat this and then come yell at us if you want. We’ll be waiting, your two favorite assholes.’”
Bucky winces. “We debated hearts. Chickened out.”
“Smart,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. You pop a berry in your mouth, sweet, bright, perfect. “This doesn’t magically fix everything, you know.”
“We know,” they say at the same time, then glance at each other, almost smiling.
You sigh, set the coffee down, and scoot over, patting the space you’ve made. “Get in here. I’m not eating alone like some lonely queen.”
They move instantly, Bucky sliding in on your left, Steve on your right. The tray ends up balanced on Bucky’s lap; Steve steals a strip of bacon before you can stop him.
You tear an English muffin in half, hand one piece to each of them.
“We’re talking about yesterday,” you say around a mouthful of eggs. “All of it. But not on empty stomachs. And not until I’ve had at least one more sip of coffee.”
Bucky leans his head against yours, voice soft. “Whatever you need, baby.”
Steve’s hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers threading tight. “We’re right here.”
You take another long sip of coffee, let the warmth sink in, and, for the first time since that bleach-stinking bathroom feel something close to steady.
“Pass the honey,” you say.
Bucky hands it over without a word.
It’s going to be a long conversation.
But it’s starting with breakfast in bed, tangled limbs, and two boys who are looking at you like you hung the moon even after everything.
You can definitely work with that.
By evening, the storm softens into steady snowfall, fat flakes drifting past the windows. The fire roars again, warming the living room, the air scented with pine smoke, grilled cheese, and faint eucalyptus.
The day was long and necessary: raw words on the couch, quieter ones bundled on the porch with spiked cocoa, hands finding each other again like testing fragile glass. The air felt lighter, trust bruised but mending, boundaries redrawn with careful fingers. You disappeared upstairs with a sly smile and a murmured “give me twenty,” leaving them with raised eyebrows and cautious hope.
Out on the covered back deck, the jacuzzi waits in the corner, steaming hard against the cold. The jets churn the water into thick foam that hisses and bubbles. Snow dusts the railings and gathers along the roofline, melting into sharp drops wherever the heat reaches. Beneath the surface, blue lights pulse softly, turning the foam turquoise and gold as steam rises in fragrant clouds of eucalyptus and chlorine.
Steve and Bucky are already in, shoulders just breaking the surface, heads tipped back against the padded headrests, steam curling off their skin in thick, wet ribbons that cling to their stubble and lashes. Water beads and drips from their chests, catching the light in glistening trails down hard muscle.
Bucky’s hand rests on the rim, fingers drumming lazily to the low, thumping bass from the outdoor speaker.
Steve’s eyes are half-closed, the last tension finally gone from his jaw, lips parted as he breathes in the hot mist.
The sliding door rumbles open with a groan of wood on wood.
They both turn at the sound, water sloshing.
You step out onto the snow-dusted deck wearing the skimpiest black bikini you packed, two tiny triangles up top straining desperately against your breasts, nipples already hard and visible through the thin fabric, tied with strings so fragile one tug would end them.
The bottoms are a matching low V, ties knotted high on your hips, the fabric barely covering your mound and leaving the full curves of your ass exposed to the biting cold.
Snowflakes land on your warm skin and melt instantly, cool trails racing down your cleavage, your thighs. Goosebumps explode across your body; your hair is loose and wild, lips curved in a slow, deliberate smile that says you know exactly what you’re doing.
“Goddamn,” Bucky breathes, sitting up straighter, water cascading off his chest in hot rivulets. His eyes go pitch-black in a heartbeat, cock visibly thickening under the bubbling surface.
Steve’s gaze drags down your body like a physical lick, slow, burning, possessive. “You’re trying to fucking kill us, baby.”
“Maybe,” you say, voice low and teasing over the relentless rumble of the jets. You pad across the cold wood, bare feet stinging on frozen planks, goosebumps racing up your legs until you’re at the steps. One deliberate tug at each hip and the bottoms drop, pooling at your ankles. Another tug at your neck and back and the top follows, landing in a damp little heap on the deck, nipples tightening harder in the sharp air.
You climb in slow, water rising scalding hot around your calves, thighs, hips, making you hiss through your teeth as the heat shocks your cold skin pink.
The jets slam into you like a thousand vibrating tongues, pulsing hard against your legs, your ass, your clit as you sink deeper. You settle between them, back against the curved wall, water lapping greedily at your collarbones, bubbles clinging to your breasts like obscene decoration.
For a moment it’s just the three of you and the storm: snow falling silently outside the roofline in thick, lazy sheets; steam rising in choking clouds, thick with eucalyptus and the faint chlorine tang; jets churning the surface into constant, violent motion that vibrates through your bones.
Bucky’s arm slides around your waist first, yanking you sideways into his lap with a splash that sends hot water over the edge. Steve shifts closer on your other side, big hand finding your thigh under the water, fingers digging in possessively.
“We good?” Bucky murmurs against your temple, voice rough with steam and raw want, stubble scraping your skin.
You nod, turning to catch his mouth. The kiss starts soft, relief and promise but turns filthy fast, tongues sliding wet and hungry, tasting eucalyptus and leftover whiskey from lunch.
Hands start wandering, rougher now. Bucky’s fingers slip between your legs immediately, parting your slick folds under the water, finding your clit and rubbing hard, deliberate circles that make you jerk. Steve’s palm cups your breast roughly, pinching your nipple until you gasp into Bucky’s mouth.
Then Bucky pulls back with a wicked grin, reaching for the black velvet bag on the deck edge. “Got something new for that greedy little ass.”
He pulls out the star-shaped plug, silver metal with sharp, faceted jewel edges that catch the string lights and throw tiny rainbows across the steam. Bigger than the heart one, thicker flare, the star points promising a vicious, delicious stretch.
Your breath catches, pussy clenching around nothing. “Oh, so we’re switching shapes now, huh?” you tease, voice breathy but playful, trying to hide how much the sight alone is already making you throb.
Steve laughs low, dark, hand sliding between your legs to spread you wider. “Damn right. That heart was cute, but this star? Gonna stretch that tight hole so pretty, make you feel every fucking point while we wreck your cunt.”
But first, Bucky’s eyes glint pure filth. “Turn around, doll. Straddle the big jet. We’ve seen this in porn a hundred times, girls humping jacuzzi jets like desperate little whores till they squirt. Always wanted to watch you do it live.”
Heat floods your face, sharp humiliation twisting hot with arousal but they maneuver you easily, water buoying you weightless. They position you facing the strongest jet, knees on the bench seat, hips tilted forward until the powerful stream slams directly against your clit, relentless, pounding pressure like a thick, vibrating cockhead grinding you mercilessly, bubbles exploding against your pussy lips in hot bursts.
“Oh- fuck- ” You grab the rim, knuckles white, hips bucking involuntarily as the jet batters your swollen clit without mercy. The water’s so hot it burns sweetly; the stream pulses hard enough to make your thighs quake, forcing pleasure through you in brutal waves.
Bucky presses in behind you, mouth on your shoulder, biting hard enough to mark. “Look at you, humping the jet like a needy porn slut. We knew you’d be perfect for this. Bet that greedy cunt’s clenching already, wishing it was our cocks pounding you.”
Steve’s hand tangles in your wet hair, yanking your head back so you’re arched, exposed, tits bouncing with every desperate grind.
“That’s it, ride it harder. Show us how filthy you are, squirting all over the water like those girls in the videos we used to jerk off to. You’re better than them, our desperate little whore, coming on a fucking jet because you can’t wait for real dick.”
The humiliation burns, hot and sharp but it only makes you wetter, hips rolling shamelessly against the jet, chasing the brutal pressure. Water splashes with every grind; your moans echo off the cabin walls, mixing with the hiss of snow hitting hot deck.
You come hard and fast, screaming, thighs clamping, pussy gushing clear streams into the churning water as the jet forces you over without mercy.
They don’t let you recover. Bucky pulls you back into his lap, facing him, legs spread wide over his thighs. Steve hands him the star plug, already slick with lube.
“Hold her open,” Bucky orders Steve, voice wrecked.
Steve’s fingers spread your ass cheeks wide, cool air hitting your hole for a second before Bucky presses the cold metal tip against you. The star points stretch you viciously, each sharp facet popping past your ring with a burn that makes you sob and push back for more.
“Fuck- too big- ” you gasp, but your hips rock anyway.
“That’s our greedy girl,” Steve growls in your ear, thumb rubbing your clit to distract. “Taking that fat star plug like a champ. Gonna feel us both so much deeper now.”
Bucky works it in slow, twist, push, stretch until the wide flare seats flush, the jewel base cool against your skin, points locked inside making every tiny movement electric.
Then Bucky lines his cock up with your pussy, thick head sliding through your soaked folds, sinking in raw with one deep thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The plug makes him feel massive, splitting you open.
Steve moves behind, more lube, careful but insistent, pressing into your ass around the plug? No, he pulls it out slowly and hands it aside, then he takes your ass raw while Bucky stays buried in your pussy.
Full, brutally, perfectly full, both thick cocks stretching you to the limit, the missing plug leaving you gaping and desperate. Water sloshes violently over the edge, steaming on the cold deck.
They fuck you hard, Bucky thrusting up into your pussy, Steve slamming into your ass, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, mouths on your neck biting marks.
The jets pulse against your dangling feet; steam chokes the air; snow hisses where it lands.
You come again, shattering, screaming, pussy and ass milking them relentlessly.
They follow fast, Bucky spilling deep in your cunt with a guttural “fuck, take it”; Steve in your ass seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts.
Water everywhere, deck soaked, steam thick.
They hold you through the aftershocks, kissing soft now, murmuring love and praise into your skin.
You stay tangled a long time, hearts slowing, bodies cooling slowly in the reheated water.
The jacuzzi high fades into a warm, lazy buzz as you all stumble back inside, towels barely clinging, skin still steaming in the cold air that rushes in behind you. The swim trunks and bikini are abandoned on the deck, no one bothers to grab them. Snowflakes melt on your shoulders as you slide the door shut, giggling when Bucky’s towel finally gives up and puddles at his feet.
“Freedom,” he declares, kicking it aside and strutting naked toward the kitchen like a peacock. Steve rolls his eyes but follows suit, towel tossed over the back of a chair.
They'd raided the bar: two bottles of vintage champagne, corks popping with a festive fizz; a tray of tequila shots, lime wedges sour and juicy.
Someone’s playlist is blasting, slow, filthy R&B with bass so low it vibrates in your bones. The heated slate floor is warm under bare feet. You let your towel drop and don’t even think about it, hair dripping, skin flushed and steaming, completely naked and giggling like an idiot.
Nobody can stand still.
Bucky starts the dance-off with the most exaggerated body roll known to man, hips snapping, abs flexing like he’s trying to hypnotize you. Steve counters with some tragic attempt at the robot that’s so off-beat it’s perfect. You jump in the middle, spinning too fast, nearly eating the floor until they both catch you, laughing.
Champagne gets passed mouth-to-mouth, tequila licked off collarbones, whiskey dribbled down stomachs and chased with tongues.
Then it gets filthy.
Steve grabs the champagne bottle, tips it slow and deliberate over your chest. Cold bubbles cascade down between your tits in a fizzy river, rushing over your skin, spilling in glittering trails down your stomach and pooling at your navel. You squeal, half shock from the chill, half giddy because you’re so fucking wasted and both of them drop to their knees instantly, like starving men at a feast.
Steve claims the left side, Bucky the right. Tongues hot and messy, they lap up every drop, sucking champagne from the soft undersides of your breasts, chasing the rivulets that run down your ribs.
Steve’s mouth closes over one nipple, tongue swirling to catch the fizz; Bucky does the same on the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and laugh at once. They fight over the stream dripping toward your belly button, Steve’s tongue diving in, Bucky shoving him aside with a shoulder and licking it clean, both of them groaning against your skin like it’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted.
You’re laughing so hard your legs shake, hands fisted in their hair, head thrown back, barely able to stand.
“My turn- my turnnn!” you slur, snatching the bottle from Steve’s hand. You push him flat on his back on the thick rug, straddling his hips. With a wicked grin, you tip the champagne again, this time right over his abs.
Cold liquid pools in every perfect ridge, drips along that stupid V that disappears into nothing since he’s already hard and naked. You dive face-first, licking slow and greedy from the bottom up, tongue tracing every line of muscle, sucking the bubbles from his skin while he groans and bucks his hips, laughing through it.
“F-fuck- that tickles- wait, no, do it again, don’t stop,” Steve stutters, words tripping over each other.
You pour the rest of the bottle over Bucky’s chest in a messy arc; it runs down his pecs, through the dark hair, pooling in the dips of his abs. You lick back and forth between them like a drunk kitten, missing half the time, just dragging your tongue over warm skin and giggling when you overshoot and end up licking a nipple instead.
“You taste like- like bad decisions,” you mumble into Bucky’s abs, then hiccup so hard you nearly fall over.
Bucky laughs, deep and slurred. “More- more, baby, we’re not done.” He grabs a half-full bottle of cinnamon schnapps, eyes glinting. “Spread for us.”
They manhandle you gently, Steve’s hands on your thighs, spreading you wide on the rug while Bucky kneels between your legs. You’re giggling, head spinning, as Bucky tips the bottle slow over your pussy. Warm cinnamon liquid drips down your folds, mixing with how soaked you already are, trickling over your clit and pooling between your lips.
You squeal again, hips jerking at the sudden heat. “Cold- hot- fuck-”
Both of them dive in at once. Steve’s tongue laps the outer folds, slow and thorough; Bucky goes straight for your clit, sucking the schnapps right off it with a filthy moan.
They trade places, tongues sliding against each other over your skin, fighting for every drop, licking and sucking. You’re laughing and moaning, hands in their hair, hips rolling shamelessly into their mouths.
“G-gonna- gonna come from your tongues,” you slur, words a jumbled mess. “Taste so- s’good-”
They keep going, sloppy and drunk and relentless, until the cinnamon burns away and it’s just them tasting you, hot, wet, giggling against your pussy until you’re shaking apart, coming hard with a bright, silly cry that dissolves into more laughter.
The bottle rolls away forgotten, and you collapse back onto the rug, still buzzing, still drunk, still perfect.
They flip you in a sloppy tangle of limbs, still giggling like absolute idiots. A whiskey glass topples somewhere, liquid glugs out, nobody gives a shit.
“W-wanna… wanna be in- inside you,” Bucky slurs against your neck, words tumbling like he’s rolling downhill. “Both- both of us, yeah? Like- like usual but… but way drunker. Drunkier. Drunkest.”
“Y-yeah,” Steve chimes in, aiming for smooth and landing somewhere near cartoon character. “Both is- is b-best. Sci- scien- fuck it, science.”
You’re wheezing with laughter as you all try to line up, total disaster.
“Ow- ow, that’s my knee, dumbass,”
“Wait- where’s the- oh, there, no wait that’s your elbow-”
“Hang- hang onnn, I got it- shit, no I don’t-”
Someone’s hair gets pulled, someone else gets tickled by accident, and you’re all cracking up so hard it takes forever.
Finally, miracle, you sink down onto Steve with a long, wobbly “fuuuuck” that dissolves into giggles when Bucky presses in behind you, muttering “slow- slow- wait, too fast- fuck, perfect-” while his hands slip twice on your hips.
The rhythm is hilariously bad, lazy, uneven, stopping every few seconds because someone hiccups, or a leg cramps, or you all just start laughing again for no reason.
“You’re s-so… s’pretty,” Steve tries, going for romantic and sounding like he’s reading a menu underwater.
“Prettiest,” Bucky corrects, dead serious, then immediately backtracks. “Wait- no, prettiessst. With… with three s’s. Fac- facts only.”
Names are a lost cause. “Steeb” comes out instead of Steve. “Bub- Bubby- no, Buck- Buh-” You can’t even finish, and every failed attempt sends you into fresh hysterics, bodies shaking with laughter while still moving together.
It builds slow and ridiculous, pleasure sneaking up through the drunk fog until you’re all trembling and giggling right on the edge.
Your orgasm hits out of nowhere, sharp, bright, uncontrollable clenching hard around both of them while you half-laugh, half-moan into Steve’s neck, actual tears in your eyes from how stupidly good it feels.
Bucky’s right behind you, hips stuttering as he comes with a garbled, breathless “love you- love you-” buried against your shoulder.
You freeze mid-giggle, brain lagging. “Wh- what was that?”
Bucky goes very still, then mumbles into your skin, voice suddenly casual like he’s commenting on the weather, “Huh? Nothin’. Nothing. You- uh- hearing things.”
Steve, still panting and giggling, doesn’t even notice, he’s too busy slurring “best- best night- everrrr” as he follows right after, fingers tangled tight in your hair, laughing through every pulse.
You collapse sideways in a sweaty, breathless heap, someone’s foot in someone’s face, elbow in ribs, legs everywhere, still wheezing with leftover laughter. Still somehow joined.
Then your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Nat’s name flashing.
Steve reaches over blindly, swipes accept, and flips it immediately to show only the log ceiling.
Nat appears, party lights strobing, music thumping. “WHERE ARE YOU FUCKERS- wait, why is the ceiling spinning? And why do you sound like dying seals?”
Bucky gives one lazy, involuntary thrust; you bite the rug to muffle the moan, fur tickling your lips.
Steve, voice wobbling with laughter, manages, “Cele- celebrating. Very… very quietly.”
Nat squints. “That is NOT quiet. That’s- are you- OH MY GOD-”
You slap the phone face-down, screen black.
Bucky wheezes into your shoulder, “Tell- tell her hi. From- from all three of us.”
The sheer absurdity sends another wave of silent, shaking laughter through you, bodies still joined, still tangled, still absolutely hammered.
Eventually Bucky grabs the phone with one trembling hand, still half inside you, and thumbs out a text:
You 10:45pm
u misssd the best drunk dnace battle in historyyy
also wereee very buzyy
Then he tosses it across the rug, kisses the back of your neck, and you all drift in the firelight, naked, ridiculous, slurring sweet nonsense into each other’s skin, and stupidly, perfectly happy.
Bucky’s the first to stir, still wheezing with leftover laughter as he scoops you up from the rug like you’re made of air. Your limp, sweaty body flops over his arms bridal-style, head lolling against his chest.
“Party’s- party’s over,” he slurs into your hair, words all mushy and tangled. “Bedtime for- for drunk princess.”
Steve hauls himself up, swaying hard enough he has to grab the couch for balance, then slaps Bucky’s bare ass with a loud smack as he staggers past. “Careful, Buck. Don’t- don’t drop our girl. She’s- she’s precious.”
“Never,” Bucky declares, super serious, then immediately almost eats the coffee table leg. You all burst into fresh, helpless giggles, yours coming out more like a wheeze since you’re too boneless to even hold your head up.
Steve kills the downstairs lights with a dramatic wave that misses the switch twice, finally smacking it on the third try. The fire’s left to burn itself out, popping lazily as he follows you up the creaky stairs, one hand on the railing, the other planted on Bucky’s back for stability. Every step is a disaster.
“Whoa- easy, watch the- watch the step-”
“Left foot, genius, left-”
“Shit- shit, wall-”
You’re all shushing each other and cracking up louder.
In the bedroom, Bucky lowers you to the middle of the bed with way too much ceremony, like he’s placing something fragile on an altar. You bounce once, flop spread-eagle, and immediately hog every blanket in a sloppy cocoon.
Steve face-plants to your left with a muffled “oomph,” Bucky collapses to the right, and within seconds they’re curled around you like giant, overheated koalas.
Limbs everywhere. Someone’s knee in someone’s stomach. Someone’s hair in someone’s mouth. The sheets smell like smoke, sex, and spilled tequila.
“Night, pretty girl,” Steve mumbles into your neck, already halfway gone.
“Night, baby,” Bucky sighs against your shoulder, voice soft and slurred.
You manage a sleepy, slurred hum and a clumsy pat to whichever warm chest is closest.
The room does one last slow spin, then everything fades to quiet, just three sets of deep, even breathing, the faint crackle of the dying fire downstairs, and snow falling thick and silent outside.
You all crash hard, naked and tangled, absolutely wrecked and perfectly happy.
Sunday morning creeps in slow and golden, sunlight filtering through the half-open curtains and painting warm stripes across the tangled sheets. The cabin’s quiet except for the gentle whistle of wind in the pines outside. Snow’s still piled high, the world muffled and white.
You wake sandwiched between them again, Bucky’s chest to your back, his arm draped heavy over your waist; Steve facing you, one leg hooked over yours, his breath warm against your collarbone. They’re both still asleep, faces slack and boyish in the morning light.
You can feel them against you: Bucky half-hard already, pressed to the curve of your ass; Steve’s morning erection nestled against your stomach. The air smells like sleep-warm skin and faint whiskey.
You shift just a little, testing and Bucky makes a low, sleepy sound, arm tightening instinctively. His hips rock forward once, slow and unconscious. Steve stirs, eyes fluttering open, blue and soft and still heavy-lidded. He doesn’t speak, just watches you for a second, then leans in and kisses you slow, lazy, morning-sweet.
That’s all it takes.
Hands start moving without discussion. Steve’s palm cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it peaks; Bucky’s hand slides lower, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind, finding you already wet. You arch into both touches, a soft whimper muffled against Steve’s mouth.
They take you gently this time, no rush, no teasing. Bucky lifts your leg just enough, guides himself into your pussy from behind in one smooth, sleepy glide. The stretch is perfect, intimate. Steve watches your face the whole time, then shifts lower, mouth closing over your breast, sucking slow while Bucky starts a lazy rhythm, deep, rolling thrusts that rock you forward onto Steve’s waiting cock.
You take Steve in your mouth while Bucky fucks you slow from behind, the three of you moving like a tide, unhurried, sensual, morning-soft. No words, just breath and touch and the wet sounds of bodies. You come first, quiet and shuddering around Bucky; he follows with a low groan against your neck; Steve spills down your throat moments later, fingers gentle in your hair.
After, you stay tangled, kissing lazily, trading soft laughs when someone’s elbow pokes a rib. Eventually hunger wins. You stumble downstairs naked, wrapped in one big blanket like a burrito trio, and make a mess of pancakes and bacon. Syrup ends up in inappropriate places. Cleanup involves mouths.
Lunch is supposed to be grilled cheese by the fire, but it turns into teasing.
You’re on the couch between them, half-dressed in one of Bucky’s flannels and nothing else, when Steve pulls the black velvet bag from under the coffee table like a magician. “Dessert,” he says innocently.
Bucky’s already grinning, pulling out the remote egg and the star plug cleaned, thoughtful as always. They take their time: feeding you bites of sandwich between pressing the egg inside you, turning it on low until you’re squirming. Bucky licks melted cheese off your fingers while Steve works the plug in slow, whispering filthy praise about how pretty you look stuffed and needy.
They film bits of it, one phone propped on the mantle capturing you riding Bucky on the rug while Steve controls the remote egg’s intensity, laughing when you curse them out between moans; another handheld for close-ups of your face when Steve takes you from behind on the couch, the egg buzzing mercilessly. By the time the plates are empty you’re a wreck again, multiple orgasms deep, voice hoarse from begging and laughing.
The cameras get shut off after that, phones tossed onto the coffee table with satisfied grins, the red recording lights finally blinking out. You collapse sideways across the rug, chest heaving, thighs still twitching from the aftershocks, pussy throbbing and slick.
Steve stretches out beside you, head propped on one hand, tracing lazy circles on your hip with his thumb. Bucky sprawls on your other side, hand resting possessively on your stomach, both of them looking smug and sated, cocks still half-hard like they’re ready for more whenever you are.
You’re half-dozing, eyes closed, when Bucky’s voice breaks the quiet, low, playful, with that filthy edge that always makes your stomach flip.
“Hey… I’ve got an idea.”
You crack one eye open. He’s staring at you with that crooked, wicked grin, eyes already darkening again. Steve lifts a brow, curious, hand pausing on your hip.
Bucky props himself up on an elbow, fingers trailing lightly down your side, raising goosebumps.
“I wanna watch you get yourself off. Just you. No help from us. Spread that pretty pussy and fuck yourself with your fingers while we stroke our cocks and tell you exactly how fucking desperate you look.”
Your eyes snap fully open. Heat floods your face instantly, burning, mortified heat that spreads down your chest. You sit up a little, pulling your knees together like that’ll hide anything. “What? No. Absolutely not. That’s- no.”
Steve chuckles, low and warm, but his gaze sharpens with raw interest, hand sliding to your thigh. “Why not, baby? You’ve been coming on our cocks all weekend. Let us see what you do when you’re alone, fingering that greedy little cunt thinking about us stuffing you full.”
Your face is on fire. You bury it in your hands, groaning through your fingers. “Because it’s embarrassing! You two just… staring while I touch myself? I’ll feel like an idiot.”
Bucky’s grin turns downright feral. He sits up fully, legs spread casually, hand already drifting down to wrap around his thickening cock, slow, teasing pulls that make the vein along the underside stand out.
“That’s the point, doll. We wanna see you all flustered and needy, trying to be good for us while you rub that swollen clit. Bet you’re already wet just thinking about it.”
You peek through your fingers, heart racing. Steve’s doing the same now, fist loose around his shaft, stroking lazily, eyes locked on you like he’s starving.
“Come on,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough. “Spread those legs. Show us how you fuck yourself when you’re in your dorm bed, pretending it’s our cocks stretching you open.”
The embarrassment burns hotter but fuck, so does the arousal. Your thighs clench involuntarily, and you know they see it. You drop your hands slowly, face flaming, but you lean back against the couch arm anyway, knees falling open bit by bit.
“That’s our girl,” Bucky murmurs, fist tightening on his cock, strokes speeding up. “Look at that pretty pussy, already glistening. Touch it. Circle that clit nice and slow for us.”
You do, flustered fingers trailing down your stomach, over your mound, hesitating before parting your slick folds. The first brush against your clit makes you gasp, oversensitive, swollen, wet sounds filling the room as you start slow circles.
“Fuck, yes,” Steve groans, hand flying faster now, precome beading at his tip. “Pinch it, hard, like I do when I’m eating you out. Imagine it’s my tongue flicking that needy little bud.”
You whimper, pinching your clit between thumb and finger, rolling it roughly. Your hips buck. “Oh god-”
Bucky’s breathing ragged, fist slick with precome. “Slide those fingers inside, doll. Two to start. Fuck yourself deep, curl them like Bucky does when he’s got you bent over. Pretend it’s my cock splitting you open while Steve watches.”
You obey, two fingers pushing in slow, the stretch burning sweet, walls fluttering around them. You pump faster, thumb grinding your clit, free hand pinching your nipple hard.
“Look at her,” Steve rasps, abs flexing as he jerks himself rough. “So fucking desperate, pussy sucking those fingers in like it’s starving. Add a third, baby. Stretch that tight hole for us. Imagine it’s both our cocks trying to fit.”
You cry out, adding the third finger, the burn intense and perfect, pumping hard while your thumb rubs frantic circles. Wet sounds echo obscenely; your hips grind against your hand.
Bucky’s close, fist blurring, voice wrecked. “That’s it- fuck yourself like the greedy slut you are. Come all over those fingers while we watch you fall apart. Show us how you squirt when you’re thinking about us filling every hole.”
You shatter, hard, screaming as your pussy clenches and gushes clear around your fingers, soaking your hand, the rug, thighs shaking violently.
They come watching you, Bucky first with a guttural “fuck, doll,” spilling thick across his fist and stomach; Steve right after, groaning deep, ropes painting his abs as he milks every drop.
Silence falls, heavy breathing, fire crackle.
You collapse back, hiding your burning face again with a mortified laugh. “Never. Again.”
They crawl over, kissing your wrists, your cheeks, murmuring praise.
“Liar,” Bucky whispers against your ear. “That was the filthiest, hottest thing we’ve ever seen.”
Steve nuzzles your neck. “And we didn’t even touch you.”
You groan first, shifting on the rug and feeling everything cling, thighs slick, lower back tacky, hair matted to your neck, cum drying in places that make you grimace. “Ugh. I feel gross. Like… actually disgusting. We’re all sticky and filthy and I need a shower or something.”
Bucky laughs, low and satisfied, nuzzling your shoulder. “That’s the mark of a good afternoon, doll.”
Steve kisses your temple, still catching his breath. “Snack run first? Then we clean up properly.”
You nod, too boneless to argue. They haul themselves up, grabbing random sweats and hoodies from the floor and head to the kitchen, raiding the caretaker’s stash: bags of chips, leftover cookies, a couple beers cracked open with that satisfying hiss. You stay on the rug a minute longer, wrapped in the discarded blanket, munching a cookie and scrolling your phone idly until the sugar hits.
But the stickiness wins. You call out, voice whiny and dramatic, “Seriously, guys. I feel like a glazed donut. Bathtub. Now. I’m marinating in us.”
Bucky pokes his head around the corner, smirking with a mouthful of chips. “On it. Big copper one upstairs, plenty of room for three.”
Steve’s already moving, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Let’s get it running. She’s right, she’s a mess. Our mess.”
They disappear upstairs you hear footsteps on the creaky wood, the groan of old pipes, water starting to thunder into the tub, steam probably already billowing.
You stay downstairs, curled on the couch under the blanket, crunching chips and half-watching snow fall outside the big windows. The cabin feels quiet without them, too quiet after days of constant touch and noise. You lick salt off your fingers, feeling the dried evidence of everything on your skin, and smile to yourself. Perfect weekend.
Upstairs, out of your earshot, the conversation turns.
Steve leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching water fill the tub, steam fogging the mirror. He’s quiet too long, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Bucky tests the temperature with his hand, adds a splash of eucalyptus oil. “What’s with the face?”
Steve exhales slow, rubbing the back of his neck. “This… it’s too easy. The sex, the laughs, the way she fits, it’s perfect. But it’s not fair to her.”
Bucky stills, water rushing loud behind him. “Not fair how?”
Steve’s voice is low, rough with something heavy. “We’re giving her everything physical, the toys, the tapes, the weekends but nothing real. No label. No commitment. We’re taking all of her and giving back just… this. It feels wrong. Like we’re using her.”
Bucky turns off the tap. Sudden quiet. He stares at the swirling water, hand gripping the tub edge. “You think she wants more?”
“I know she does,” Steve says. “You saw her face when things got deep on Friday. She’s falling. Hard. And we’re letting her fall without catching her properly. She deserves someone who can give her normal dates, a real relationship, one person who doesn’t make her share or wonder.”
Bucky’s quiet a long beat, throat working. “So what are you saying?”
Steve rubs his neck. “When we get back… we give her space. Real space. Pull back a little. Let her breathe. Let her figure out if this is what she really wants without us clouding everything with weekends like this.”
Bucky looks like he’s been punched. “You’re saying end it.”
“I’m saying do right for her,” Steve corrects gently. “Even if it sucks for us short-term. She deserves to know we’re serious, without the pressure of constant sex and getaways making it feel like a fantasy.”
Bucky nods slow, reluctant, devastated. “Yeah. Okay. For her.”
They don’t say they’ll keep it secret for now. They don’t need to. It’s understood: one last perfect night, then distance when you’re home. Time for you to choose without them in your bed every weekend.
They add more hot water, swirl in extra bubbles, light the candles like nothing’s changed.
Downstairs, you’re crunching chips, sticky and happy, thinking the weekend can’t get better.
They come down smiling, masks perfect, and carry you upstairs like a prize, whispering how much they want to wash every inch of you clean.
The water’s hot. The candles are lit.
The three of you fit just barely: you in the middle, back against Steve’s broad chest, legs draped over Bucky’s thighs. Water laps gently at your breasts; bubbles cling and pop. The mood is softer now, lazy, sated, the kind of quiet that usually feels safe after a day spent tangled in each other.
You’re tracing idle circles on Bucky’s knee under the water, trying to lose yourself in the warmth, when the question you’ve been carrying all weekend finally slips out, small, almost swallowed by the soft splash.
“So… what are we?”
The words hang there, fragile in the steam.
Steve’s hand, drawing slow patterns on your stomach, stills completely. Bucky’s fingers, playing with yours, freeze.
Silence stretches, thick, heavy, colder than the snow piling against the window.
Your heart starts pounding so hard you feel it in your throat.
You try again, voice smaller. “After everything- the threesomes, the fights, this whole weekend… what am I to you guys?”
More silence.
The candles flicker. Water cools a degree. Snow taps the frosted glass like it’s trying to warn you.
Your throat tightens until it aches. Tears prick hot and sudden. You duck your head, pretending to watch the bubbles burst, blinking furiously so they don’t see.
Steve clears his throat, starts to speak, voice low and careful. “We… we haven’t really-”
Bucky cuts in, quieter. “We didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing.”
It’s not enough. It’s nothing.
Something inside you cracks, sharp, painful, final. You nod like you understand, but your chest feels like it’s caving in. You force a tiny, watery laugh that sounds hollow even to you. “Yeah. Cool. Got it.”
You pull away, gently but firmly sliding forward in the tub until their hands fall from your skin. Water sloshes, loud in the silence. You stand, bubbles sliding down your body, steam curling around you like smoke.
Neither of them moves to stop you. No hand reaches out, no voice calls you back. They just sit there, Steve’s arms resting on the tub edge, Bucky’s head tipped back against the rim, watching you with unreadable eyes.
You step out onto the cool tile, water pooling at your feet. Grab a towel, wrap it around yourself like armor. The candles keep burning. The water keeps cooling.
You don’t look back as you walk out, door clicking softly shut behind you.
The quiet that follows you into the bedroom isn’t warm anymore.
It feels like the end of something you’re not ready to name.
The drive back is three hours of pure, suffocating silence.
Steve drives like always, hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked on the snowy highway like it’s the only thing holding him together. Bucky’s in the passenger seat, earbuds in but no music on. Every few seconds he flicks a glance to the rearview mirror, meets your eyes for a split second, then looks away fast.
You’re curled in the middle of the back seat, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in Bucky’s hoodie that still smells like him and the cabin fireplace. The heater’s on full blast, but you’re freezing. The radio stays off. No one even pretends to reach for the aux cord.
You stare at your phone for a while, lock screen frozen on a blurry selfie Nat sent from the party, her sticking out her tongue, fairy lights haloing her red hair. You don’t open any apps. You don’t text her. You just watch the battery percentage tick down, slow and inevitable.
Halfway through the drive, the tears start.
They’re quiet at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another. You turn your face to the window so they won’t see, press your forehead to the cold glass. It doesn’t help. Your throat aches like you swallowed glass. You bite the sleeve of the hoodie to muffle the first tiny, broken sob, but it shakes your shoulders anyway.
Neither of them says anything.
Steve’s knuckles go white on the wheel. Bucky pulls his earbuds out, lets them dangle, but still doesn’t turn around.
By the time the city skyline appears, ugly and familiar under a dull winter sky you’re cried out. Eyes puffy, nose stuffed, head throbbing. The tears have dried crusty on your cheeks. You haven’t made a sound in hours.
Steve pulls up outside your dorm. Engine idling. Snow flurries swirl under the streetlights.
You grab your suitcase from the trunk without a word. Neither of them gets out to help.
The Jeep pulls away before you even reach the door.
Inside the building it’s warm, too warm, smelling like burnt microwave popcorn and someone’s laundry detergent. Your boots leave wet prints on the tile. The elevator ride is endless.
When Nat opens the door to your shared dorm, she’s in sweats and a messy bun, holding a pint of Ben & Jerry’s like armor.
One look at your face and the spoon clatters to the floor.
“Oh, baby,” she whispers.
That’s all it takes.
You drop your suitcase in the doorway and crumple, knees hitting the cheap carpet, shoulders shaking with sobs that feel like they’ve been dammed up for years. Nat’s on the ground with you in seconds, arms around you tight, pulling you into her lap like you’re something small and breakable.
You cry so hard you can’t breathe, ugly, hiccupping gasps into her hoodie, fists clenched in the fabric. Everything pours out: the perfect weekend, the perfect sex, the perfect making up, and then that one question in the bathtub that turned everything cold and sharp and wrong.
Nat doesn’t ask what happened. She just holds you, rocking slightly, one hand stroking your hair while you fall apart.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs over and over, voice thick. “I’ve got you. You’re home now. I’ve got you.”
You cry until there’s nothing left, just dry heaves and exhaustion. Until your head throbs and your eyes burn and your throat feels shredded.
Eventually she helps you up, leads you to her bed, tucks you under her comforter that smells like her coconut shampoo and safety. She climbs in behind you, spooning you close, arm locked around your waist like she’s anchoring you to the earth.
You fall asleep like that, face swollen, heart raw, Nat’s heartbeat steady against your spine.
Fourteen days of nothing.
Fourteen days that feel like a slow-motion car crash you can’t look away from.
Classes are a blur, professors’ voices droning like white noise, notes you take but don’t read, group projects where you nod along and contribute just enough not to get called out.
You eat because your body demands it, but nothing has taste. The dining hall grilled cheese might as well be cardboard. You smile when friends ask how the cabin was, “amazing, yeah, super relaxing” and the lie sits heavy on your tongue every time.
Nights are the worst. You lie in your narrow dorm bed staring at the ceiling until the glow-in-the-dark stars Nat stuck up freshman year blur from tears.
You replay that bathtub moment on an endless loop: the way the water went from warm to cold in seconds, the way Steve’s hand froze on your skin like he’d been burned, Bucky’s fingers slipping from yours like he couldn’t hold on anymore.
You asked a simple question, what are we? and they looked at you like you’d asked them to solve world hunger. The silence after wasn’t just quiet. It was a wall. And when you got out of the tub, towel clutched like armor, they didn’t stop you. Didn’t reach. Just watched you go.
You keep waiting for a text that never comes. You check your phone too often, heart jumping at every notification, only to feel it sink again when it’s just a meme or a reminder about laundry.
You wear Steve’s gray practice hoodie to bed every night because it still smells faintly like him and you’re pathetic enough to want the comfort, even if it hurts. You haven’t washed it. You’re scared the scent will disappear and take the last piece of them with it.
Nat finds you in the basement laundry room at 2:17 am on a Sunday that’s bleeding into Monday. You’re sitting on a running dryer, knees to chest, the low rumble vibrating through your body like it could shake loose the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in your ribs. The air’s thick with artificial lavender dryer sheets and that faint, perpetual mildew smell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
You’re in Steve’s hoodie again, sleeves past your fingertips, hem brushing your thighs over threadbare sleep shorts and you look exactly like what you are: someone who’s been crying too much and sleeping too little.
Nat storms in like a category-five redhead, door slamming hard enough to rattle the ancient vending machine.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
The words ricochet off the walls. You flinch, hug your knees tighter.
“Two weeks,” she says, voice shaking with fury.
“Two entire weeks of you turning into a goddamn zombie because those two idiots couldn’t answer one simple, human question? After they spent weeks fucking you like you were the only thing that mattered in their universe, calling you ‘baby’ and ‘ours,’ filming hours of footage like they were making a love letter?”
Your throat closes. Tears prick instantly. You open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Nat’s pacing the room now, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. “I saw how they looked at you. I heard them going at it during that call, remember? And then you finally ask for some honesty, just a little clarity, and they freeze? Ghost you for two weeks straight? Make you feel like you imagined the whole damn thing?”
She stops in front of you, eyes blazing but wet too. “You’ve barely eaten. You flinch every time your phone buzzes. And you cry in your sleep, I hear you through the pillows.”
She sighs. “Fourteen nights. That’s enough.”
You finally manage a cracked whisper. “They didn’t know what to say.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice cracks too. “They knew exactly what to say when they were inside you. They just didn’t know how to say it when it mattered.”
Her anger deflates into something sadder. “You deserve answers. You deserve to not feel like a disposable weekend.”
Then she’s gone, door banging shut, leaving you with the dryer’s thump and the weight of everything.
An hour later your phone buzzes.
Unknown Number 3:12am
open your door. now.
Your heart slams so hard it hurts. You stare at the screen until it dims, hands shaking.
You open the door anyway.
Steve and Bucky are in the hallway looking like hell dragged them here personally. Hoodies rumpled, eyes bloodshot and sunken, hair messy from frantic hands. Steve’s beard is scruffy, tired; Bucky’s hand flexes like it’s itching for something to hold. They smell like cold night air, cheap diner coffee, and regret.
Before you can decide whether to slam the door or collapse, Nat appears like she’s been waiting in the shadows. She shoves past you, a furious red blur in her oversized sleep shirt.
She doesn’t raise her voice. She goes lethal-quiet.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why the girl who turned you both into absolute lovesick puppies, who took your cocks, your toys, your hearts, your filthy weekends, your everything has been crying herself empty for two weeks because you were too chickenshit to answer one simple question.”
Her finger jabs Steve’s chest. Then Bucky’s. They don’t move.
“You don’t get to whisper ‘love you, baby’ while you’re coming inside her, make her feel like the center of your universe, film a whole damn documentary series of it, and then vanish into thin air because feelings got scary. You don’t get to leave her thinking she was just a fun experiment you both passed and forgot.”
Steve opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes are glassy.
Bucky’s voice is gravel and regret. “We fucked up. Bad.”
“Yeah,” Nat snarls, stepping closer until she’s right in their space.
“You really fucking did. And if you’re too dumb to fix this yourselves, I swear to God I will fix it for you. I will drag you both to couples therapy. I will tattoo ‘COMMUNICATE’ on your foreheads. I will make your lives hell until you get it right.”
You finally speak, voice small, cracked from crying earlier. “You… didn’t text at all. For two weeks.”
Steve flinches like the words are physical blows. Bucky’s head drops, hair falling over his eyes, shoulders curling in.
“We thought…” Steve starts, voice hoarse.
He swallows hard. “We thought if we gave you space, you’d realize you deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn’t… share. Someone who can give you all of them without complicating everything. We thought we were being noble, letting you go before we dragged you down with us.”
Bucky lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed. “We’re idiots. Complete fucking idiots. We were scared that if we said it out loud, if we admitted we’re both stupidly, hopelessly in love with you, you’d run. Because who wants this? Who wants two guys who can’t even figure out how to say it right?”
Nat throws her hands up. “Oh my God, you absolute morons. She’s been miserable without you. Fix this before I fix it for you and trust me, my version involves a lot more pain.”
She shoulders past them, pauses at your side, cups your cheek gently, kisses your temple. “Make them grovel, babe. They’ve earned it.”
Silence crashes in, heavy and absolute, the kind that rings in your ears.
You’re shaking, anger, relief, exhaustion, two weeks of grief all colliding at once. Tears spill before you can stop them, hot and unstoppable, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams.
They move at the same time.
Steve steps forward first, arms wrapping around you like he’s terrified you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
Bucky right behind, pressing in from the back, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath ragged against your skin.
They surround you completely, warm, solid, trembling just as hard as you are, holding you so close you can feel both their heartbeats hammering against you.
“I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers into your hair, voice cracking open, raw and broken. “God, baby, we’re so fucking sorry. We hurt you. We left you alone with it. I hate myself for that.”
Bucky’s hand fists in the hoodie at your waist, knuckles white, like he’s anchoring himself to you.
“We love you,” he rasps against your shoulder, words muffled and thick with tears you can feel soaking through the fabric.
“We love you so much it scares the shit out of us. We thought… we thought if we said it out loud, you’d see how messed up this is, two of us, always two and you’d run. We thought staying quiet was protecting you. But we were just protecting ourselves. And we broke you instead.”
You sob, deep, wrenching, the kind that comes from the bottom of your chest and rips everything open. It’s ugly and loud and unstoppable, weeks of pain pouring out all at once. They hold you through every shake, every gasp, never loosening their grip.
Steve’s hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “We’re never doing that again,” he says fiercely, voice trembling but sure. “Never shutting you out. Never making you wonder. You’re everything to us. Everything.”
Bucky presses closer, lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your temple, soft, desperate kisses that taste like salt and regret.
“You’re our girl,” he whispers, voice breaking on every word. “Ours. For real. Forever if you’ll have us. We’ll spend every day proving it. We’ll scream it from the fucking rooftops. Whatever you need. Just… please don’t give up on us.”
You cling to them, fingers twisting in Steve’s hoodie, reaching back to grip Bucky’s sleeve, crying harder because it hurts and because it’s healing at the same time. The tears are relief now, overwhelming and cleansing, washing away the loneliness that’s lived in your chest for fourteen endless nights.
“I missed you,” you manage between sobs, voice small and cracked. “I missed you so much I didn’t know how to breathe.”
Steve makes a wounded sound, pulls you even tighter. “We missed you every second. We were dying without you.”
Bucky’s fingers find yours, lacing carefully, reverently. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away tears that keep falling. “We love you,” he says again, like a vow. “We’re in love with you. Both of us. Completely. Stupidly. Forever.”
You laugh through the tears, wet, hiccupping, but real. The sound breaks something open in all three of you.
Eventually you end up on your tiny dorm bed, fully clothed for once, just tangled together under the covers like three survivors of a shipwreck clinging to the same piece of driftwood.
The mattress is too small for all of you, but no one complains. Steve pulls you into his chest first, arms locked around you like he’s afraid the moment will slip away if he loosens even a fraction.
Bucky curls in behind you, chest to your back, arm draped over your waist so his hand can rest over Steve’s heart, three heartbeats finding the same rhythm again, slow and steady and real.
They kiss away the last of your tears, soft, lingering presses to your wet cheeks, your swollen eyelids, the corners of your mouth that still tremble.
Steve’s lips brush your temple, murmuring “I’ve got you” like a promise he’ll never break again. Bucky’s mouth finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s relearning your scent after too long apart.
You’re crying still quiet, happy tears now that feel like rain after a drought. The kind that wash everything clean. They don’t try to stop them. They just hold you through it, letting the storm pass.
“I thought I’d lost you,” you whisper into Steve’s chest, voice small and cracked from all the crying. “Both of you. I thought the weekend was… just a weekend.”
Steve’s arms tighten, voice thick. “Never. Not for a second. You’re our home. You’re the thing we were too scared to believe we could keep.”
“We were idiots,” Bucky says softly. “Terrified idiots who thought love this big had to come with an expiration date. But it doesn’t. You’re it for us. The end of the search. The person we want to come home to every single night.”
You laugh through the tears, wet and hiccupping and perfect. “You’re stuck with me now. No take-backs.”
“Never want any,” Steve murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours.
Bucky kisses the back of your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “We love you. So much it’s stupid. We’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt it again.”
You fall asleep with Steve’s heartbeat under your cheek and Bucky’s arm anchoring you close.
And for the first time in fourteen days, the world feels whole again.
You’re theirs. They’re yours. And nothing, nothing, will take that away again.
