❤︎ i like pretty men ❤︎

jaz // stumbling through life looking for comfort

[lucky-bucky-boy]

❤︎ jaz ❤︎

❥ mid-twenties ❥ east coast girlie ❥ fandom obsessed driven ❥ 18+ ❥ everything written is with the intention of characters being 21+

❥ ask (req. open) ❥ library

❥ do not repost my work; likes, reblogs, and comments welcome ❥ dividers from enchantings-a; emoticons found on google

[lucky-bucky-boy]

every time i listen to doors by noah kahan it reminds me of bucky

[vampirecurlsworld]

I have the biggest crush on him. It's not even funny

[lunexiax]

𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 (𝑏𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠)

𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐, 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑏𝑛𝑜𝑥𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑙 𝑖 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 𝑝𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢

pairing: college!bucky barnes x f! reader

summary: You're harbouring more than just a crush on your best friend - you're completely in love with him. It's too bad that Bucky is too busy entertaining other girls to see you as anything more than a friend. When you make the difficult decision that it's time to move on, does it push him to see what he never has before?

warnings: au, angst, yearning, friends to lovers, miscommunication, idiots in love, jealousy, reader waxes poetic about unrequited love for way too long, angst with a happy ending, no use of y/n, no smut but references to sex

a/n: i promise i’m not part of the forgive men agenda i just love angst with a happy ending :( also i think this might lowkey be buns but we roll! no smut in this one (just melodrama) but the next one will be horny again, promise <3

not proofread - if you see any typos, no u didn't <3

You suppose it’s probably about time that you develop some self-respect. Or at least some fucking boundaries.

Wanda knows it, too - it’s why her eyes are narrowed at you in open disapprobation. She twirls a pen around in her fingers, movements abrupt and irate. You figure the tense hush of the library is the only reason you’re not getting an earful right now.

September is streaming in, dull and cold, through the ceiling windows. There’s something a bit eerie about it at this time of year. Most students won’t make an appearance until exams begin to loom over them in about a month’s time. Right now, however, it is shrouded in a bleak sort of emptiness. A student mills about in search of a particular volume every now and again, but yourself and Wanda have the table to yourselves.

You fix the sleeves of your sweater and try to immerse yourself into the article open in front of you, but you can still feel her stare.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, voice low. 

“You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

“Well, I lied.”

You wince. “I know. Like, I really know. It’s just so hard to say no to him sometimes.”

Wanda’s expression shifts to something like pity and you think that might actually be worse because you can actually picture how pathetic you must look to her - the girl who takes absolutely no shit and never has. The pen falls to the desk as her hands reach forward to grab yours. She pauses until she coaxes your gaze over to her, fingers padding over your cold knuckles affectionately.

“I know, darling. But I want you to listen to me. This is going to be the last time I ever say this, because I’m really not sure that it’s having any effect and, to be honest, I’m tired. Maybe this is a lesson that you’ll only learn after you have been hurt one too many times, but I am going to try one last time anyway.”

Something about the finality in her tone takes you by surprise. Actually - it does more than that, it terrifies you. 

You have probably stretched the limits of what’s socially acceptable when complaining about your situation with Bucky and Wanda has put up with far more than she should have - always giving solid advice that is never taken. And you know that you need to stop talking about it. You have known for a while now.

But you can hear her loud and clear now; if you want to keep torturing yourself, you can do it alone.

“That boy is making a complete fool of you. We’re going into our third year of college and you’ve been on how many dates? You’ve slept with one person and came home crying afterwards because you felt like you betrayed Bucky. Meanwhile, he has a new girl attached to him at every frat party.”

She is gripping your hands tighter now, leaning closer with intense focus.

“And really, your feelings for him are just a symptom of one of the best things about you. You love hard, and I love that about you, darling. The right person will love that about you too - not take advantage of it. I mean, seriously, coming in to cuddle after messing around with another girl? That’s not being just-friends, it’s not normal and it’s not fair.”

Shame floods your stomach and finds its way to your face until you are sure you are the colour of plums. She hesitates, eyes flicking away briefly, before her face steels. 

“And- I’m not sure how to say this without being cruel… it’s getting a bit embarrassing, watching you accept it.”

You feel deflated. Like she had just pricked a hole in your skin and watched all the air hiss out. She look at you as if she had just imparted some words of comfort, eyes sympathetic and brows pinched, while you attempt to blink away tears.

You can’t be mad at her, even if you wanted to. Because she’s right.

You know that Bucky walks all over you. And you know that you let him. He doesn’t even need to ask for the notes for a lecture he has missed anymore - you email them to him before even leaving the theatre. When he pulls you onto his lap, you curl up, head lolling gratefully on his shoulder, even when you know that it’s just because there’s no other girl around that he has an interest in. When he calls you at 2am because he’s leaving a one-night-stand’s house and doesn't want to crash alone in his room, you open the door and the duvet to him with a smile.

But you are ‘just friends’. Always will be.

He kisses you, but never on the lips. He says he loves you, but in that dismissive, buddy-ish way. He stays the night, but never in the way you want him to. He calls you that weirdly affectionate pet name, sounding like your goddamn husband from the 1940s, but it never means what you want it to.

Meanwhile, you tell all your friends that you ‘don’t date’, because going out with anyone else feels wrong. It’s pathetic.

You feel Wanda’s words rattle through your head and you know you will think about them late into the night. But it’s not her words alone that let you know for absolute certainty that things have to change.

It’s a giggle. Sweet and playful. Coming from across the library.

And of course it’s Bucky, because somehow it’s always Bucky. He’s whispering something to a blonde girl you think you recognise from your module on the Byzantines. He’s standing behind where she sits, one hand on her shoulder and the other brushing her hair back so he can speak softly to her in that beautifully tempting way you had seen a million times before.

He catches your eyes for just a beat and you watch surprise flicker over his face before his mouth curls into a smirk and his eye drops into a soft wink.

And that is it. The nail in the coffin.

Your first real act of defiance is a text. It feels rebellious and subversive, even though you know it’s not.

YOU: Sorry, Buck! Was asleep.

You put the phone down, feeling very satisfied with yourself indeed. In truth, you never usually turn Do Not Disturb on and keep your ringer up full volume, just in case Bucky decides to call. And when he does - the feeling of his body against yours as you both drift off to sleep makes each time you had woken up to marketing texts from Dominos worth it. 

Last night, however, you tapped the Do Not Disturb button extra hard, as if proving a point. And, you think smugly, that point was now proven.

BUCK: no problem doll 

BUCK: found another place to crash

Your heart sinks before you can tell it that it is no longer allowed to do that. This new version of you can guess very well where ‘another place’ might be, but she no longer cares. At all. Even a little.

You leave the phone down and amble out of your room, kicking rogue clothing items out of your path. 

The flat is still in chaos from the night before. Beer bottles littered everywhere, a random body splayed unconscious across your sofa and a pouch of cat food open on the table for reasons you don't want to know. You are about ten minutes into clearing up the mess with a trash bag and microfibre cloth when Nat stumbles in, hair sticking up and makeup streaming off her face.

She looks so like something out of a comic that you can’t control your giggles. Nat rolls her eyes but she is smiling as she roots through the cabinet for some ibuprofen. 

“Big night?” you ask, looking warily at what you think might be someone’s underwear in a wet heap on the floor. You pick out a pair of gloves from under the sink.

“Yup. And another one coming up tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her drinking glass. “Steve’s birthday. You’re coming too.”

“Oh.”

You pause for a second before returning to your task, now much more interested in the various beer bottles than before. You study them intently before tossing them, feeling her eyes burn through your skin.

Actually, you are planning on being sick tonight, but you had forgotten about that. You wonder what illness could suddenly seize you between now and this evening. Telling everyone you have diarrhoea wouldn’t be your preference, but it is starting to look like the obvious choice.

“Wanda told me about the whole Bucky thing. Says you seem to be taking it seriously this time, going on dates.”

Your throat contracts. You can only manage another “Oh.”

“You can’t just ignore him, you know. It won’t work like that.”

Yes, you know this. Of course you do. You met Bucky on the very day you started classes and since Steve and Nat started dating almost two years ago, your life had been inextricably linked with his. Scarcely a day goes by that you don’t see him, whether at lectures, in Steve’s flat or in your own. He is as inevitable in your life as death or taxes and even trickier to avoid. Which has made the last week a living nightmare.

You are aware there’s only so long that you can keep this up. But you’re not quite sure you’re ready to see him again. You’re not sure you won’t fall in hard again, the way you always do.

“You have to trust yourself. I do.”

Nat has a somewhat unnerving but mostly constructive habit of telling you exactly what you need to hear.

When Bucky sees you, it is as if he’s seen the sun after a month of darkness. Moments like this would have made the old you doubt herself, wonder if maybe there was something soft and secret lurking under that libertine exterior. 

The new you keeps her distance.

You walk into the kitchen with Wanda and Nat to pregame the pregame, as instructed by Steve.

Despite the fact that the new you totally, categorically does not care what Bucky thinks of her, you still made a little extra effort with your appearance, fixing up your hair and applying your makeup with a bit more precision than usual. If you can’t get Bucky’s attention in the way you want, you would make damned certain to get someone’s.

You purposely don’t see Bucky making those eyes at you - the ones that demand your complete attention. You can feel them on your skin, but you won’t look. 

Instead, you make idle chat with Sam, who doesn’t try to hide the way he is admiring you, eyes traversing your form leisurely. It makes you feel warm and giddy and pathetic. Because you know that excited feeling is just another symptom of your feelings for Bucky. Your body’s way of screaming, See, Bucky! Someone thinks I’m worth looking at!

You jolt when you feel large, warm hands on your waist, pulling you onto a familiar lap.

“Ignoring me?” he murmurs against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. “Haven’t seen you in about a week, doll. Where you been?”

You fly into a standing position, perhaps a little too abruptly. Bucky’s chin jerks back in surprise, his arms raising involuntarily into a surrendered gesture.

“Forgot to get a drink!” you stammer out, stumbling away. All eyes are on you, now. The boys are confused, but you can feel pride rolling off Wanda and Nat in waves and it steels you. 

You read the bewilderment on Bucky’s face as he questions whether he did something wrong - but when you shoot him a warm smile for reassurance, he returns it. He leans back in the sofa, probably assuming you will be back on his lap in two minutes flat.

“Don’t take it personally Buck,” Nat says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “She’s been a busy girl. Barely has time for us anymore since she started going on dates. She’s in high demand.”

“You’re dating? Since when?” Bucky’s voice rings out and you hate that you can hear the hurt festering there. He’s your best friend, up there with Wanda and Nat. He should know that you had made the decision to start dating again. You should have told him. But how could you? You weren’t even sure you could look at him until this morning.

“She’s making it sound like I’m some nympho,” you laugh, but it’s shaky. “I’ve been on one date.”

“Who with?” Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t even smiling.

“Tony Stark,” Wanda says, matter-of-fact and cold. “Not that it’s any of your business, Barnes. She can date whoever she wants.”

Bucky usually takes the bait when Wanda taunts him like this and they bicker like siblings for at least ten minutes. Not this time. He has turned around fully on the couch to look at you, eyes blazing. You avoid his gaze, busying yourself with picking out a drinking glass.

“Tony Stark? Jesus Chr- are you being serious, doll? That fuckin’ guy?”

You bristle, defensive. Leave it to Bucky to make you feel shit about the men you choose to help you get over him.

“Yes, I’m serious. I mean, there won’t be a second date… he was a bit of an ass, actually. Had a god complex because of his daddy’s money. But he asked me and I said yes.”

Sam takes over from you to mix your drink. He gives you a wink, smooth as butter. “You should’ve told me you were dating now, angel. Woulda been first in line.”

“Not too late, Wilson,” you say, smiling cheekily.

Bucky is quiet and his arms are crossed. This time, when you sit on the other side of the sofa, he does not try to pull you onto his lap. It lasts about ten minutes.

Wanda is watching you give a masterclass in self-control with a tight, satisfied smile as the hours tick by. You are skilfully dodging Bucky’s approaches like they’re landmine, wounding out of the group conversation when he feels a bit too close for comfort and winding back in when you figure it’s pretty safe.

At the start, he brushes it off. When you wiggle out of his grasp or softly brush his hand from your back, using excuses like needing the loo or topping up your drink or having to speak to Wanda privately, he believes you. But as the flat fills up for the actual pregame, the attractive little line between his brows grows deeper. His attempts grow more desperate. When you announce your third ‘private chat with Wanda’, he sighs, only pulling you tighter to him. 

“What are all these private chats about, huh? Can I not be in on the secrets?”

“Girl stuff,” you say, shooting him an apologetic smile and shooting out from under his arm before he has the chance to stop you. His arms reach out to grab you but they find only air. You are walking away.

Wanda links your arm with her nose in the air and the two of you walk off to an uninhabited corner. She can scarcely wait until you are out of earshot before she’s laughing.

“Stop!” you whine. “This is really hard. I didn’t think pulling away would make him try harder.”

Wanda doesn’t stop laughing, but she brushes a lock of hair behind your ear softly to compensate.

“I’m sorry, darling, but this is just perfect. I mean, look at him. He’s so confused he can’t even focus on the girls in the room.”

It’s true. Bucky had flopped down on the sofa after you left his side. His eyes are downturned and his mouth is set in a hard line. He is the picture of confusion. You can’t help it; you giggle a little bit too.

He clearly doesn’t linger on it very long. By the time you all make it to the bar, Bucky is talking to someone new - this time, a tall, brunette stranger.

You are used to this, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. She is swooning, inching closer to him, and you swallow down the resentment that threatens to spill out of you with an awareness that you would be no different to her, if you were in her place.

You gossip with Wanda, examining those in the room to guess who is getting with each other in secret. You sit down with Bruce and listen to him with genuine wonder as he describes what he is currently working on, even if you can’t fully understand it (science was never your forte). You flirt with Sam and feel a rush of satisfaction when he focuses his undivided attention on you, lighting up your skin with his approving gaze. And you can almost forget about Bucky.

It’s rare these days to have everyone in the group come together on the same night, now that life has become a bit more serious and coursework is no longer a mild suggestion but a real and consequential requirement to unlocking your futures. You feel guilty about the fact that your heart isn’t really in it.

“You’ve been really brave,” Nat murmurs, not looking at you but gripping your hand with a sort of maternal protectiveness. It makes you feel like a child, but you don’t mind it, really. “You don’t need to stick around any longer if you’re not feeling it. Thank you for coming out.”

You don't say anything but give her a grateful smile as you leap up to give Steve a hug and wish him a happy birthday once more. You’re deep in thought when Bucky appears beside you. You jump out of your skin.

“You’re going?” he asks, frowning. He grabs your coat from your hands and opens it in front of you to step into. You do as instructed, turning your back to him and looping your arm into one of the sleeves.

“Jesus, Buck,” you murmur. “Didn’t even see you coming.”

“Sorry.” He flashes you a pretty grin when you turn back around and you melt to liquid. Your insides feel gooey and warm. They always do when he looks at you like that.

“You’re going home?” he repeats and you nod once, attempting to snap yourself out of it. He was just chatting up another girl less than five minutes ago. You could hear Wanda’s voice in your ear, telling you to pick your dignity up off the floor.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, chipper as a kid. “Think Steve won’t be hanging around very long anyway.” He gestures over to Steve, where he is making out with Nat against one of the tables. Your nose wrinkles and Bucky laughs, the sound deep and rich. The sound makes you smile but it doesn’t make you forget your mission.

“Um- actually…” you stammer. “I’m pretty tired tonight, Buck. Think I’ll go home alone.”

Bucky is astonished. Like, he actually blanches. His eyebrows raise up to his hairline and his lips part ever-so-slightly.

And it lights a fire inside you. You know you let him walk all over you, that you had never turned him down before. You have always been over the fucking moon on nights like this, when he would choose to hang out with you instead of taking home another girl. You can’t usually turn him down when he asks for something so prettily. In fact, he didn’t even need to ask. He just… just told you he would come with you, with the reassurance that you wouldn’t deny him.

And now that you have, he’s gobsmacked.

God- are you really this pathetic? Are you so predictably desperate for his attention, that you saying no to him just one time is enough to elicit this reaction? You feel a dull, simmering kind of rage bubbling in your stomach. You know it should be directly mostly at yourself, but instead you find yourself wanting Bucky out of your sight.

“But- doll, I haven’t seen you in a while. Missed you. I thought…”

“Sorry, Buck. Maybe another time.”

Or maybe never. Fuck this guy.

He's looking at you with thinly veiled hurt, but for once in your life, it does little to move you. Even his admission that he missed you doesn’t override your temper.

“At least let me walk you back,” he says reaching out for you.

You give him a tight smile and evade his grip. “No really, I’m okay. You have fun.”

You don’t give him the chance to argue again, spinning on your heel and zipping out of the bar before he has time to react. You can feel his eyes follow you out.

You delete the Instagram app when you get home, unwilling to see Bucky and his latest conquest in the background of some group picture. You finger hovers over his contact for one second of weakness, before you lock your phone and toss it away.

You comfort yourself with whatever you can scavenge from the kitchen. Most of the snacks you had bought for yourself are gone, as they often are, but you manage to find some semi-stale popcorn and figure it will have to do. You flick a 90s romcom on your laptop and lie horizontal, coaxing your thoughts away from Bucky and towards Hugh Grant to the best of your ability.

You hear Wanda stumble through the hallway to her room with an unidentified male who whispers louder than most people shout. Steve and Nat come in not much later. When the first moan rings out, you decide to continue watching your movie with headphones and try not to sulk.

BUCK: hey doll

BUCK: you awake?

You know what Wanda would tell you to do. But there’s some sick part of you that wants to twist the knife.

YOU: Yup. What’s up?

BUCK: you sure i cant come over? 

BUCK: steve and sam are still out

BUCK: house is lonely

You’re mildly surprised that he didn’t go home with someone. You’re not sure if you can remember him striking out before.

YOU: Steve isn't still out, he’s here. Trust me when I say you don’t wanna be here right now.

BUCK: damn that sucks lol theyre like rabbits

BUCK: why dont you come over here then?

You pause for a moment, reading over the last text a few times. He doesn’t usually invite you over there, but then again, you don’t usually turn him down.

YOU: Not feeling it tonight, Buck.

YOU: Sweet dreams <3

BUCK: sweet dreams. love u

You turn your phone off, along with the movie. You can’t focus on anything anyway. 

When you arrive at the boys’ apartment for board game night, you aren’t sure whether you need a drink, a deep tissue massage or a gun to fire at a passerby. 

“Woah,” is all Sam says, immediately stepping aside as if you would steamroll him if he stood in your way. 

Nat winces. “Guessing the date didn’t go well.”

“Understatement of the year,” you say, taking your shoes off and stomping further into the room.

In truth, it wasn’t just the date. You received an email first thing this morning, informing you that you received an about-average grade on an essay you had spent far too many hours on to justify the mark. Then, just as you were about to leave the house, the dishwasher flooded the kitchen with sudsy water. You had to skip two lectures while waiting to let someone in to fix it. You were informed that the company you had been planning to backpack through South-East Asia with this summer went bust, and your summer plans and deposit went swirling down the toilet with it. And, to top it all off, the only person you wanted to vent to about all of this was Bucky… whom you had hardly been speaking to for the last month.

So, overall, the odds of the date going well were probably not great in the first place.

“What happened?” Wanda asks, wrapping a gentle arm around you when you flop down beside her on the sofa. You laid your head on her shoulder and sighed. 

“Literally the first thing he asked was whether I had an Only Fans. Which, like, already super weird.  But whatever. So then we started talking about our families and stuff and when he found out I wasn’t from some super rich family, he accused me of having an Only Fans again to afford school. So I was like, ‘Uh, no, I’m literally on a scholarship, dude’. But by that point I wanted to get the hell out of there. So when the bill came, he asked to split it and I was like, ‘Yeah, totally fine’ and he accused me of having one again because I could afford dinner. So then I was like, ’If I was hot enough to make money on Only Fans, I would not be sitting here on a date with you’, and then he was like-”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve groans. “I can’t listen to any more of this. Where the hell do you find these guys?”

“The market is tough right now, Steve.”

“I can’t believe he asked you to split the bill, but I guess that’s what you get for going out with John Walker,” Bucky says, dripping with superiority. “I would never let a girl even see the bill on a date.”

You feel annoyance prickle at your skin, because of course he would be rubbing this in.

“Yeah, you just leave their beds at 2am instead. Like a real gentleman.”

Any satisfaction you might feel from the laughter that rings out across the room is instantly wiped out by the wounded puppy expression on Bucky’s face. 

The conversation takes off around you. Steve is teasing Wanda for her taste in men and in response, she is mimicking the vulgar noises she hears from Nat’s room, which makes Sam cackle and Steve burn red.

But Bucky is still watching you with pinched brows and a small pout and it makes you feel so guilty that you don’t think you can put up with it much longer.

You leave the room, mumbling something about going to get some water, and you can sense that Bucky will follow before you even see it.

“Everything ok, doll?”

You give him an affirmative hum while you pluck out a drinking glass, hoping to god that Bucky will let you get away with avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t.

He holds your shoulders, grip impossibly gentle, and pauses until you meet his gaze. “You’ve been off with me, recently.” It’s not a question. It’s a cold hard fact and he’s waiting for you to explain why.

“Have I?” you ask. “Sorry. I didn’t notice.” You’re being purposely obtuse and it’s obvious, but you’re just not ready to have this conversation dammit.

“Yeah,” Bucky nods and his eyes are focused on you, glassy and intent. His hair is tousled and his brows are furrowed and god- he doesn’t even look confrontational, just worried. “Is it something I did? You can tell me, doll. Whatever it is, I know you’re right and I know I’m one sorry son of a bitch.”

You sigh, melting into his grip. You wrap him in a hug, mostly because you don’t want him looking at you like that anymore, all dejected and apologetic.

Because Bucky has nothing to be sorry for. Not really.

You are the one who caught feelings. He doesn't know how you feel, you never told him. And even if he might have a sneaking suspicion that you have a crush on him, he can’t possibly know just how deeply it runs. You are sure he never would have played with your feelings if he did. From his perspective, this relationship is no more than a close - and according to Wanda, deeply inappropriate - friendship. Nothing deeper.

He pulls you in tight to his chest, one arm wrapping tight around your shoulders while the prosthetic one brushes through your hair. He presses a kiss to your head and your heart seizes. It would be so easy to fall right back in if you allowed yourself. You can almost feel yourself slipping.

“Sorry, Buck,” you murmur. “Things have just been a lot. I don’t have as much time as I used to and I’ve been really tired. Didn’t mean to be off with you.”

“That’s ok, sweetheart,” he says, practically cooing at you. “It’s all those damn dates you’ve been going on. You should give it a rest.”

You freeze and Bucky notices, the hand in your hair pausing mid-stroke. You look up at him. He’s caught off guard, watching you watch him - searching your face to identify the misstep he knows he must have made.

“Give dating a rest? I’ve been on four dates, Bucky.”

“Yeah but… doll, those guys have sucked.”

“Most men do,” you snapped, pulling fully out of his grip. His face falls completely, hand reaching out for you. “Doesn’t mean I can’t look for one that doesn’t. I’m not gonna just sit around and watch everyone else around me date anymore And don’t act like such a Puritan. You’ve gotten with far more than four people this term.”

“No! That’s not what I was trying to say. I just… I wanted to…”

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Wanda is standing at the door to the kitchen, a hand on her hip as she appraises the two of you, eyes narrow and suspicious. You take another step back from Bucky for good measure.

“No. Nothing at all.”

“Why don’t you let Sam take you out?” Nat asks, swirling a piece of spaghetti around her fork.

The bolognese has gone cold, the evidence of a conversation that is more engrossing than your feeble attempt at cooking. You end up like this with Wanda and Nat very often; letting time slip away unnoticed while you chat and laugh over the kitchen table. This time, you are joined by Steve.

In recent weeks, those laughs have been directed at your pathetic excuse of a dating life. You had just been describing date number six in great detail; Brock, who asked you out at the gym, revealed five minutes in that he was a full-time YouTuber, pedalling incel content. His channel was called Crossbones and it had a grand total of 63 followers. You couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry when relaying it.

Nat bumps your shoulder with hers. “You know he’s been dying to. Put the poor guy out of his misery.”

You scoff. “Sam is not dying to take me out. That’s just an inside joke we have.”

“No, it’s definitely not.” Steve says. “Like, unquestionably. He’s into you.”

Your brain goes for a bit of a spin, face flushing with heat. This can hardly be how you find out that Sam has feelings for you. 

“Relax,” Nat laughs. “He just thinks you’re cute and he’d like to take you out. He’s not, like, in love with you.”

You slacken. This is familiar territory. Because, yeah, you kind of know that.

Sam had never made it a secret that he finds you attractive and recently, with you returning his advances more than ever before, he has stepped it up a bit. He hardly leaves your side at group events and flirts just a little bit more than a joke would call for.

He has asked you out on a date before. Three times, in fact - all in your first year of college. You said no every time, not just because you had tunnel vision on Bucky, but also because you knew that dating his friend was probably the most effective way to make sure that Bucky would never even think about dating you. 

But, as it turns out, Bucky never even thought about dating you anyway. And you still have tunnel vision for him, but maybe one good date with Sam could help fix that. 

But, still. 

“I don’t think I can,” you say, hesitantly. “We’re friends. It’s weird.”

“Well, keep flirting with him the way you are and he’s gonna ask you,” Wanda says. “I think you guys would be good together.”

You fumble for a bit, looking to Nat for help you don’t receive.

“I think he will eventually,” Steve says eventually, stretching back in the iron chair that is ridiculously too small for his giant frame. “But in the meantime, let me set you up with another buddy of mine. I think you’ll like him.

You are going to kill Steve. And bury him. And exhume him. So you can kill him again.

“And then she just… ended it. Out of nowhere.” Scott blubbers over his entree. You watch with mild discomfort as his teardrops slip into the thin soup in front of him. “Well, not out of nowhere, I guess, because I did get arrested. But it was a misunderstanding. It wasn’t, like, a proper gang. Nobody died.”

Steve had promised you Scott was one of the good ones. And it really seemed like he was, at first. He was handsome and polite and just so funny. He had you laughing so hard, you almost forgot about Bucky for a minute.

But you, of course, had to go ahead and ask him about his studies. Which led to him telling you he was taking a gap year due to an arrest half-way through the term. And, hey, you’re all for rehabilitation - who were you to turn someone down for their past mistakes? But the subject moved swiftly to his ex. Which resulted in… well, this.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, shifting awkwardly in your seat. You aren’t sure whether it would be considered insensitive to continue eating your bruschetta. “What’s her name?”

“Hope,” he sniffles.

How fitting. You hope that a semi-truck swerves into this restaurant right now and takes you both out. 

“Why don’t you just text her?” You can’t believe you’re giving your date advice on how to get back with his ex. This must be a new low, but you’re trying not to think about it.

“She blocked me. Like I meant nothing to her.”

Your wish of a semi-truck doesn’t quite come true. But Bucky Barnes, who you consider to be equally as destructive, walks through the doors of the restaurant at that moment.

Maybe it’s because you had been looking wistfully towards the exit, but you sometimes feel like you have a radar for him. Like he could be in a room of one thousand people and your eyes would automatically find him, like magnets. A ridiculous idea occurs to you because you think briefly that he might have the same radar for you. He doesn’t even have to scan the room to find you. 

You sink deeper into your chair, but you know he’s on his way over to your table, no matter what you do to try to prevent it. His eyes are dark and grave until he sees Scott’s miserable state.

“We ok over here? Scott, what did she do to you?”

Seeing him light up at your snivelling date sets you on fire. One side of his lip curls up in thinly veiled amusement and his eyes crinkle. He was laughing at him - and maybe at you too.

“What are you doing here, Bucky?” you ask.

He can’t even pull his eyes away from Scott who hasn’t stopped weeping, smile growing wider by the minute. “I love this place,” he says, distractedly.

That’s a lie. You know it is, because Bucky has never been here before. He goes to the same Thai restaurant every single time unless you force him to expand his horizons.

You’re growing bristles, each whimper from Scott adding fuel to a fire that’s already burning bright. Is he here to witness your car crash of a date? 

You’re furious at the intrusion, but mostly you’re just fucking embarrassed. You’re happy to joke about your failed dates with friends, even with Bucky, but him calling over to witness it with his own eyes is crossing a line. He really wants to bathe in how much of a fucking disaster it is, trying to get over him? You hope he’s enjoying his front row seat.

“She didn’t do anything,” Scott manages eventually. “Sorry, this is so weird of me. I just- we started talking about Hope and I lost it. I was just saying that she blocked me.”

You think it’s a bit inaccurate for him to say that ‘we’ started talking about Hope, but you let it slide.

“Maybe she needs space, man,” Bucky says, sliding into the booth beside you without invitation. “I mean, you fucked up bad. You were interning with her dad before you got arrested, right? Maybe you should go make it right with him first. She would probably appreciate that.”

Scott looks down, mulling over Bucky’s words as if they were a riddle to solve. 

“You’re right,” he says eventually. “You’re so right. I need to speak with Hank. I’ll go do that right now. Thank you, Bucky.”

He’s jumping up and out of the booth then, apologising profusely and throwing down fifty bucks before jogging out. You don’t bother telling him it’s too much - he probably stole it anyway. 

“Good kid,” Bucky laughs, tossing a casual arm around your shoulder. “Guess I’m your new date for the evening.

That is cruel. You shove his arm off with a bit too much force, rage rising its way up your gullet. “No you’re not. I’m leaving.”

“Woah, woah,” Bucky grabs your arms while you struggle to push him out, still chuckling softly. “What’s so bad about me, huh?”

You hadn’t really thought about how difficult it would be to get out of the booth with a mountain of a man sitting in the way. And there is a danger that you end up on his lap. So you stay put, huffing dramatically for good measure.

Bucky says nothing for a moment, doesn’t bait you into a response. He picks at your bruschetta, even though it has now gone cold.

“You give good relationship advice for someone who is chronically single,” you say eventually.

“I could be a good boyfriend for the right girl.”

And god, don’t you know it. It’s what is making this whole thing so much more painful. The way he had been able to read what Scott’s ex needed just by hearing about the situation is so him. You love how thoughtful he is, how he really thinks about things before acting. The way he makes you feel like you’re his first priority, even though you know it’s not true.

“Did Steve tell you I would be here?”

Bucky looks at you, as if weighing up whether or not to tell the truth. “Yeah,” he admits finally.

“And why the hell did you show up?”

The waitress comes to clear your starters then, a tall, pretty girl with a cute uniform. She is sneaking glances at Bucky out of the corner of her eye but he doesn’t see. He’s looking right at you.

“Don’t act like you didn’t need saving from that train wreck.”

“I didn’t,” you snap. “I don’t need you to save me from dates, Bucky. I can handle myself. This date was probably one of the best ones I’ve been on, actually.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to laugh at the sad truth you just shared. Your face softens involuntarily, a smile creeping onto your face before you can stop it. And a beat later, you’re both laughing, all the fight dissolving from you. You hate how difficult it is to stay mad at him.

“Why do you keep going on these stupid things? These guys are losers. Scott is a great guy but, doll, I would kill you if you started dating him for real. He doesn’t even come close to deserving you. None of them do.”

“What do you want me to do, Bucky? Stay alone forever?” you ask him, absently ripping up the napkin in front of you. “I just gotta go on enough of these things till I find someone decent.”

Bucky pauses, clearly deliberating his next words. The cold mental of his pinky finger brushes against your hand. “Would you date someone you already know is decent? Like, a friend?”

You sigh. “Steve and Nat already had this conversation with me.”

“Yeah?” Bucky is looking at you seriously now, eyes traversing your features while you twist uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, but… I don’t wanna make it weird.”

“Why would it be weird?” he asks, voice strangely soft. “I think…. I think it could be a good thing.”

Your face is flooding with heat and you mind begins racing, guilt flooding all circuits. You don’t look at Bucky. Even though you have now accepted that there is nothing between the two of you and never will be, you still feel weird talking about other men in front of him - especially Sam. As if you’re cheating on the Bucky that is your boyfriend in all the scenarios you imagine to help you fall asleep.

“Yeah, I mean, maybe. But I dunno. I feel like maybe we’re just friends. Sam’s obviously amazing and I know he wouldn’t be like any of these guys but-”

“Sam?” Bucky has been electrocuted, his eyes wide and concerned. “I thought all of that stuff was just a joke!”

His tone is surprises you for a moment, abrupt and forceful. You don’t take any notice of the waitress quietly putting out the main courses yourself and Scott ordered because Bucky is looking at you like you had just told him you were about to run off and join the travelling circus as one of the monkeys.

“Well, so did I, but Steve says he’s probably going to ask me out for real soon,” you say slowly. “Why? Who were you talking about?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything - just continues to stare with that same urgency, brows pressed together and mouth parted. You’re frowning right back.

“You can’t date Sam,” he says at last.

His voice is laced with such certainty, such finality, it pisses you off. Who the hell does he think he is? You’re aware that you have allowed much more than you should have throughout the years you have been friends with Bucky, but where the hell is he getting the idea that he can tell you who you should or shouldn’t date? In fact, who the hell does he think he is - barging in on your date, telling you that you shouldn’t date at all?

“What the hell are you talking about? I can date whoever I want, Bucky.”

He looks at you for just a second longer, brushing a frustrated hand through his hair.

And then his lips are on yours. 

You almost short circuit. You can’t stop whatshappeningwhatshappeningwhatshappen- from running through your brain. Bucky tugs your frozen body closer to him, as if begging you to respond to him.

And you can’t help it. The way you melt to goo around him.

Your hands reach up frantically. You’re pawing at his neck, tugging at his collar. You need him closer. And far be it from Bucky to deny you what you need.

His lips press softly to yours and his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You know what it feels like to be close to Bucky - you have fallen asleep with his body wrapped around yours - but kissing him is better than you had ever imagined, like he is moulding himself to you totally and completely. Like he is giving himself to you.

Except, when he starts rubbing absentminded circles on your hips, you go still, your brain conjuring the image of a blonde stranger at a dive bar a few months back. The one he was talking to instead of you. The one he was touching, just like this.

And suddenly you feel sick. You pull away from him and he’s looking at you, eyes bleary and dazed, like he had become drunk off the feel of you. He takes you in for a moment, eyes drifting to your swollen lips, before leaning in again.

Your right hand comes up between the two of you, reaching his chest - like a curtain falling between you. Bucky stops, watching you with some curiosity, an adorable little wrinkle forming between his brows. 

But you don’t move it. Because you’re thinking about the timing of this, putting everything together like puzzle pieces in your head. 

You start dating. And then Bucky kisses you.

Because he is annoyed at your sudden lack of attention to him? Or perhaps because he thinks you’re fair game for a one-night-stand now that you’re dating? You can’t decide which one is worse. Either option makes your stomach curl and your face blanche, because you thought you might have meant more to him. You thought that, despite all the one-night-stands and the manwhore tendencies, there was a place in his heart specifically for you - that you were somehow more important to him than all the other girls he fucked and dumped. Obviously not.

You climb swiftly onto his lap and Bucky gasps, clearly not expecting you to make such a bold move out of nowhere. But before he can react, you are clambering over him and out of the booth. He’s watching you like this is all moving much too fast for him.

“You’re a real asshole, Bucky. Leave me the fuck alone for a while,” you say, and you’re storming out of the restaurant before he has time to catch up.

BUCK: please doll can we talk about this?

You throw your phone back onto your nightstand and, just to stop yourself from replying to him, you gather your things and head over to the bathroom for a shower.

You’re vibrating with anxiety when you turn the dial and step under the warm stream of water, trying to manoeuvre your thoughts away from Bucky but coming up short.

You know you can’t keep avoiding him. The last four days have been hell - you’ve had to decline every group hangout, get your groceries delivered and even steer clear of the fucking library, safe in the knowledge that he was probably hanging around there to catch you.

Your hands are rubbing soap onto your body and massaging the shampoo into your hair a bit too aggressively. Truthfully, you are spiralling. You want so badly for that kiss he gave you to wake you up - snap you out of that sad delusion you have been harbouring since you first met him. But all it really did was make you fall twice as hard. You can’t stop picturing the way his lips felt on yours. You fall asleep to the memory, mind conjuring up the sensation of him sucking softly on your bottom lip and hands caressing your hips. Your subconscious doesn’t care that he had done that to a hundred girls before you, just that it had happened and it was real.

Wanda and Nat are getting worried. You recall the glances they give each other across the table when you tell them that you’re just going to stay in again tonight and study from your room as you let the warm water wipe away any traces of shampoo and replace it with this globs of conditioner. You have been pretending to not notice their concern so you don’t have to acknowledge it, but you know it’s just a matter of time before you’re confronted. 

You hadn’t said a word to Wanda or Nat about what happened in the restaurant. Not to Nat because you know she will just tell Wanda. And not to Wanda because you’re certain she will be so disappointed that you gave in and kissed him back, even if it was just for the briefest of moments. The logical part of you is screaming that she will understand and commend you for sticking up for yourself and leaving, but she had been so clear about what she expected from you that another part of you doubted it.

Mostly, though, you’re just afraid of what her reaction will be towards Bucky. Their relationship is already fraught - in no small part thanks to you. You think this might be the last straw for her. She may never speak to him again. 

You realise dully, as you dry your body and step into fresh pyjamas, that you are still protecting him. No matter how much he hurts you, you’ll still protect him. You’ll still want him.

By the time you leave the bathroom again, you’re feeling pretty refreshed. You still can’t stop that same scene from playing over and over again like a film behind your eyes, as if you’ve lost the remote for your brain. But at least you’ve finally gotten out of bed - your hair is clean, your teeth are brushed and your muscles are relaxed.

Until you take a step inside your room. Because there sits Bucky Barnes on the edge of your bed, fingers laced together and knee bouncing. You stop dead when he looks up at you.

“I did knock,” he says with a bashful grin and you spin on your heel to walk right out.

“No, wait. Sweetheart, please.”

You hesitate for just a moment, but it’s long enough for Bucky to make his way to you and coax you over to the centre of the room, hands gripping your wrists firmly. 

“Who let you in?” you ask, but you already know the answer. Because it sure as hell wasn’t Wanda.

“Nat. Don’t be mad at her, she’s worried about you.”

You keep your mouth shut, but you will so be giving Nat shit later on.

“How have you been?” he asks, shifting his weight to his right foot.

Really?

You give him your best unimpressed glower, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t respond.

“Doll, I’m sorry for what happened. It was too sudden, I get why you ran off. I should have spoken to you properly first. I’m sorry. But please, just talk to me.” His pretty blues are looking at you nervously for any trace of emotion, but you’re keeping it locked away.

“What do you want to talk about?” you say and even you can hear the frostiness in your tone.

“I want you to tell me why you ran away. Why you’re so angry at me for kissing you.”

Heat blooms in your chest for just a second. There it was - verbal confirmation that he had kissed you, that it wasn’t just another one of your dreams. You breath is stuttering.

“Because it’s wrong, Bucky. It’s not fair.”

“Why?” he presses, hands moving from your wrists to grip your hands. “What’s so wrong about it? Maybe if you just gave it a chance-”

“Give it a chance? Bucky, I’m not gonna be one of those girls. I’m actually really fucking offended that it even crossed your mind.”

“One of what girls?”

“One of your girls!”

Bucky pauses. He’s frowning to himself, as if mulling your words over again and again in his mind. It’s a strange thought, but you wonder briefly if things will ever be the same between you again. Maybe this is when you find out that Bucky never really saw you as more than a conquest. Maybe this is the end of what has been the most beautiful but unkind friendship of your life. 

When he finally speaks, he’s speaking so gently you almost don’t hear him.

“I don’t want you to be one of my girls, doll. I just want you to be… my girl. My only one.”

Your heart begins to gallop, something deep and sweet thrumming through your bloodstream, mixed with a sense of dread you can’t quite describe. Because what the fuck did he just say to you? And what the ever-loving fuck did it mean?

You had thought about this moment so often - every day, nearly. You had pictured every possible scenario, every possible monologue he could have put to you - overflowing with explanations and promises to change. But you had never imagined anything like this; Bucky standing in front of you, hands on your yours, fingers brushing over your knuckles. Eyes brimming with hope and desperation. Knocking your world off its axis with just one sentence.

You relish in this with a hammering heart and a guilty conscience. Because you know something isn’t right here; that this all backwards and wrong. You’re acutely aware that Bucky is acting out of desperation. He has felt you slipping away from him in the last few weeks, has complained about it to you and everyone else who will listen endlessly. This is his way of holding onto you in whatever way he can, even if it doesn't align with his real feelings. And you know you’ll have to acknowledge that once you begin speaking again, so you take liberties. You just watch him, living in this moment where you can still dream that you might say yes to being Bucky’s girl - his only one - for as long as you can.

“Please say something,” he mutters, shy and skittish.

“I’m not going to be your girl, Bucky,” you say and his face collapses. His hands let your own ones go gently and they drop to your sides. You try not to take notice. “You don’t want me to be your girl. You want me to be your friend that happens to do a lot of girlfriend stuff for you.”

“What are you talking about?” Something like frustration is creeping onto his features.

“You’ve had two years to say this, Bucky! Is it a coincidence that you suddenly bring up this shit once I start dating other people? I know you miss having my full attention, but this is a cruel tactic. It really is.”

“I’m not using any fuckin’ tactics, doll,” he fires back. “You really think that low of me?”

“What am I supposed to think? I’ve watched you fuck around with girl after girl for the last two years, Bucky. And now I’m supposed to believe that you’re, what-”

“In love with you, yes.”

He nods like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The annoyance never leaves his expression and there’s a bite to his tone - you think it might actually be fuelling his candidness. The room spins a bit and you feel lightheaded and sick- maybe lovesick-

“Fuck you. I don’t believe you.” You don’t register that you’re close to tears until you hear the sound of your voice - thin and wobbly.

“Doll,” he breathes, softening at the sound of your voice. You want to bury your head in the sand. You hate how frail you must look. You hate that he is making you refuse the thing you want more than anything else in the world. “I don’t know what to tell you. I love you. Always have.”

“That’s such bullshit, Bucky,” you spit and you do your best to ignore the rogue tears that you feel escaping. You watch his fingers twitch, fighting the instinct to wipe them for you, but he knows by the furious look on your face that it is not a good idea. “You don’t make the person you love watch you get with other people, night after night. You don’t only ask them to be yours when you’re scared they might start dating someone else.”

You feel so idiotic and childlike, standing in front of him and letting two years worth of heartbreak ooze out of your voice and eyes and skin. It’s all flooding out and it’s too late to close the gates. It’s so fucking humiliating that it takes you a few beats to even look at him.

When you do, you see that Bucky is frozen to the spot. There’s something uncertain there - in his eyes, in the line between his brows, in the small wrinkle by his lips, which are pressed in a hard line as he watches you. It disappears as soon as your gaze meets his. His jaw slackens, lips parting ever-so-slightly. He puffs out a breath and you know he sees it - sees the way you’ve suffered over the last two years.

And you realise you were right. Because nothing will ever be the same. You can never again pretend to be ok with him sleeping around. You can never again sleep in the same bed and pretend it means nothing. And you think maybe it’s about time - that this is all ridiculously overdue, even. You’re simultaneously mourning the loss of your old relationship with Bucky, while breathing out a sigh of relief. You’ll never have to play the part of yourself - the cool girl who is totally ok with being second priority in his life - ever again.

“I didn’t know!” 

He’s grabbing you again, hands clutching yours as if you’re about to slip away. His eyes are glossy and pleading, voice cracking. His intensity startles you. You don’t know how to think with him this close.

“Stop.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Fuck- I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Stop it.”

“If I knew, it would have been so different but I didn’t so it wasn’t! You need to understand.”

But you don’t. He’s speaking too fast and you’re still crying and you think he might be too but you’re not sure. He’s talking and talking and he won’t stop, you can’t even hear him anymore. 

You put your right hand up - a silent signal that you need a moment - and he understands instinctively. The room goes silent. He shepherds you over to the bed with all the gentleness and care in the world, like you’re made of glass, and you hate him because why does that make your heart squeeze?

Your mind is spinning but Bucky doesn't press you - just gives you the time you need to recoup in that annoyingly thoughtful way of his. He is shuffling around nervously, stretching so his t-shirt expands against his skin, leg bouncing. You can feel his eyes - guilty, despondent and oh so pretty. They’re lighting up your skin and you wish they would look somewhere, anywhere else but they never move.

You’re attempting to get a grip on how things stand, fighting to get back just an ounce of control. 

Bucky now knows how you feel about him. He’s still claiming to love you - right? Or is that all out the window now that he knows how you’ve agonised over him? And you have absolutely no idea how you two will ever come back from this with any semblance of a relationship intact.

“Can you tell me I haven’t fucked this all up already?” 

Bucky looks stretched thin. He is looking at you like a man ruined, but still deerlike and hopeful. Like his whole future hedges on the next words to come out of your mouth, but he’s not optimistic.

“None of this makes sense,” you landed on after some deliberation. “I think you’re doing this to not lose me. But that’s not going to work, Buck.”

“But I’m not!” and he’s begging you now, crawling onto his knees in front of where you sit - eyes downcast. You like how he looks down there, you decide.

“I didn’t know, sweetheart. I swear I didn’t.” You can tell he’s avoiding using the words - saying outright that you love him, in case he’s wrong. In case he was mistaken about what he could now read clear as day in your eyes. You decide to remove any doubt. It’s all out on the table, anyway.

“How could I tell you that I loved you when you were with a new girl every night?”

Bucky is destroyed. His throat is bobbing up and down and you think it might have something to do with the past-tense you used. That dreaded word - ‘loved’. It’s a lie - you love him as much as ever, maybe even more. You’re just trying to hold on to the final scrap of your dignity.

“You always said you don’t date, doll. I figured if you felt anything for me, you wouldn’t go ‘round saying that. Was just trying to move on. Couldn’t even go through with it most of the time, was too in my head ‘bout you. Ended up leaving and texting you instead.”

Your mouth fills with marbles. You search his face for any hints of doubt or dishonesty but he looks up at you with that unwavering certainty that you have never seen in anyone else. Could that be true?

He squishes his left cheek against your bare thigh hesitantly, like he’s expecting you to throw him off. You don’t. You’re not really prepared for the wave of relief that washes over you after finding out that he hadn’t really been sleeping with other girls before crawling into your bed. You weren’t aware of just how much it had been weighing on you, but you feel ten tons lighter.

“Been trying to tell you for weeks now. Ever since I found out you started dating,” he admits, sheepishness creeping into his eyes which still have yours on lock. “Figured maybe you might be willing to give me a chance. But you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I started dating because I was fed up waiting for you to see me,” you say, and you can hear your voice softening against your will. 

“I always saw you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Always saw you. Never saw anyone else but you.”

You don’t say anything. What can you say?

“Am I too late?”

You want to say no. You want to trust everything that he’s saying is true - that you can forget all about the mess he made of you. But can you?

“I don’t know, Bucky I need to think.”

He nods, like it’s what he had been expecting. But you know him better than that. You know that he’s trying to mask his disappointment, to save you the guilt. Ironically, it makes you feel worse.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

He doesn’t move his chin from your thigh immediately. Instead, he drinks you in with his eyes - as if it’s the last time he will ever see you. When he stands, he presses a kiss, deep and sweet, to your hair. He gives you a small, watery smile. You watch his back as he walks out the door.

In the end, it’s Wanda who is Bucky’s biggest defender.

“I hate to give it to him. Like, as in- I really can’t fucking describe how much I hate to give it to him. But his explanation does make sense, when you think about it from his point of view. Which I will not make a habit of doing, but still…”

You lower your eyeliner pencil, only half way through with your right eye. Nat’s hand freezes, until a light burning smell begins to shroud your room, prompting her to lower the hair straightener.

“You’re… on his side?” Nat croaks. You can’t tell whether it’s amusement or genuine shock on her face.

“No, never,” Wanda defends herself, turning to you. “I’m on your side. Always. And in this particular circumstance, I do think he is telling the truth. So as your best friend who wants nothing more than for you to be happy - even if that must be with the biggest idiot this world has ever known - I think maybe you should consider forgiving him.”

You’re still too stunned to speak. Nat is laughing from somewhere behind you.

“I hope you know what it took for me to say that,” she says grumpily, turning back to the mirror.

“I agree,” Nat says, finally. “I mean he’s a dumbass, obviously. But it does make sense.”

You don’t say anything - continue to work on your eyeliner while Nat and Wanda discuss whether or not Hope and Scott would turn up in a couples costume. Rumour has it that they had made amends. Good for them, you guess.

You are sporting a flirty little yellow dress - Belle from Beauty and the Beast, if the hem of her dress was about 25 inches shorter, with cleavage to boot. You are mildly self-conscious, watching the trimming of the skirt where it sways at your upper thigh. Last year, you had been Abraham Lincoln for Halloween. You had been planning on being Gandalf this year, but the thought of having to face Bucky for a serious conversation with a long, grey beard made you change course at the last minute.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you wanted to impress him.

It’s been a few days since your conversation in your bedroom, and you still haven’t spoken. Not even a text. Nat has been telling you that he has been asking about you - checking whether you are doing ok - but it doesn’t make it sting any less to pick up your phone in the morning and realise he still hasn’t checked in.

Which is ridiculous. Because you wanted this, right? You’re the one who specifically asked him for space to think - how can you be disappointed now that he is giving you what you want?

But you can’t help it. You’re playing reruns in your head of how he told you he was in love with you, how broken he looked when he realised what you feel for him too, the moment in the restaurant when he kissed you. They’re interrupted only by intrusive thoughts that you have of imagining him with other girls. You wonder if maybe he has already moved on to someone else, if he’s warming someone else’s bed while he waits for your answer.

Realistically, you know that’s not true. You know that’s not him. But it doesn’t stop it from running around unbidden in your mind.

You miss the pregame for the pregame this time, too busy adjusting your makeup, fixing your hair, stressing over your outfit. You almost change multiple times, tempted into a safer black outfit with cat ears, but Nat and Wanda wouldn’t hear of it.

You can hear the noise from the boys’ apartment from across the street and it only gets louder as you approach. The music is so loud, some rap song with a beat so heavy that you can feel it reverberating inside your ribs. You’re sure they’re probably ignoring multiple complaints. Many loud voices are chatting and giggling and shouting - an equal measure of boys and girls, you note against your will.

Nat walks into the apartment without ringing the bell as usual. You almost wish she did so you would have another few seconds to compose yourself. Wanda sends you a reassuring smile, bumping your shoulder with hers lightly, and the two of you follow her in.

The lights are low, retro neon lights flickering off the plastered walls. There’s a styrofoam skeleton hanging from the ceiling and a killer clown statue in the corner that makes you shiver. Hope and Scott pass you by, dressed as two insects, which makes Wanda roll her eyes and fish a $10 note out of her pocket for Nat. Scott shoots you an embarrassed smile which you return. 

Like magnets, your eyes find Bucky instantly when you walk into the open plan kitchen. As if all your worst fears have just materialised in front of you, there is a girl standing in front of him, curling a strand of hair around her finger, and your heart plummets. You rip your gaze away, knees feeling as if they might buckle from under you.

“Look at him,” Wanda whispers. She gives you an encouraging nod and you look back at him, focusing this time on Bucky alone, rather than the girl making love-heart eyes at him. 

He looks out-of-it. He is giving the girl a polite smile, responding to her with short sentences you can’t quite lip-read, but his eyes are flickering away, searching the other faces in the room. He is leaning away, presumably making up some excuse to leave, when his eyes catch yours. 

Wanda whispers something - maybe good luck? - and recedes into the crowd when she notices him walking toward you, clutching his beer with a tight grip, jaw twitching nervously. When he reaches you, you’re greeted with an anxious, tired face. Now that he’s closer, you can see the dark shadow under his eyes.

“You look… wow,” he says sheepishly, straightening his jacket awkwardly while his eyes travel your form.

“High praise from… Jim Halpert?”

“Clark Kent, actually,” he smiles, opening up a button of his shirt to show you the bright red ’S’ underneath. “But I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

You flush. How the hell does he just do that? You can barely speak.

“I was expecting Gandalf,” he continues. He’s mouth is twitching nervously, and you think maybe he’s trying to prevent you from evaporating like smoke.

“Steve told you about that?”

He nods. “I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see it.”

“Didn’t know you were into that.”

When you’re laughing together again, you can almost swear nothing had passed between you at all. He gets that sparkle back into his eyes - the one he was missing on the walk over to you. The grin dancing on his lips is so pretty and hopeful.

Your laughs taper off, but his smile doesn’t. He is just looking at you like you are something wonderful. And it’s doing strange things to your stomach.

“Was starting to think you weren't coming,” he says quietly, after a moment. “Was thinking about you a lot the last couple days.”

“Me too,” you breathe, legs shaky.

“Are you still mad at me?”

You consider it for a moment. Bucky looks slightly petrified, his chin tucked low and eyes round. His lips are raw from being bitten, but he catches his bottom lip in his teeth anyway, chewing it as you deliberate.

“A little bit,” you say. “But I do believe you now… after thinking about it.”

He nods, and you can see a little bit of relief claim his features.

“And I can probably admit that maybe I should have communicated a bit more,” you continue. “It was wrong for me to assume you knew what was going through my head.”

“No, I’m the one-” He’s shaking his head, and you smile, cutting him off by placing a hand on his chest. He stops dead, his flesh arm instinctively reaching up to cover yours. He swallows hard.

“But I’m going to communicate now. I love you. I have for a long time. And I only want to be yours, nobody else in the picture. If that’s not what you want-”

You don’t get to finish your thought. Bucky’s lips are on yours then, faster than you can blink. One hand is snaking through your hair, ruining the style you spent far too long on, but you can’t bring yourself to care - you’re pressing yourself closer to him, eager to feel every hard plane of his body against yours. Your hands crawl up to his neck, pawing at him and rubbing circles there until he sighs against your lips.

“That’s what I want. It’s all I want.”

You’re smiling at him then and you heart aches so fiercely with love that you can’t speak for a moment, pressing small, giddy kisses to his mouth instead. Bucky can hardly reciprocate, he’s beaming so wide, so you get more teeth than lips, but you don’t care. You feel like two children, giggling with cheesy smiles that can’t be dampened, even by the knowledge that your friends are looking on.

a/n: i don't wanna see anyone up in this bitch complaining that he should have grovelled more bc this fic burnt me the hell out, i almost made her forgive him instantly just to end my suffering lmao

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal

[lunexiax]

𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 (𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜)

pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting

summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.

warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader

word count: 11.1k

a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!

The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know he’s back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.

Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. He’s not shirtless like he sometimes is - he’s in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach. 

He’s waving before you realise you’ve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.

The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself. 

Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.

Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.

Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.

On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.

Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t. 

You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.

Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.

It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.

And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.

It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.

You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.

What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.

You never looked at him the same. 

It’s not for lack of trying.

God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes. 

Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.

But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today. 

And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.

At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.

You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.

The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.

You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up. 

Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.

You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.

He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either. 

You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.

He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard. 

He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull. 

His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.

You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.

He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your  phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.

He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good. 

He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.

He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.

He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades. 

Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.

Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel. 

But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend? 

Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.

You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.

He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.) 

Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.

He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.

He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.

He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room. 

The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.

He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.

Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.

This is your diary.

The first entry is from three weeks ago.

22 May I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.

I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.

Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.

23 May My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.

He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.

Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.

23 May Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again. 

Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that. 

He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.

24 May I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.

The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.

25 May This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.

26 May Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.

Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too. 

Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.

28 May Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-

“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.

Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.

He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it. 

You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.

14 June He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-

He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.

-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.

Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.

You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.

And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.

Except it’s not there. 

You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.

You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.

You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it. 

You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.

Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.

You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.

Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.

He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.

“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.

“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.

He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”

You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.

“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t. 

“I’m not buggy.”

“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”

“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”

Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”

“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”

“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.

“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”

“I meant, like, after that.”

“After I finished the lawn?”

You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.

“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”

Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”

“Long shower,” he says.

“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.

“The hell is an everything shower?”

“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”

His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.

“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”

His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”

Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause. 

“So what are you reading at the mo-”

“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.

“Why is that?” you ask.

“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”

You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead. 

“I was sixteen-”

“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”

You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”

“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”

You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight. 

“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.

“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.

“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.

“I didn’t think you liked reading.”

“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise. 

“What are you reading?”

Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.

“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”

You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.

Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”

He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”

“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”

He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.

You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.

But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.

Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him. 

You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful. 

“Where did you get that?” you bark.

“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”

“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”

Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch. 

“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”

You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.

“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.

“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”

Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.

“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”

He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.

“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”

He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.

“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.

He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”

He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.

“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”

You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.

“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.” 

Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.

“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.

Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.

You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined. 

If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?

He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.

“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”

“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.

You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.

He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.

Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.

A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you. 

“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”

You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.

“Since when?”

“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.

“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.

“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.

He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.

“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.

“Isn’t that when we first-”

“Yes.”

The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.

“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”

He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.

“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”

You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.

He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”

You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.

“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”

The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.

None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?

He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.

“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.

“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”

“For how long?” he demands.

“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.

“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”

Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal. 

“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”

“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.

“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”

There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.

Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.

When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.

He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.

You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.

He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.

It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?” 

Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?

“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.

“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”

Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.

“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”

He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”

You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.

He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.

“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”

You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.

Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”

Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”

“Wha- yes?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”

“What were you doing in my-”

“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”

You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.

“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”

He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.

“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”

You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.

His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.

“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this. 

He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”

“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”

He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”

Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”

Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.

He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”

It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.

“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.

Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control. 

“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”

The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.

“Turn around,” he bites out.

With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.

You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.

When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.

“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.

“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.

He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”

You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.

“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”

Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”

“Let me help you out.”

His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.

“Read.”

Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious. 

One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.

Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.

“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-

Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.

“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”

You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.

“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”

You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.

“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”

You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.

“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”

With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.

A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.

You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.

You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.

Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.

Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.

“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.

You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically. 

He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”

You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.

“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”

“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”

“You still are. Sometimes.”

He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”

You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”

It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.

You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”

You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.

Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”

a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby @yearninglustfully @starr-jazz @las-galletas @thatesqcrush @mathcat345 @openlyluckyartisan @buckmybarnes @atsumubabe @annoyingrebelsoul

°𓏲⋆🌿. Be added to my taglist! .🌿⋆𓏲°

[lucky-bucky-boy]

I am definitely, undoubtedly back in my Bucky era

[winteryn]

VIBE CHECK best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader [14k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (author loves beefy men); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie. 

A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.

Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted. 

Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.

Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.

Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.

Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.

The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor. 

The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.

When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.

The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”

“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.

Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere." 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”

He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.

“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.

“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”

Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms. 

“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”

You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.” 

“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”

You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”

He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”

“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.

“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.

“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”

“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.

“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”

“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”

He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”

You sigh. “Buck—”

“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”

You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame. 

Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”

You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.

He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile. 

You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams. 

Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint. 

Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning. 

Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another. 

Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work. 

Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you. 

Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along. 

Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing. 

Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.

But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.

You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.

And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.

With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.

With him, you don’t need to think ahead.

He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.

You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.

He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.

Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder. 

Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up. 

Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.

He only knows there’s never been an end.

Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.

You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.

Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.

You have never kissed him on the lips, though.

Bucky thinks about that more than he should.

He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.

He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.

He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.

Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.

He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.

Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.

And sometimes... it’s just unbearable. 

You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.

The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.

Bucky has imagined telling you.

It never gets far.

In his head, the words sound steady, confident. 

But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.

So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.

From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace. 

Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that. 

You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.

So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes. 

But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.

He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.

With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.

Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.

But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.

Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”

Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”

Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.

“James seriously, I have to finish—”

“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.

“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”

You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.

“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.

“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.

And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.

Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”

“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.

“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”

“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.

You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way. 

“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”

You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”

“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.

“They look at you.”

“They look at everyone.”

“Not like they look at you, baby.”

There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.

“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. 

“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.

You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.” 

You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. 

“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.

You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.

He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.

You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.

Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.

“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”

You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.

“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.

“Careful.” You snicker.

“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”

“You almost tripped over the air.”

“Well, the air started it.”

He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual. 

“There,” he hums. “Contained.”

His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”

You go rigid at that. “James.”

“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.

“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“It’s almost three hours long.”

“It’s cinema.”

“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”

He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”

“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”

“You loved it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”

He gasps softly. “How dare you!”

You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”

At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.

“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”

“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”

“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.

“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”

“You cried during the docking scene.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”

After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.

“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”

“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.

Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.

When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.

“Still cold?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You shivered.”

“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.

You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”

Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds. 

He lets it go on longer than he should.

His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.

“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”

His jaw tightens.

“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”

“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”

Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.

“I can help you.”

The words leave him before he can fully consider them.

You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Why—”

“You have your own stuff to do—”

Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”

You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”

That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin. 

His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.

His eyes close briefly.

This is not the time.

But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.

“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”

“Like what?”

His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.

He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”

It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.

You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback. 

“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”

You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.

“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”

The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.

“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.

He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.

“What?”

You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.

“Since... the last time I had sex.”

His stomach drops.

“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”

The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.

His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”

You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”

You swallow. “I know.”

“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.

You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.

His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.

But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.

“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”

He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”

You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”

It’s not a question.

Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.

“Recently?” You perk up.

He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”

You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.

“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”

Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.

“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.

“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”

“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You are everything to me too.” 

The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.

“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.

Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.

“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”

Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.

Just a clean slate of neutrality.

The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.

Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now. 

She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.

She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.

She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.

She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.

Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”

“James.”

He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.

“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”

His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.

You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.

Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”

His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.

“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”

You hold his gaze. “And then?”

“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”

You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.

“I won’t hate it.”

That confidence nearly unravels him.

“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.

At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart. 

Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest. 

Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.

His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.

Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.

Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.

Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”

Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs. 

His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.

“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.

“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.” 

Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”

“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question. 

“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?” 

“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.

“Show me.” 

“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.

His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”

“But—”

Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him. 

“Then let me help you.”

There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.

“Where are they?”

“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”

Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow. 

His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.

It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach. 

A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too... 

Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.

But it’s yours.

And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—

And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.

“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?” 

“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.

“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.

You nod, certain but coyly.

Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.

“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.

He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.

“What about here, mh?”

You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.

His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.

“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.

Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.

“Here?” 

You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw. 

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”

That only makes it worse.

You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond. 

“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”

He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.

“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.

Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.

“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.

“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.

“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”

Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.

“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.

“And here?”

A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.

“And what about here, angel?”

Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.

His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.

Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.

“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.

“The toys.” 

“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.

“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.

“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.

“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.

Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.

“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for. 

“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”

Oh.

You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.

Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs. 

“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.

You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again. 

“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.

“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always. 

“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.

“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.

“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”

The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him. 

“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions. 

Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.  

“Feels so good, right?”

Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.

“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting. 

“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.

“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames. 

“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.

Yes, a good girl. His. 

“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”

You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core. 

“Shit.”

You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.” 

“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.” 

Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation. 

“Good girl.”

All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom. 

“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down. 

His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner. 

“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up. 

“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.

“Swallow.” 

Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.

“Beautiful.” 

“Bucky please.” 

“Please what? Need words, angel.”

Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out. 

The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.

You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you. 

Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”

“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.

His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”

Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.

“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.

He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”

“I need—can I touch it, please?”

Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”

“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”

You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.

“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”

At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.

“Then slap it for me.”

You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.

“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge. 

“Again.” 

You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around. 

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery. 

“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?” 

“Please.” 

“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”

Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”

Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”

“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.

“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”

“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”

The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.

“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”

The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.

Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance. 

Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.” 

He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.

Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens. 

“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.

“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.

Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously. 

His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock. 

He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds. 

His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.

“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. 

“Give it to me, doll. Use me.” 

You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble. 

“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.

“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.

“One more.” Bucky kisses you.

“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever. 

“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”

Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick. 

Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.

“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.

“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”

“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”

He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.

Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”

You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.

“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.

With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.

You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.

“You are mine, right?”

“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds. 

“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”

“Your good girl.”

That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.

“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.

“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.

“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.

“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.

Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.

“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.

He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.

“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.

“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”

The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw. 

“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.

It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head. 

And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.

You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.

“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”

His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done. 

Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.

You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.

Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.

“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.

Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”

You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.

“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”

A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks. 

It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.

“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.

“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”

Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.

Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.

His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest. 

“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”

And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

[happycatshadee]

I, too, would love to be Bucky Barnes' best friend. I enjoyed this very much.

[lucky-bucky-boy]

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek

[lunexiax]

𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑒 (𝑏𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠)

pairing: bucky barnes x f!agent!reader

summary: You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline.

warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with a sprinkling of plot, spanking, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, condescending!bucky, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, kinda dubcon but more like undernegotiated kink, no daddy kink but do not be fooled bc this whole thing reeks of daddy issues (see: title), jealousy, use of petnames (doll, sweetheart, baby etc.), implied age gap, bucky calls reader kid, no use of y/n, jealousy, cursing, mention of alcohol, slightest bit of angst if you squint hard, situationship to relationship pipeline

word count: 7k words

dividers by: @chateaubarnes (jewel toned dividers)

a/n: so. sat down in front of a blank google doc to write a 800-900 word drabble based on this ask. blacked out. snapped out of it and found myself with 7k words of pure filth and a pit of self-disgust in my stomach that i think will last my whole life. bon appetit.

please reblog / comment if u liked this. otherwise i die </3

Bucky knows this is all his fault. 

He’s fully aware he’s the one that started this whole thing. When he first said those words to you - ‘no emotions, no exclusivity, just sex’ - he watched about twenty emotions roll over you in the space of a few seconds. First was offence, as if he had just shot you the nastiest insult you could have imagined. Next was something uncomfortably close to hurt. But eventually, he watched a sort of smugness begin to sprout over you - like you knew you would make him regret it.

And fuck, does he ever.

He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you. 

He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.

In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces. 

But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.

He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.

He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.

He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.

Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.

And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.

You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.

“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”

He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”

Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy. 

“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”

Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.

“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”

You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.

“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.

“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”

“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”

“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.

“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”

“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”

Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.

You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction. 

“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation. 

Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.

It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.

“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.

“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”

“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”

He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.

And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t. 

Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)

But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.

“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”

Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”

Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him. 

But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.

“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”

You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.

“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.

“Wanna bet, kid?”

The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting. 

Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.

“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”

There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.

And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard. 

“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.

No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”

You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission. 

“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”

There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.

Before it shatters into a million pieces.

Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.  

“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”

Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”

“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”

“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”

He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.

Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.

“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”

Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else. 

Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.

“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.

“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”

“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.

“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.

When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”

“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming. 

You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain. 

You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.

He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.

When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.

Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.

“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”

You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation. 

When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.

He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.

He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.

“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”

Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.

Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.

“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”

“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”

“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.

Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.

You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal. 

By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.

It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual. 

Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.

Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny. 

“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”

In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.

“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”

His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.

“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”

When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.

“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”

“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”

He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”

When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”

You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.

“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”

He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.

You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to. 

“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”

He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”

There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.

“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”

You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.

“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”

“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”

You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.

“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”

Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-

“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”

And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.

Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering. 

He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”

He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.

Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.

But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”

“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Why? You just got back from a mission.”

You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.

“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”

You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.

“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.

You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”

You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”

“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”

He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.

“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”

“Then cancel.”

You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.

“No.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”

He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”

That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”

The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?

“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.

“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”

“I’m not- hey, stop.”

You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.

“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.

“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”

He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.

“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”

“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”

He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”

“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them. 

“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”

how i felt after writing this:

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468

ask: @tough-tittay-4u (i hope this was ok! i changed a couple of things so i would find it easier to write but i hope it was somewhat how you pictured it!)

[lucky-bucky-boy]

[withahappyrefrain]

Please You

Summary: Cameron is desperate to please you. Like, really desperate.

Warnings: female reader, Cameron is pathetic, oral sex (fem receiving), p in v, protected sex (wrap before tap). dry humping, Cameron is pathetic. Mix of book and movie canon.

He's so squirmy. For a guy who claims to not be nervous, it's really apparent that he is. From the way he practically jumped out of his seat when you came over to compliment his singing at open mic night, to how his eyes comically widened when you suggested going home together after talking for a few hours.

“Yeah, that's fine,” Cameron’s hands are running through his dirty blonde hair, a hundred thoughts clearly racing through his head.

“If you don't want to-”

“I do! I mean,” he cleared his throat, “That would be fine. Cool. It's just uh. I've been doing this thing, trying out the vagabond lifestyle, so I uh, live-”

“In a van? I’m aware, it's all this town could talk about when you first got here.” Gossip ran rampant in Sowell Bay. Folks loved to act as if a newcomer was a rarity and Cameron Cassmore had given them plenty to talk about. He’s single handedly kept this town entertained for nearly a month now. You had heard things, about someone owing him a lot of money, how he seemed to argue with nearly everyone he met.

At open mic night, his demeanor was different. Less guarded. Probably helped that Tova was there, proving to everyone that this guy wasn't some dangerous drug dealer or whatever the rumor mill came up with this week.

Yeah, he was still awkward and needed a woman old enough to be his grandmother to strike up a conversation. After a beer or two, he had relaxed enough that Tova made an excuse about needing to leave (not before sending you a very obvious wink).

At the very least, Cameron would be a good time. If he could stop tripping over his own words.

“Oh, yeah.” He was clearly uncomfortable with the gossip surrounding him. Granted, it's not like he tried to fly under the radar, "It's not bad or anything. I mean, the heater doesn’t work but I have a ton of blankets. If you're cool with that, that is.”

He doesn't want to take you back there, it's clear as day. So you offer him an alternative.

“We could go back to my place if you want.”

He nods, “Yeah. We could do that.”

Cameron is silent in your car though his body can't seem to stay still. He alternates. First, fidgeting in the passenger seat, shifting his hips like he's trying to get comfortable. Knees bending despite there being plenty of room to accommodate his long legs. Then he’ll run a hand through his hair, once, twice before moving on to fingers. Tracing over his many tattoos, finding something on his nails to pick at.

“Been awhile?” Your tone is light, well meaning. And yet, one would think you had just accused him of murder.

“No. Actually. Uh, before I came here I had a girlfriend. Not that she's still my girlfriend, we broke up before I left. But we did…it pretty regularly. So no, it hasn't been a while. I mean, it's been a while since I hooked up with someone but that's just more of a situational thing. Totally doesn't impact my ability at all, if that's what you're wondering.”

Alright, that was kinda a lie. The last two months of his relationship with Katie, things had cooled off in the bedroom. She was always tired or something. And it had been almost two months since he arrived in Sowell Bay so…four months and some change. But the last thing Cameron needed was for you to think he couldn't deliver. You were cute, you actually approached him at the bar. When was the last time something so serendipitous happened to him? He couldn't remember. So he had to play it cool and he'd like to think he was doing an alright job at it.

“Hooking up with someone you barely know is really different than having sex with your girlfriend. For all you know, I could be a serial killer,” you were joking but the way his eyes widened again, it was clear he was in over his head and your comment did not help.

“I'm not. Besides, too many people have seen us together. You also have a job that requires you to be punctual. So if you go missing, it'll be noticeable immediately.” Oh God, you were scaring the poor kid, “Sorry, I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.”

He laughs and for the first time since he sang on stage, the facade breaks. His shoulders relax, a crooked smile forms on his face. The corners of his blue eyes slightly crease. Its really fucking cute.

It lasts until you pull into your driveway.

“You live here?” Cameron asks, incredulous at the sight of your townhouse.

“I mean, I rent it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It makes Cameron feel slightly better, feel less like a loser who lives in a van. But once his feet hit the gravel, his body tenses up. He’s going into your house. You live in a house and you’re his age. A nice house, all by yourself. And what does he have?

He just needs a little more time. That’s all he ever needed. A little more time, and he’ll meet Simon Briggs, get eighteen years worth of child support, buy an actual car, pay back Aunt Jean, and then rent out a nice place. Maybe he’ll even have enough for a down payment for a house or maybe a condo. Yeah, a condo with a patio. Nothing like the shitty one bedroom apartment he lived in with his mom until she-

“Cameron?” Your voice breaks him out of his racing thoughts. Somehow, he got to your porch, feet just steps away from the door like he’s a fucking vampire waiting to be given permission to enter. You’re in the doorway, not quite inside your home but not outside either.

Anxiety is practically pouring out of him. It was endearing though. So you take a step forward, grasping his large hand into yours.

“It’s been a while for me too,” You confess.

“What? No, I just told you-” You don’t let him finish the blatant lie. No amount of eye rolls would do the trick, so you let your lips shut up his. There’s the distinct remnants of whiskey on his lips. They’re surprisingly soft. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘guy who applies chapstick regularly’. He’s rusty at first, body stiff. His nose smashes into yours, as though he doesn’t know where else it could go. Cameron’s fingers twitch, as though he wants to move them but just doesn't know where.

The last month before the breakup, all they had done was exchange quick, tight lipped kisses. Looking back, it was clear Katie was looking for any excuse to break up with him. It was even clearer that Cameron hadn't passionately kissed someone in a fucking while.

Just when he remembers what to do with his damn hands, you pull away. That was a total shit kiss, like did he even do anything besides stand there? Cameron should just go home before you ask him to-

“Let's go inside,” you give his hand a gentle squeeze before leading him into your living room.

“You have a fireplace in your house?” he stares in amazement and if he hadn't dropped the fact his mom was a drug addict who abandoned him, you would be confused by his reaction.

“It's really common in the houses up here. Gets cold in the winter and there's plenty of trees.” He continues to stare at it, like it’s hypnotized him. Reminding him of all the possibilities he could have had in his past. In the present.

“Why don’t we go to the couch?” That’s when it hits him. Why he’s here.

He doesn’t want it to be a one night stand. Yes, that would be much easier. But talking to you is nice. You don’t treat him like an idiot. You don’t listen to the gossip that swarms this town. You’re cute, but also sincere. There’s a calmness to you that he yearns for. Always had, if he really thought about it.

So he lets you lead him over to the couch and sits down first. It gives him more time to gather his thoughts, more time to plan how he’s going to convince you that he should be more than a one night stand. He doesn’t have the money to take you out to a nice restaurant-do those even exist in Sowell Bay or is it all family style restaurants where everyone knows everyone? And he could, if he dipped into his paycheck. Or maybe he could take you out on a picnic. Tova probably had a picnic basket he could borrow, she seemed like that type. He could get sandwiches from Ethan at a discount and it wouldn’t give you food poisoning as long as you ate it the day of.

“You think really loudly,” you giggle, running a hand through his soft hair. It’s mused from his earlier fussing with it and the ends are beginning to curl, “It’s really cute.”

“It is?” His eyes are wide and bluer than the ocean. It's the fact he's genuinely surprised by the comment that gets you.

Aw.

“Also if you’ve changed your mind, it’s okay, like really. We could just watch a-”

“No! I mean,” he clears his throat, clearly a nervous habit, “I’m fine. I’m not nervous. It’s not like I’m a fucking teenager and it’s my first time.”

You straddle his waist, much to Cameron’s surprise, “It’s just your first time in a while with a stranger, right?”

“I mean, there was one time me and my ex were on a break-”

Nope. You weren’t listening to this. You tugged on his hair, forcing him to look up at you. Before another excuse could fall from his lips, you pressed yours against his. This time, Cameron remembered what to do with his fucking hands. They reached for your shoulders, helping you push off your jacket. It landed on the floor, somewhere. He could pick it up for you later, if he remembered.

His hands skimmed across your back, landing at your hips. He really wanted to grab your breasts, he had been trying not to stare at them all night. But that would be too much too soon.

At least he's a better kisser this time. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and a low sigh escapes your mouth. Cameron wants to hear it again. Like now. He's never felt this need so badly, to know you're enjoying it as much as he is. He wouldn't call himself a selfish lover, it was just never a driving force behind his actions.

He gives your hips a tentative squeeze and you shift in his lap, aligning your core with his crotch. You don't notice it at first, but then his mouth is exploring your neck and it feels really good. But this time when you shift, you can feel his erection pressing against your clothed core and fuck he’s already this hard from kissing?

Cameron is painfully aware how pathetic it looks to be this hard from a make out session. But you keep letting out these soft moans every time his teeth find your pulse point below your jawline and it's the hottest sound he's ever heard. He wants to hear it again, more than he wants to thrust his hips upwards to get some relief.

You grab his hair again, giving the ends a tug so he's forced to look up. He's pretty like this. Hair curly, pink lips slightly swollen. Adam's apple bobbing hard in his throat. Curious, you rolled your hips against his and his head tips back. His teeth are biting down on his bottom lip hard.

You could make a comment about it. But then he'd probably try to make an excuse, try to explain it away. And you don't want that. So instead, your mouth attaches itself to his neck and you continue to grind against his erection, having never been more grateful to be wearing a dress. Even though there's still two layers of fabric separating your bodies, you can feel how hard he is. His cock twitches against your covered core and it makes you want to swallow him whole.

You continue to rock your hips, delighting in the strained, breathy groans that fall from his mouth. Cameron can't help but jerk his hips upwards when your teeth sink into his neck. Fuck, you're marking him. He hasn't been this excited about a hickey since ninth grade. He can hide it with his hoodie, or maybe you want others to see?

Maybe you wouldn't mind if he gave you one? The thought thrills him. He's certain by tomorrow morning the whole town will be talking about how the two of you were seen going home together. But you didn't seem to care about that or the fact he lived in a van. So maybe you wouldn't mind if he marked you?

“Should we um…go to your bedroom?” His voice is strained, broad chest practically heaving. His hands are gripping your ass and unfortunately it's not because he wants to cop a feel. The reality is Cameron needs you to stop grinding against his cock because otherwise he will one hundred percent come in his pants.

You nod, leading him up the stairs. Cameron has to bite his tongue so he doesn't comment on the fact your place has three levels. Of course it does. You have your shit together, for a while now. And it's obvious he doesn't. He was also close to coming in his pants like a damn teenager.

He wants to see you again. But that won't happen if he's gawking over the fact you have an office and coming in his pants. You didn't seem to pay any mind to the gossip surrounding him but you've still heard it. He needs you to see that he's not some loser who lives in a van down by the river. He has potential, always had, the circumstances have just never been right and they're so close to being that.

He just needs a little more time.

Right now, he can't do much over the fact that locating Simon Briggs is harder than finding a needle in a haystack. But he can give you an unforgettable night. He can prove that he's worth keeping around, even if it's just for a tousle in the sheets.

So instead of ogling at your breasts, which look amazing in your lacy bra, he's studying your face as his fingers curve inside of you. He's listening for your breath to hitch, for you to let out one of those sweet moans so he knows what he's doing is actually bringing you pleasure.

Cameron has never thought so hard about this. Usually he considers fingering just part of the ‘warm up’, nothing too special. But what if he's bad and that makes you reconsider? If he can't use his fingers right, how could you expect him to pleasurably use…other parts of him?

His thumb draws a circle on your clit and he notices how your back arches off the mattress. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

“Yeah? You… you like that?” He winces. It sounded sexy in his head. But it comes out unsure and clunky. Usually he's the quiet type. But he's heard that erotic audio has become a big thing lately, so women must like guys who talk during it.

“I think you should get a condom.” Your voice is even and that worries Cameron. Shouldn't you sound a little more out of breath? Oh God, does he suck at this? Was Katie just faking it this whole time?

“You, you sure? I can keep going if you want.”

“I'm ready and it seems like you are too.” You're referring to the fact he's painfully hard in his boxers. At least he remembered to do laundry yesterday, the last thing he needed was for you to see him in a ratty pair of boxers that had more than an acceptable number of holes in it.

“Do you need one?” You run a hand through his curls to get his attention.

“No, I'm good. Absolutely have one. Cause why wouldn't I?” He nearly trips over his shoes to get to his pants and he hopes that maybe, just maybe, he has a condom that hasn't expired in his wallet.

Fuck, he doesn't. Because why would he? Katie was on the pill and despite everyone assuming he's a fuck up, she was the only one he was with for the past year.

“If you need one, second draw from the right.” Cameron looked to find you sitting up, legs to your chest.

“I usually have one. It's just been a while since I needed one. My ex was on the pill and I'm totally clean. I don't just walk around, putting my dick in everyone,” Jesus Christ, why did he say that? “What I'm trying to say is I don't want to get someone pregnant. I’d make a terrible parent.”

“I don't know you well enough to agree or disagree,” you chuckle, “But it's okay. You're fine, I promise.”

Cameron can't help but feel a pang of disappointment run through his body when he finds an opened box of condoms. Obviously you two aren't dating, you were free to fuck whoever you'd like. But that meant….you were free to fuck whoever you'd like.

He could be impressive, leave you wanting more. He'd like to think he’s decent at the whole sex thing.

Just needed to get this stupid condom on.

“I got you,” your voice is soothing. Cameron watches as your fingers roll the condom down his hardened length.

He has to make this good. Hell, unforgettable. You have a real, adult job (what it was exactly, he couldn't say at this current moment), and live in an actual house. Cameron knew he had a lot to offer, probably. But in this moment, he needed to wow you, make you want him back. Then he could prove he can be more than just a one night stand.

“You okay? Breathing kinda heavy.”

He doesn't respond back. If he does, he’ll just make up some excuse and that's the last thing he needs. Cameron surges forward, mouth crashing against yours. You're taken aback by the sheer force of his kiss.

One of his hands cups the nape of your neck, the other lays against the small of your back. He uses his hands to gently press you down against the mattress. You look like an angel among the pillows. A really sexy angel.

Focus.

His nose nuzzles into your neck, inhaling your sweet perfume. You smelled really, really good but he knew admitting that would make him look like a fucking weirdo. He wouldn't mind this, his body on top of yours, face buried in your neck.

Maybe afterwards.

For now, he grabs the base of his cock and guides it to your soaked core. The gasp you let you when his cock drags against your folds is music to Cameron’s ears. He still has it. One bad breakup didn't ruin his game.

You can feel every inch of him like this. The fat head of his cock rubs against your clit and you can't help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Sound really pretty when you do that,” Cameron says against your neck, “Gonna make you do it a lot tonight.”

“Y-yeah?” You try to chuckle but it's really hard when he’s rutting his cock against you. So instead you rake your nails across his inked biceps.

Usually Cameron doesn't talk. He’ll grunt occasionally, particularly when he's close to coming. But you don't need to know that.

“Yeah. Gonna make you feel good.” Every gasp and moan that fell from your lips motivated him.

“If you k-keep doing that, I'm gonna come,” you grit between your teeth.

“Want to come with me inside you?” You nod and Cameron has to fight the urge to raise a fist. He's doing this, things are actually going well.

He stills his hips and guides his cock down to your entrance. He sinks the tip in and holy shit, it feels like you're pulling him in, you're so tight.

“F-fuck. Bigger than I expected.” He should be walking on cloud nine with that compliment. Yeah, he always knew he was above average in that department. It's still nice to hear, puts some pep in your step. But Cameron can't because he's too busy trying not to come immediately. You're just so warm and feel incredible and yeah, it has been a long time.

So he stills his hips again, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. His eyes trail over your body, landing on your bare chest. Fuck, your tits. They somehow looked even better without the lacy bra. He couldn't stop himself, bringing one of your breasts to his mouth.

The action causes his hips to move forward, his cock to sink another inch deeper. Your fingernails have become well acquainted with his back, leaving half crescent marks scattered across his shoulders.

You feel incredible. Actually, incredible was an understatement. It's taking everything in him not to fill you to the brim, to not come immediately.

He slowly pulls out, just a little. Then he thrusts back in and shit. Shit shit shit. This is fucking amazing. You were so tight and warm. His hands find the backs of your thighs and he pushes your legs closer to your chest. He doesn't think he can do that whole “your legs over his shoulders” thing because who the hell is that flexible besides gymnasts? So this seems like a good compromise. Plus it makes him look like he can take charge.

So he does and fuck, this is a terrible idea. The new angle allows him to go even deeper, something he didn't know was possible. With every kiss you press against his lips, Cameron finds his brain becoming more and more cloudy. The only thing he can focus on is this need to fuck you, to make you moan, make you come. He needs it desperately.

“F-feel s’good,” his words are slurred, which is odd considering he only had two beers, “Gonna make you feel better.”

But also you feel so fucking incredible. He can't deny that either. You're warm and tight, so fucking tight. Your walls grip his cock and has he ever had sex this good? He needs to focus, you have to come first, but you feel fucking fantastic and oh God, you just clenched around him and fuck. No, no, this was not happening, this could not be happening.

“F-fuck, wait!” He tries to warn you, tries to pull out. But your legs are wrapped around his waist and it's too late. His hips are jerking forward uncontrollably and he can feel himself coming coming into the condom.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck!

He's pulling out before you can process what just happened. It's not until you see him taking off a now very full condom that it hits you.

Oh.

Honestly? It was hot. You never had that kind of effect on a guy before.

“Sorry, I um,” his face is bright red, “I-I’ll leave.”

“Why?” He paused, boxers barely on, “B-because I just came after two minutes of sex like a fucking teenager?”

You shrug, “I thought it was hot.”

His blue eyes widened, “You did?”

Nodding, you prop yourself up against your pillows, “Yeah. You were really into it, which was honestly refreshing. Most guys try to act like they're above it. I liked that you’re enthusiastic. I like that I made you feel that good."

He's staring at you like you just told him a mind blowing secret. A million thoughts are running through his head.

“Really?” Is all Cameron can get out. He's standing in the middle of your bedroom, clad only in a pair of worn boxers. His chest is rising up and down rapidly, like he just ran a marathon" "You don't think it's like, beyond pathetic?"

“Really,” you assure him, “I’d hate to see you leave so soon. We could still hang out or-”

“You want me to stay?” he sounds incredulous. Is such a concept that foreign to him? You knew there was more behind the sarcastic comments and eye rolls. Just weren't expecting it to be such….lonelieness.

“I would love for you to stay, Cameron.”

He nods his head, like that four letter word didn't just knock him off his feet. Silently, he moves back to your bed, his lips pressing against yours. This kiss is different. More urgent. Fervent almost. As though he thinks you slip through his fingers if he doesn't.

“You didn't come,” he whispers against your neck, lips trailing down your body.

“It's fine-” Cameron's shaking his head before you can even finish your sentence. His mouth skims over your chest, his breath against your nipples creating goosebumps across your body.

“No. Need-wanna make you feel good,” is all he says before settling himself between your thighs.

Before you could respond, he dived into your heat, eagerly. His tongue circled your clit in deliberate strokes, his eyes glued to your face, watching for every little reaction.

Somehow you tasted sweet and tangy and all too addicting. Cameron saw how your back arched when his tongue found your entrance. He shifted, moving your thighs so they hugged the sides of his face. His cock was throbbing (how, he didn't know) but Cameron didn't care. Every brain cell was focusing on you, making you feel good.

It's how he noticed that while his tongue was making you moan, it wasn't the same as when he sank his cock into you. Not as breathy, not as needy. Fingers. He had long fingers. It's how he was able to learn the guitar and actually be quite good at it.

His mouth moved back up to your clit, allowing his index and middle finger to circle your entrance.

“C-Cameron, please.” Good. Yes. He sank his fingers into your wet entrance. Fuck you were tight. Had he actually obtained any will power, he could have felt that tightness with his cock for longer. But he couldn't harp on that.

He crooked his fingers upwards, trying to find that spot. Normally this wasn't a mission, his fingers and Dick were long enough that they usually ended up finding it without any extra effort.

Cameron couldn't just hope now. He already left a less than desirable impression with how he came after maybe five minutes of sex. He had to prove he was good at this, that he wasn't some jackass who lived in a van and didn't care if his partner came or not. He was good at something damn it and you were going to see that.

All while having this internal battle, you were fighting the urge to claw at his shoulders. No guy had ever eaten you out with this much vigor. His broad tongue drags a flat, wet stripe across your clit and oh fuck.

Your back arches off the mattress, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. He's a quick learner, you'll give him that. He repeats the motion and God, he’s looking at you with such intensity, studying every little reaction.

“F-fuck, don't stop,” and he's a much better listener than he appears because he doesn't. He keeps going, keeps moving his fingers in a come hither motion that feels so good it's making your hips roll upwards. Cameron doesn't seem to mind that you're practically humping his face. In fact, he seems to enjoy it given how his own hips are jerking against your mattress.

“Don't stop. M’gonna cum,” you can barely get out more than several words, much less a full sentence. You expect him to pull away, like most guys do.

Instead, his mouth continues. Your body feels light. There's a warmth that's spreading, seeping into your veins. A band is tightening in the pit of your stomach, tightening with every stroke of his tongue.

His fingers brush against that one spot and you feel the band snap. You start to have a vague idea of what's going on, though it's hazy. Like the fact you can now feel his tongue lapping up your essence, nose bumping against your clit. The mattress is moving, ever so slightly, against the headboard with the way his hips are basically jumping your mattress. There's a wet spot quickly spreading from the crotch of his boxers, but Cameron hopes you have a washer dryer (why wouldn't you, you have a fucking fireplace) he can use. Right now, all he can focus on is the taste of you on his tongue, how addictive it is.

He's chasing after it, desperate. You have to pull his mouth off of your cunt for it to register to Cameron what you were saying.

“S-slow down. It's o-okay,” your breathing is uneven, tits nearly spilling out of your bra and all he can think is,

“Can I..go again? Like keep going? If you want…me to.”

The way his eyes light up and his mouth dives back to your soaked core when you nodded yes, he's just as excited, if not more so.

[lucky-bucky-boy]

[rie-jpg]

I'm sorry but if you use AI photos as a banner/cover for your stories, I'm gonna assume you use it to write your stories too.

I just commented on a fanfic to remove a picture because it was clearly AI and girlie deleted my comment, crazyy.

[lucky-bucky-boy]

its my birthday and i cant stop thinking about peter parker

[lucky-bucky-boy]

thinking about going to universal with Peter and riding the Spiderman ride

[lucky-bucky-boy]

Hey girlyyyyy

You know I enjoy some recreational marijuana so could I get some pothead!Reader X tasm!Peter and/or Bucky content plssss

-Pao ☄️ (I don’t remember what my old anon name was lmao)

in addition to this ask: can we get more insight to tech bro Pete and his best friend? Literally whatever you wanna write for them I'm obsessed less pothead reader and modding it for techbro!peter x bestfriend!reader

the three times you denied peter's offer to smoke, and the first time you accepted it (three times you denied peter's offer is within the first 6ish months of being friends with peter, than the first time accepted is after casual)

A/N: this turned out way longer than it should have been (~4100 words) so i didn't write the full smut

tw: substance consumption (weed, alcohol), messy relationship/situationship, implied smut, sex under influence, peter's nickname for the reader is daisy (and pretty girl), peter jumping off a building

Nothing about Peter Benjamin Parker would read as a 23-year-old tech engineer and Oscorp's leading consultant. Yet, he was. Despite the barely grown-out bleached hair, the constant bouncing of his leg, the maroon hoodie adorning his body, and the blunt tucked securely behind his ear - This was the Peter Parker that Gwen had told you so much and so little about.

Gwen. Lovely, well-intended Gwen, who was determined to be friends with you the moment you told her you just moved to New York. Her bright smile split her face, eyes practically sparkling as she welcomed you to the city and subsequently demanded you go to dinner with her so she could show you the best pizza in town.

In her defense, the pizza was good.

After the first day, it was a weekly thing. Even if you wanted to say no, you couldn't. Just like you couldn't say no when she invited you to a little hangout at her friends' apartment. The nail polish you put on the night before was losing the battle to your nerves, anxiety plucking at the edges until they were all chipped as you stood stiff in the large kitchen.

Voices ran like static television, your mind trying to place puzzle pieces. The shorter of the two men was Harry Osborn, the owner of the condo you currently stood in, not an apartment. The vast walls were bare save for a handful of art pieces probably worth your months salary, the kitchen was sleek, and the windows gave the most gorgeous view of the city you'd seen so far.

Then there was the darker-haired girl who came in a few minutes after you. "M.J. finally, you decide to show up," Harry's voice had teased the moment the door was open, pulling your attention to her and clicking a piece into place.

It would have been really nice for Gwen to show you pictures of everyone before arriving, or even better, introduce you to everyone.

How long has it been of you standing at Gwen's side, eyes looking around owlishly as you took in your surroundings? 5 minutes? 10? 30?

"Gwen," Peter's voice easily cut through the chatter of his friends, his leg going still, chin pointing down as he caught the blonde's eye from across the room. "Throw that poor girl a bone and introduce her. Y'been here for 12 minutes and she's standing there like your shadow."

A sigh fell from your lips, eyes going wide for a moment before looking over to Gwen. Apparently that was the right reaction, because everyone started laughing.

"Oh. My. God." Dramatic, as always, "I am so sorry. Guys, this is the girl I've been telling you about."

It felt like an icebreaker on your first day of high school, or more accurately like Cady Heron on her first day of real school except the people here were actually nice and actually wanted to be your friends, right? Maybe.

Somehow, you missed Peter standing up and moving about until he was in front of you, pulling the blunt out from behind his ear. Despite the frat boy look to him, he smelled of cinnamon and amber, like you just stepped into a bookstore warmed by candles, and not at all like weed or booze or axe body spray like you were expecting.

"Wanna smoke? Help ease that anxious brain of yours?" His voice was smooth like warm honey.

"I'm good, thank you, though." It was tempting; it would help, but you also don't really know these people yet.

There was a beat of silence, his eyes scanning you for a moment. It was like he was analyzing you, every strand of hair and texture on your skin, until his gaze landed on your phone that you were flipping over in your hand, the flower design of your case visible every other movement. "Daisies." It was a statement more than a question.

"Oh?" You followed his gaze to your hand before looking back at him to see his eyes were on yours again, "Yeah, daisies."

"They're cute flowers." His comment was nonchalant, hand reaching in his pocket and pulling out a lighter before he took a few steps back, turning to head towards the balcony entrance. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Thursday night dinners quickly turned into Thursday night drinks. So maybe Gwen's friends did actually like you, or at least didn't hate you.

The bar was always so warm and inviting, a little slice of tranquility that was golden lights and friendly bartenders amidst the cold, concrete jungle that was New York City. Situated on the border of Brooklyn and Queens, and somehow almost directly in the middle of all of your respective homes.

The week had been long, and honestly, both you and Gwen were dreading the idea of coming out tonight. Shared sighs of exhaustion during lunch that were now completely forgotten amongst the group. It was easy to forget why you were tired when M.J. spent the better part of the evening airing out Harry and Peter's relationship fails, the stories ramping up more and more each go around. They must have done something to tick her off before Gwen and you got there from the firm.

"Okay, so have neither of you had a real relationship?" The question slips from your lips before you press the rim of your glass to them, sipping at the contents. You weren't trying to get drunk, not with another long day tomorrow.

The question causes everyone to go silent for a moment, M.J.'s eyes darting from Peter to Gwen before Harry pipes up. "Well, of course we have." His tone is defensive, but there's a curl to his lips and uptick in his words, "Last person I dated wasn't ready to come out, so we ended things. Dated a few other people since but nothing serious. Gwen hasn't been in a relationship since Oxford, Peter hasn't been in a relationship since Gwen -"

"Harry-" M.J. hisses out.

Gwen sighs, her forehead coming down to rest against her hand for a moment before she looks around, that tight look she has with a demanding client adorning her usually soft features. "She knows Peter and I dated in high school-" when she looks at you, her eyes soften again, "We just usually don't talk about it-"

"Because when it gets brought up it's the topic of conversation for weeks." Peter finishes her sentence with ease before picking up his beer. The clink of his empty glass against the table signals the end of his drink and the end of the night, even if it's not spoken.

"Well, if it helps, my dating history isn't much better. I've seen it all. The liars, cheats, and thieves. Oh, and a Republican." You offer before following suit on Peter's action and moving to stand out of the booth.

There's a chorus of reactions, the lightness edging its way back into the conversation. The rogue commentary is met with smiles and half-hearted reactions as the five of you make it out of the bar, the sun barely setting behind the buildings. It really was an early night.

Normally, by now, the sun is far past set, and Gwen is orchestrating the drive home on her phone to see if any roads are closed off. Harry, being the saint that he can be when he wants, would usually drive you home before dropping Gwen and MJ off at their shared apartment and going home himself, even though you live in the opposite direction from them.

But tonight? Well, this evening is nice. There's plenty of daylight left to light your way, and the warm spring air doesn't nip at your skin the way it has been the past few weeks. Your apartment is only a few blocks north.

"I'll walk home tonight, Gwen," you say just as you see her reach for her phone.

The look on her face is as if you just insulted her, blonde brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. "What? No. Harry can drop you off like normal."

You shake your head, tucking your hand into the front of your trousers. Sure, work clothes weren't the most ideal walking attire, but at least you wore flats today and not heels. "No, no. It's fine. It's nice out, I want to walk."

With the way the other three are looking back and forth, a bystander would think there was a tennis match going on. "I'll walk her home," Peter offers, her hands fiddling within his sweatshirt pocket. "Harry said it's not much different than the route I would take home."

Gwen's shoulders relax at that, her lips twitching with a smile, "You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. Won't let anything happen to Ms. Daisy, I promise."

Your eyes roll before you even realize you're reacting, which causes Peter to laugh. "Don't give me that look, now come on before Momma Gwen changes her mind."

The walk towards your apartment is quiet at first. It felt natural asl you two turned the corner, blocking the view of the bar as you trekked along. Peter's hands finally came out of his pocket, bringing a little black box to his lips before he stopped his movements and glancing at you. "You okay if I take a hit?"

You glanced up at him, brows furrowing and lips pursing. "Yeah - yeah, that's fine."

He smiled softly before taking a small breath of the vape, offering you the device after he did. "It's weed." He stated, "Not nicotine. Do you want a hit?"

Your fingers twitched ever so slightly, before shaking your head, "No, I'm okay. Thank you for offering. And asking."

Peter nods before tucking the little box back into his pocket. "Thank you for changing the subject earlier."

You're not entirely sure how they convinced you to climb 20 stories and sit atop the roof of Harry's condo building. There was maybe a promise of good stories, good pizza, and the most amazing view in NYC, but even with all the good you couldn't get over how far down the ground was. If any of you tripped...

The summer air was sticky at this point, but thankfully, the dark, vast night sky was offering a much-needed reprieve. Specks of white were dotted along the ink, not the most stars you've ever seen, but the most you've seen since moving here. Looking up was an easy way to distract you from what was below.

You could hear the others chattering away, a few feet from your more than safe spot on the roof. Gwen and M.J. sat in foldable lounge chairs, Harry between them and Peter pacing in front of them as he sparked his blunt. There was a small table that held the pizza and drinks they set up before you got here.

"Hey!" Peter's voice drew your gaze to them again, his hand waving you over.

With a deep breath and a few steps that felt like molasses, you stood behind Gwen, who was peering up at you from her seat. "How are you guys not scared out of your minds up here?"

Gwen's laugh sounded as if it was floating through the air, "You get used to it, I promise." She looked back at the others before looking up at you again. "Peter has something he wants to tell you."

There was a wave of something that ran through you, maybe a horde of butterflies or maybe a tsunami of dread. Catching his eye, you couldn't miss the mischievous glint in his. He took another hit of his blunt before taking a step back towards the edge, and another another, and another.

Each step he took was making your hands clammy, heart beat faster. You didn't even hear Harry's complaint of Peter's dramatics as Peter took the last step up onto the ledge and fell backwards off it.

There was a rush of white noise. Your legs moved to take a step towards the ledge, but then Gwen grabbed your arm, stopping you from going more than a foot ahead of her. Just as you're about to turn to her, you see Peter bouncing back over the ledge, a thick, rope-like string from his wrist to the edge of the building and the blunt in his free hand.

Just as you registered that he was there and very much alive, he was registering the sheer panic on your face and the racing of your heart. He was quickly moving towards you, a broken laugh falling from his lips. "Woah, okay, hey. Take a deep breath, 'm alive."

The rambling of Peter's voice cut through the waterfall of white noise in time for you to hear Gwen pipe up with a "I told you that wasn't a good idea, should've told her, then showed her."

The hand that had been connected to the now disintegrated rope was rubbing the back of his neck, the light flush adorning his cheeks was a rare sight in all the months you'd known him. "Okay, yeah, Gwen, you were right. I thought I would be fun, ya know a 'ha gotcha' moment."

"You can't 'ha gotcha' after jumping off the building." Your fear quickly turned to anger, having erupted and quickly simmered down as you watched Peter's face grimace just the slightest.

There was a beat of silence before Peter sighed. "Just take a deep breath, daisy, kay? Calm down a bit. I'm not dead." He looked around for a moment before his eyes landed on the blunt, "Do you want a hit? May help with the nerves," He offered, sounding genuine.

You shook your head no, moving to sit at Gwen's feet. "No, I - God, you asshole! You scared me half to fucking death." You could hear the snickering behind you. "I want you to explain what the hell was all that." Your hands were waving around nearly comically, brain still trying to process what was going on.

"I- well," he chuckled softly. "I'm Spiderman."

Movie nights at Peter's were a rarity. Really, anything at Peter’s place was a rarity the entire five years you’ve been friends. Living with Aunt May limited what he could do, always stuck between not wanting to disrespect her with his rowdiness or there being some sort of renovation going on. 

Tonight, Aunt May was somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic on a cruise and thankfully just the basement had construction plastic covering it, which prompted Peter’s suggestion of a change from the typical Thursday bar night to his place. The cozy little townhouse in Queens always felt like home; Pictures of Peter through the years and extended family members who none of you had met, knick knacks and art strewn everywhere, Aunt May’s hand-knitted blankets laying across the back of the couch. 

Everytime you were in here, you didn’t want to leave. Tonight was no exception.

The movie was long over, Harry, MJ, and Gwen having left about 10 minutes ago, and you offering to stay behind to help clean up the mess of food containers and empty drinks. Peter was humming softly as he gathered the trash from the living room, his voice breaking through the show playing idly in the background. 

Weirdly, warmly domestic. 

Just as you could feel Peter’s warmth behind you, his humming dying down as he entered the kitchen you had finished up the few dishes, cutting the water off. “Thanks for your help,” his voice was softer, the way it usually was when he would walk you home. 

“Of course,” your tone matching his as you turned around, taking the hand towel he handed you. 

Silence settled between the two of you for a moment, his whiskey eyes warm, crinkling as he smiled. His slight stubble was more noticeable in the brighter light of the kitchen, a few gray hairs shining like glitter against the dark chestnut color at his temples. Was it the bottle of wine you shared with the girls or him making your chest warm and bubbly?

“I’m gonna go roll up,” his voice was that warm honey tone again, “Then, I’ll walk you home, ‘kay?” Peter’s hand hesitated at first, but once you nodded he reached up, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The heat in your ears hit before the dryness in your mouth, Peter thankfully turning out of the kitchen just as you took in an unsteady breath.

Cinnamon and amber, the scent that was so undoubtedly Peter, sat with you in his absence. It had been months since that first time, but something about the way he looked at you tonight made it feel like just yesterday his lips were on yours. 

He returned a few minutes later, stupid blunt tucked behind his stupid ear and a stupid crooked smile on his stupid lips. “Wanna smoke before we go?” He asked as usual, he always asked. Nearly five years of you saying no and he still asked. Except this time, you hesitated, and that hesitation caught Peter by surprise. 

He pulled the blunt from behind his ear, rolling it between his fingers a few times, “I know you smoke on occasion,” he shrugs, “It’s why I always offer. But if you’re not comfortable, you don’t have-”

“Yes,” you answered, cutting off his rambling. Your hands came behind you to hold the count, bracing yourself as Peter took the tiniest step closer to you.

“You sure?” His voice was hushed, eyes searching your face for any hint of hesitation. 

“Yeah.”

Before you can even process, that warm, anticipatory feeling tingling at your skin is being brushed away by a breeze in the late summer air with Peter leading you onto the back porch. It was dark, save for a string of lights strewn across the edge of the awning and the light coming out from the kitchen door window, and surprisingly quiet with the exception of passing cars on the street opposite the house. 

He didn’t even bother pulling chairs up, bringing the blunt to his lips and sparking it the second the door was shut. The glow of the lighter bathed him in warmth like a campfire, highlighting the flutter of his lashes and purse of his lips as he took a breath in. He pulled at it a few times, making sure the burn was even. Once satisfied with how the end singed with red, he turned it to you to take. 

Without even thinking, you didn’t bring your hands up to grab the blunt, instead leaning forward to put your lips to the end of it while he still held it. The paper tasted of chocolate, though the mint of his chapstick was evident and far more intoxicating than the hit you breathed in. Slow and steady, small as you tested the waters, eyes fixed up as you did. 

“Fuck,” the sound was barely audible through his parted lips, the flush on his face barely noticeable in the near darkness. You could sense it more than you could see it, “Don’t look at me like that.”

The smoke fluttered around your face as you breathed out, eyes wide as you held his gaze. Despite the smoke, you could feel your mouth water, chest tighten with anticipation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was a half lie. You knew you were looking at him the same way you did all those months ago, testing the waters, seeing if the option was available.

The issue was Peter always thought you were looking at him like you were trying to communicate with him.

Maybe not always like this, with lust blown pupils and softly bitten lips, but he swore he could read your mind with just a glance. If you were irritated with something Harry was saying, or overwhelmed by Gwen’s protective nature, or confused by something M.J. was explaining, he could tell. If you were looking for your water bottle but not quite needing it or starting to get hungry and needed food sooner rather than later. The way your expression brightened when you saw something that piqued your interest or the distant look when you were tired but not wanting to go home. But, that just came with being friends for so damn long. He could do the same thing with Harry, Gwen, and M.J… mostly. 

Peter brought the blunt back to his lips, the light from the kitchen hitting you more and giving him the chance to see your eyes follow the movement. He took in a hit, but when he noticed your eyes still lingering on his lips, he took in a little more. He held the blunt to the side, taking a step closer and eliminating the little bit of space between you.

Just as you were about to ask what he was doing, his free hand cupped the back of your neck and was guiding your lips towards his. You didn’t need to be told at that point.

Parting your lips just slightly as they met his, the smoke sneaking its way out of his mouth and lungs into your own as you breathed it in. Breathed him in. You couldn’t help the noise that left you, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, breathy and soft through the muffling of smoke and lips. 

Peter didn’t pull away until you could practically feel the smoke leaking and dissipating through the small spaces between your lips. He leaned his forward against your, eyes hooded and he watched the last bit of smoke leave your lips. Once there was no more smoke, he turned his head and took another hit, repeating the process again, and again, and again, until the blunt was nearly nothing. 

He lifted his foot, washing the roach out against the sole of his shoe, never once taking his eyes off yours. There was a heavy silence, foreheads still pressed together, your hands gripping his shirt from you steadying yourself once the world got blurry. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, as if his lips hadn’t been on yours for the past ten minutes.

“Do you really have to ask that?” You countered, hands relaxing a bit against his chest, feeling the warmth from his skin underneath the fabric. 

“Just wanna make sure y’r okay,” he practically slurred out, bumping his nose against yours. “Wanna take care of you,” his lips were ghosting over yours the same way they’ve been, vibrating against you as he spoke. 

“What do you mean by that?” Your voice was soft, barely recognizable to you. You knew what he meant, but with the way he was whining, sounding like he was nearly begging. You needed your foggy brain to commit that to memory. 

“Wanna take care of you,” he repeated, lips trailing across your cheek, nudging against your chin and ghosting against the soft skin of your neck. His stubble scratched ever so slightly, skin warm against yours. “Wanna kiss you, take you back inside and bend you over the couch, eat your pretty pussy unt-”

“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this,” your accusation causes Peter to pause, burying his head in the crook of your neck. 

The heat from his cheeks were obvious, hands coming to rest upon your hips and pulling them flush against his, letting you feel the answer before you heard it. “Can’t blame me,” he counters, softly kissing his way back up to your lips, “You’re the one who bent over the couch earlier.”

“I was handing something to Harry,” you countered with a giggle, hands dancing up his chest and over his shoulders, settling in his hair. Harry had made an offhand comment about Peter needing a haircut, the soft hair slightly curling as it hit the nape of his neck and perfect to tug at softly. The gasp that left him sent a wave of desire through every nerve ending.  “I’ll make a deal with you,” this was why you didn’t smoke with him before, every inkling of doubt and anxiety gone, feeling like you were on top of the world, “You can kiss me, if I can ride you.”

The grip on your hips tightened, “You’re gonna fucking kill me, daisy, fucking hell.” Peter breathed out, pulling back just a bit to look you in the eyes. “I can kiss you, then eat you out, then you can ride me until you’ve had your fill, pretty girl, yeah?” 

Who was going to argue with that counter offer?

[lucky-bucky-boy]

Casual

Paring: Techbro!Peter x BestFriend!Reader

Word Count: 6564

Summary: What happens when you finally aren't with your shitty ex of two years?

moodboard here

Warnings: 18+, afab reader, limited use of Y/N, LOTS of pet names (pretty girl, baby, babe, good girl), praise kink, consent talk, oral f. receiving, techbro!(fuckboy)peter au, talk of drinking and joints

A/N: this ended up way longer than i expected. it's my first longer piece in a while, and definitely poorly proofread so sorry in advance.

I do not own these characters. Do NOT repost any of writings for any reason. Comments and reblogs are welcomed and highly appreciated!

Warm lights highlighted the cozy atmosphere of the bar, the chatter a pleasant background noise to fill any lull in the conversation - not that there was one. The once clean round table top was becoming slightly sticky, evidence of a good night in the form of mixed drinks and dripping beer mugs; broken soft pretzels, half-drank beers, and crumpled napkins nearly being forgotten as laughter filled the table in rumbling spurts. 

Gwen had orchestrated it all, making sure that schedules lined up to finally get everyone together. It was desperately needed. Not only had it been over a month since the metaphorical stars aligned, but it had been just over two weeks since Jake.

Jake, or “jake-ass” as MJ has recently dubbed him, and his absolute gull had the wonderful idea of breaking up with you during the week of midterms. Almost two years being washed down the drain, your hands trying to desperately cup the dissipating water and subsequently making you barely pass your midterms. Who knew opening your boyfriend's phone to take a silly picture during a study break would reveal his betrayal? Or that he would leave relieved while you sat in your bed heartbroken? 

But, who needs Jake-ass when there's vodka sodas and friends? Surely, not you.

“Come on,” Harry’s hand softly hit the table as Gwen continued recounting the next bullet on her list of everything that was wrong with Jake. The relationship was over, which meant a round of roasting the fateful ex with all cards being left on the table. His voice cut Gwen off, staring at you intently from his spot further in the booth. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on a man who- who,” his hands flailed some, his disbelief evident in the way his mouth was gaping.

“Who wouldn’t wash his hands after shitting? Didn’t believe in climate change? Had shit stains on his underwear?” MJ piped in from her spot in-between Harry and Peter. 

Peter’s shock resulted in a snort of a laugh that drew your attention to the man next to you, his hand coming to cover his face as he shook his head. 

“Or, that you spent over a thousand dollars in less than three months? Who’s family you didn’t meet even after two years of dating?” Gwen added, her tone a little more sharp as she reminded you of the more concerning things of the questionable relationship. 

“Who couldn’t make you cum?” MJ added one last note before the table erupted in laughter, your skin burning hot at the admission that didn’t even leave your own lips that night. 

The thought immediately had you grimacing the moment it conjured a hint of a memory. “I could strangle the both of you,” your words coming out as a mutter before bringing your straw to your lips and downing what was left of your drink. You had only planned to drink two vodka sodas before switching to water, but that was being thrown out the window as the heat of embarrassment still warmed your ears. 

Harry must’ve sensed your discomfort because he was sliding you the rest of his beer before waving down the waitress. In a blur of a few moments, the table was cleared and fresh drinks were being sat in front of you, feeling like an oasis in a desert of your messy mind.

Peter clicked his tongue, drawing all the attention to him. His hand held the top of his beer mug, his frosted tips from his previously bleached hair falling into his face as he shook his head in disbelief. “You three really know how to pick ‘em,” he sighed out, his hand flexing down around his mug as he brought it to his lips.

Your eyes caught a glimpse of the way the light bounced off his rings, an accessory he’s been wearing more since he started working at Oscorp full time last year. The observation was cut short as MJ’s disbelief cut through, “Might I remind you, that you and Gwen date-”

“In high school.” The two in question rang out in unison. 

“Besides, it would have never worked out long term.” Gwen finished, hand reaching out for her own drink. Despite the friend group being close, that subject was always a bit convoluted. There were days you wondered if what-if’s filled them, or if they were both satisfied with the friendship they had.

Peter let out an amused scoff, “We’d be so boring if it did.”

There was a moment of laughter, but the second it died down the aforementioned memory threatened to plague your thoughts, Harry’s question repeating itself in your mind. You looked over to him, taking a quick sip of your drink and relishing in the way it warmed you before speaking, “It’s not that I’m hung up on Jake. It’s just that-”

“You need to get laid.” MJ quickly quipped, “Girl, I am telling you once you get laid, you won’t even think about that prick.”

The scoff that left Gwen had you laughing, “No, she does not need to get laid,” she all but exclaimed, “She needs to process that loss of the relationship she wasted two years on.”

There was a burst of bickering between the two girls, going back and forth with their logic. Admittedly, they both had points, but they were points you weren’t currently interested in processing. The back and forth pulled the attention from you, and without much thought you found yourself opening up your phone gallery. 

However, the moment your fingertip lifted from the phone after pressing on a photo you definitely should have, a ringed hand reached out, slender fingers wrapping around your phone and swiping it away. “You’re not gonna be a party pooper when it’s our first time seeing you in weeks. You’ll get your phone back when we leave.” Peter said firmly, pulling your gaze to him.

You couldn’t stop the rolling of your eyes as you held your hand out to him, expecting him to immediately cave and give you your phone back. Instead, he doubled-down in his efforts, slipping the device into his pocket. You really should have known better. Peter was never one to bend, not easily at least. If anything, you’ve learned he was as stubborn as a mule and the biggest tease you’ve ever met. 

All he did was grab his mug and take a long swig, gaze holding yours over the rim as he did. For the first time in months, there was an echo of heat that ran through you, subtle enough that it definitely had to be from the vodka, right?

There was a sudden vibration, pulling your attention from Peter over to Gwen who let out a sigh before putting her phone away. Her demeanor shifted, slumping back against the booth seat. “This is the last round. I need to be in the office by 7 am tomorrow now.”

~

The door of the bar closed behind you, creating a barrier to the warmth inside as the wind of the city hit you. The evening had been nice, but the fully dark sky paved the way for the cooler temperatures. As much as you had been dreading coming out originally, it felt like your legs wanted to take you right back into the bar. 

The alcohol made it easier to feel normal. Weeks of constant limbo, constant questioning years of your life, constant critiquing every square inch of your appearance, put on pause. It was a relief, one that felt miles away with each step you were taking since leaving the table. There was an itch to tell them you were going to stay later, but you knew that wouldn’t fly. 

Gwen was always especially pressed about the rule that if you all went together, you left together. Over a decade of being Peter’s friend had made her even more gravely aware of what could happen, and even though her overbearing concern could be frustrating, all she wanted was for everyone to be safe. 

It wasn’t until Peter was invading your space, his lanky frame leaning closer as he threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to his side, that lopsided grin you had grown to know him for pulling at his lips had you realizing they had all been talking about something while you mind wandered. “You all know who I am,” the statement earned groans from the other girls, Harry snickering at them. There was a moment of confusion in you before he continued, “I’ll get Ms. Heartbreak home safely.”

The nickname immediately made your eyes roll, nudging his side just slightly and pulling a chuckle from him. Your eyes glancing back at Gwen and M.J. “I can get home fine,” You offered, smiling softly at them. Gwen’s concern was written on her face. “And I’ll text you when I do, assuming someone doesn’t kill me with his antics.” You narrowed your eyes up at Peter, his hands coming up in faux defence as he backed away.

The dramatics didn’t stop there as Peter moved his hand to his heart, falling against a lamppost and slowly collapsing to the ground, all while wearing a pained look on his face. “Oh, how you wound me, fair maiden.”

Harry snorted out a laugh, M.J. following suit with her own giggles, and Gwen sighing. This was how it always was with them, ever since you joined their unorthodox friend group a few years ago. ”Fine, fine! Text me when you get home, and MJ and I will see you Sunday for brunch.” Gwen conceded, a small smiling gracing her lips, “Keep her safe, Parker. Please.”

“I will, I will.” He jumped up from the ground, dusting himself off. “You say that every time.” He commented, “As if we don’t live in the same direction and I don’t walk her home every time we come to this bar.”

MJ nodded, her face contorting as she held back laughter at her friend’s annoyance, “He’s got a point, Gwen. Just like Harry always gives us a ride to our apartment.”

“Yeah, I would just feel better if (Y/N) would finally cave and get an apartment with us.” Gwen muttered, ensuing another round of lighthearted bickering between them.

There was a comment that quickly died on your tongue as Peter’s arm wrapped around your shoulders again, turning you around towards the direction of your apartment. “Alright, love you dorks, have a goodnight.” He called back as your steps fell into a comfortable stride and his arm fell from his place on you. 

The walk was comfortable, a quiet routine set into place after countless times of taking the same route home. Cars bustling by, muffled conversations, the occasional street cat and comically chasing a cat down an alleyway. A train or cab would definitely be quick this time of night, but there was something nice about walking off the alcohol and bar food that felt refreshing. 

Cool air prickled your skin, the cars throwing additional gusts of wind at you, only briefly blocked by Peter’s frame. It had been so warm and nice out, but the current temperature had you regretting your disregard for a jacket, missing the warmth of the bar from just 20 minutes ago. Another 10 minute walk, your apartment building finally coming into view a few blocks down as you two crossed the street and rounded a corner. 

Peter moved from your right side, falling a pace behind you before reappearing on his left. The sight of his bare arms in your peripheral making you do a double take before his was maneuvering his hoodie onto your shoulders. The suddenness had you pausing in your steps, the scent of his cinnamon and woodsy cologne enveloping your senses as he lips pulled, adam’s apple bobbing in amusement at your slightly bewilderment.

“Put the damn thing on properly,” he laughed out, “Don’t say you don’t need it. You’ve been rubbing your arms that past two blocks.”

Had you really been rubbing your arms that much? You slipped your arms into their designated space, adjusting the fabric some. The gray material fell against you, immediately enveloping you in warmth and sending a wave of heat that amplified the echo from earlier through you. 

Once he was seemingly satisfied with your obligingness, he turned to continue his stride, nodding for you to continue on with him. “So, what did John do to make you finally leave him?” Peter’s hummed out.

The sigh you left out was quickly met with a soft chuckle. He hadn’t arrived yet when you had been recounting to Harry the scene that played out, and by the time he did get there the conversation was already in full swing that the only explanation he was given was “They finally broke up.” 

“Jake cheated,” the shrug you gave did nothing to ease the anxiety that was swimming in your chest, filling your lungs with smoke and your throat with discomfort. “Found out while studying for my midterms. And, he left me, by the way.”

Peter tripped over your admission, glancing at you with furrowed brows before recovering, “So, let me get this straight, you found out but he left you?” The click of your tongue was enough of a confirmation for Peter to let out his own sigh, “Babe,” the pet name, albeit common in his vocabulary, sent a rush of heat through you, singeing the anxiety in is path to sitting lowly in you, “He was a grade a piece of shit. Couldn’t even be honest with what he wanted and you wanted to stay?”

“Coming from the resident fuck boy of the friend group?” The words came out more acrimoniously than you anticipated, but they did nothing to Peter but make him shrug and laugh. It was oddly comforting to see how much he’d grown, how words seemingly rolled off his back now when they used to all pierce him.

“At least the people I see know what I want. I don’t expect to have my cake and eat it too,” he offered, never faltering from it’s normal lackadaisical tone. It never came off as disinterest or indifferent with Peter, but in the way that you could tell he was confident with himself. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter.

“Is that how you did it?” Your question was seeming incomplete, but the indication was still there. It always was whenever someone brought up exes.

“Did what?” There was a dryness to his tone that was serving as a warning. Clarify, or turn away from the can of worms that everyone looked at but never opened.

But, if you had to spend the entire night recounting your past relationships, someone else should too. “Got over Gwen.” You clarified, hands tucking into the front pocket of the hoodie.

Peter came to a stop, turning to look at you fully. The streetlight hand overhead, bright and yellow, washing him in an angelic like brightness while the bulb on your doorstep flickered softly. “MJ is right. You need to get laid.”

The deflection was answer enough. Yes, and no, and no he wouldn’t be talking about it. His gaze never left yours, waiting and anticipating your next move.

His breath of relief wasn’t lost on you as you turned to your lobby door, pulling your keys out to let the two of you in. Gwen wouldn’t be satisfied unless Peter watched you go into your apartment, and Peter wouldn’t be satisfied until he heard the lock of your deadbolt.

The ascent up the stairs was quiet, the sense of something looming heavy on you. Peter’s steps were in line behind you as you climbed. First floor, second, then third, your apartment door coming into view as you reached the landing. The gimmicky Spiderman doormat he’d gifted during a white elephant exchange was like a beam against the dingy floor, the ‘go away’ sticker above your peephole making you smile softly with the relief of home being so close. 

Just as you unlocked your door and started turning the handle, Peter’s voice broke the silence, “Shit wait-” as you were turning to look at him, he pulled your phone out of his pocket and held it out to you. “Here.”

Something about the exchange cracked a piece of you. Your phone acting as a token to remembering the way he looked at you over his mug. Reaching out to grab it, your fingertips brushing along his and the coolness of his rings, inhibitions died. “You said I need to get laid, right?”

Your movements were quick, shoving your phone into your jean pocket and preparing to flee at the first sign of rejection, eyes looking anywhere but Peter’s face. The package in front of your neighbors door, Peter’s untied shoe, the suggestion of a bulge twitching underneath his zipper.

Was it desire or anxiety that was making your mouth water, skin warming with anticipation, breath short and halted as you waited for his response. “Look me in the eye and ask that again.” 

Peter’s tone was firm in a way you had never heard before. Commanding but warm and inviting, the type of tone to have your eyes shooting up to meet his to make sure you heard it correctly. He was otherwise emotionless, his own gaze studying you as if he was assessing the pros and cons of the situation being presented. “You said I need to get laid.”

He nodded curtly, foot bouncing incrementally. It was subtle, other than the sound of his jeans moving against the fabric of his shoe. “That, I did.”

“Do you want to do something about that?” You weren’t even sure your voice made it above a whisper, hands becoming clammy as they flexed at your sides.

“Do you want me to?” He countered. 

It felt like a chess match, each of you moving a pawn on the board as you figured out what was worth sacrificing. One of you should forfeit, call bluff and turn away, but neither of you made the indication that backing down was an option. 

“I asked you fir-” You were cut off by Peter lips, hands moving to cup your jaw as all space between you two disappeared. 

Feverish. That’s the only word that could come close to describing the way he was moving. Slightly chapped lips from the cold, the taste of rich beer and the minty gum he always chewed, one hand moving to hold the back of your neck to keep you against him while the other was reaching for the door handle. 

He moved you two inside like he’d done it a million times, or at least thought of it million times. Your back was pressed against the wall, his foot kicking your door closing and reaching for the deadbolt. His hand waved a few times before he pulled away with a displeased grunt, reaching over to lock the metal into place with it’s infamous screech. 

Peter looked back at you, mouth slightly parted and tongue swiping along his lip as if he was trying to taste your own against his still. “Tell me this is what you want.” His voice was breathless, quiet, but something lay beneath it. It was a type of yearning you hadn’t felt in months, maybe even years if you were being honest.

“Well, obviously.” You offered, baffled that he would even ask. 

As you reached up to grab at his shirt, he stopped you, his own hands holding your wrists in place between the two of you. “No. I need to hear you say it. Tell me this is what you want. Tell me you want me to fuck you or I’m leaving.”

It didn’t sound like a threat, but your heart still started beating like it was one. Your ears burned hot, feet becoming clammy and the mere thought that he could be trying to find a way out, that he actually wanted to leave. Eyes wide and lips puckered out in a pout, trying to process his words.

Your hesitation broke something in Peter, the look on his face softening as his grip let go of your hands. One hand cupped your chin, palm spreading wide and cold rings cooling your heated skin, the other wrapping around your waist as he pulled you from the wall and closed some of the space again. 

“I want to get on my knees while you lay on your bed, legs spread wide for me while I eat your pussy until you’ve cum on my tongue. Then, I want to fuck you nice and deep until your legs are shaking and you’ve cum again. Does that sound good to you, baby? Can I do that for you?” Peter's voice was raspy, scratching an itch you didn’t know you had.

Once you nodded, Peter smiled, placing the softest of kisses to your cheek, then your nose, then your other cheek, and finally your forehead. His breath came out fanning against your skin, eyes fluttering closed. “Then, you are going to look me in the eye and tell me you want this, that you want me. Yeah?”

With another soft nod from you, Peter pulled back, your eyes opened, voice feeling lost in your body as you breathed out, “I want you to fuck me, Peter. I want you,” he didn’t need to know for how long, you weren’t even sure for how long you’ve craved him. That was a conversation for later.

“Good fucking girl,” he purred out before pressing his lips to yours again. This time, with a soft fervor, more exploratory as his tongue slid between your lips, hands moving to your hips and his thumbs rubbing soft circles against your jeans. 

Everything about Peter, about this moment was dizzying. It was more dizzying than the vodka earlier, his touch lighting every inch of skin in his wake ablaze. Between his heady scent and the beer you could still taste on him, you questioned if you had ever actually been drunk, ever actually knew what intoxication felt like. The drinks you shared, joints you’ve passed back and forth, nothing could quite touch the way his kiss alone was making you feel.

Peter’s lips left yours, trailing along your jawline and down your neck, soft kisses becoming little nips as he began guiding you backwards throughout your apartment. It wasn’t hard to get to your room, the small space working in your favor for the first time since moving in. Somewhere along the way, he had toed off his shoes, his hands already deftly unbuttoning your jeans the moment the back of your legs his the edge of your bed.

He pulled back, much to your dismay, a small laugh leaving him as he felt you trying to chase after his lips once they left your skin. “So needy,” he hummed, a hand coming up to hold your chin, lidded eyes darting from your lips to your eyes, “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

The question sent a wave of heat through you, almost reminiscent of embarrassment as your thighs clenched tightly, seeking any sort of friction. “Okay,” you breathed out, an unexpected whine leaving you at the sound of how breathy you were. 

The noise that left you had Peter’s jaw clenching, his lip pulling between his teeth for a moment while he gathered himself. “Lay down for me, pretty girl,” Peter commanded, eyes holding your gaze as he slowly knelt down in front of you. 

The image was worth committing to memory. Peter’s fluffy hair was slightly disheveled, lips glistening and kiss swollen, eyes lidded and dark with desire, sitting back on his calves with his hands clasped in his lap, waiting patiently. There was something so intimate in the way he was sitting before you, a subtle desperation with how his fingers were twitching to touch you again. 

You couldn’t look away from him if you tried, couldn’t bring yourself to deprive him even if you wanted to. “Do you wa-”

“Just lay down,” his resolve broke a little, hands reaching up to grip your thighs, massaging softly. “I’ll do the work this time, baby.”

This time. He said it like he was already planning on their being a next time, like he’d been waiting for this time.

Peter’s hands gripped a little tighter as you sat down on the edge of your bed, leaning back on your elbows to keep your gaze connected with his. It felt like a million years as his hands worked their way up your thighs, gripping the top of your jeans and pulling them down, leaving your panties in place as he helped you out of the restrictive material. 

“Fuck,” he let out a heavy breath as he settled himself better between your spread legs, “So wet and all I’ve done is kiss you.” His hands returned back to your thighs, squeezing at the fat of them softly and relishing in the way you squirmed. 

His hands reached for the band of your underwear, eyes taking in the way you looked in his hoodie with your underwear soaked through. The coolness of his rings was a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as his fingers hooked around the fabric. “Can I take these off?” He asked, eyes flicking back up to yours.

There was something about the way he was constantly checking in, the slight restraint in his movements as he made sure you were still wanting this. “Yes,” tilting your hips up some, Peter pulled them down, maneuvering your legs until your panties had been tossed somewhere and your thighs had been sat atop his shoulders.

That was the last big of resolve Peter had though, hands gripping your hips again and pulling you towards him. His hands wrapped underneath you, hands gripping at your ass as he held you up to his mouth, just slightly off the bed, and the perfect height for him to close the space between the two of you. He wasted no time, tongue swiping from your weeping core to your aching clit, a pleased noise vibrating against you as he messily licked up everything you were offering to him. 

From where you laid, Peter looked like he was experiencing heaven on Earth. His eyes had fluttered close, hand gripping you like if he loosened up even the slightest you’d squirm away. In his defense, it was damn near impossible to stay still, his contentment to be knelt between your thighs having your hips jutting in pure desire. 

“Peter,” his name tumbling out of your lips, had his eyes open, looking up at you just as his lips wrapped around your clit. The moan that left you sounding exaggerated even to your own ears and your hand reaching down to card through his hair. 

He hummed against you as your nails scratched his scalp softly, sending vibrations through you that somersaulted you closer to the edge. It was humiliating how quickly you felt that high coming, especially when you were admittedly doubting his ability to make you cum with his mouth. It had never happened before, but here Peter was feasting on you like you were his last meal, like a man who just walked days in the Sahara and you were his first drink. 

“Peter- I-” your words were lost between moans, the glance down to him revealing his intent gaze still locked on your face. Even with him still buried between your thighs, you could see the sheen of arousal coating his nose and cheeks that poked out from between your folds. 

There was no other warning as pleasure ripped through you, washing over you like a tsunami as you reached your high. Peter didn’t let up, moans ripping from your in breathy pitches, broken with squeaks and almost giggles as his ministrations bordered on overstimulating you. It wasn’t until you were pulling his hair in an attempt to pull him away that he stopped. 

Peter pulled away, sucking in a deep breath that fanned across your soaked skin as he breathed out. The entire bottom half of his face was slick with your arousal, lips puffy from sucking and kissing at you. He gently sat you down, pressing light kisses to your thighs as he did. “You taste so fucking good,” he suddenly wrapped and suctioned his lips to the sensitive part of your inner thighs, sucking roughly and nibbling, instantly pulling a shocked gasp from his lips. 

The moment he felt you tug at his hair he stopped, his eyes glancing over the mark he left on your skin - faint now but sure to blossom into a bruise to remind you for days to come. “Couldn’t help myself,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the spot before glancing up at you, “‘m sorry.”

It was obvious by his lidded gaze that he was, in fact, not sorry. Not that you could care at the moment. It was quick after that, Peter standing from his kneeling position as he discarded his shirt and jeans, his boxer briefs leaving little to the imagination as his dick struggled against the fabric, a darkened stain where precum leaked from him. He shuffled you back, helping you to take off his hoodie and your shirt, fingers making quick work of your break the second he could and tossing it along with the other forgotten clothing. 

“Look at you,” he hummed out as his hands started trailing along your sides, his body moving to hover over yours as he settled atop you on the bed. “Might actually need to thank Justin if I ever see that bastard again.” 

You weren’t going to correct Peter this time, you didn’t even want to be thinking about that asshole. Not when Peter was in your bed, and especially not when he just made you cum in a matter of minutes. Reaching up to card your fingers through hair and pulling him close to shut him up with a kiss.

Peter didn’t complain, lips and tongue kissing back with messy need. He tasted like you, cheeks sticky with the remnants of your release. One arm planted next to your head, his free hand roaming along your side. As he trailed it upward, his thumb bruised along your breast, tentative and experimental. His touch moved inward with each motion until he was brushing your nipple, flicking the hardened nub softly. 

The soft touch sent waves of pleasure, lighting a whole new level of desire in you. It was making you nearly insatiable, like every touch was making you spiral further from wanting and closer to needing him. It wasn’t until you were squirming and whimpering against his lips that he pulled back some, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Sound so pretty and I haven’t even fucked you yet,” the kiss he pressed to your nose was a drastic juxtaposition to the filthy words leaving his mouth, “You gonna let me, hm?” He asked, kissing your cheek and lips moving towards your ear, “Gonna let me stretch you out?”

Your nod was instant, eyes opening to stare at him as he pulled off of you. Your complaint died on your lips as he reached for his jeans, watching as he pulled out his wallet and the subsequent metallic wrapper of a condom. His eyes glanced at you, your chest heaving, thighs glistening with your own arousal, the image causing his cock to strain and twitch in the confines of his boxers. 

There was silence as he ripped open the condom, pulling down his boxers to finally reveal his cock. It was embarrassing the way your mouth watered at the sight. He was easily the longest you’ve had, a drastic difference to the last one, bright red and leaking pre-cum, a strong vein running along the underside, curved up just slightly. 

He was on you again before you could protest, wanting to admire him just a little longer. He was quick, hands gripping your hips and pulling you down to where he was kneeling, pulling the tiniest squeak from you. He watched as you trying to instinctively wrap your legs around him, but he stopped you, moving your legs until your calves rested against his shoulders, legs encasing his face like a picture frame. 

“Please,” you whined, squirming slightly as you felt his tip grazing your sopping folds.

“Such a quick learner, but you’re gonna have to be more specific than that.” His tone was dripping with tease, the slightest thrust of his hips forcing his tip to just barely nudge inside you.

“Please fuck me,” you whined, “Please , Peter, I-”

The moment you said his name he was thrusting inside of you with one push.Thick cock pushing inside, tight walls squeezing him, the lubricated condom and sheer wetness between your legs allowing him the ability to spear himself in. He didn’t wait, a loud groaning leaving him before he was pulling all the way out and pushing right back in.

His pace was brutal. Sharp thrusts causing his thighs to slam against yours with a slap, the loud, wet squelching noise every time he pulled out indication of just how much you fucking loved it. There was no denying it even if you wanted to, back arching each time he hit a spot you honestly didn’t believe existed, loud moans leaving your parted lips as you eyes threatened to leave his gaze and roll back into your skull.

Peter leaned forward some, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper as his thrusts were starting to turn into a deep grind. His hand moved one of your legs to wrap around his waist, leaning down even more until you could feel his weight being held up by partly your leg still against his chest.

“I can feel it,” his voice was more gravelly than you’ve ever heard it before, his palm sitting against your lower abdomen now and pushing, the pressure sending your mind whirling. “Can you, baby? Can you feel how deep I am?”

His words made a whine leave your lips but when you didn’t answer, he started pressing even harder, “Answer me, and I’ll rub your pretty little clit until you're cumming on me.”

The thought had a choked noise leaving you, desire like a hot iron rod piercing through you with his every move. You were so close, and his offer would be the thing to undoubtedly unravel you. “Y-yes- So deep, Pe-Peter. So fucking deep,” your hands reached under your thighs, desperate to touch any part of him, nails digging softly into his skin and trailing down towards his knees, leaving angry marks in their wake.

Peter groaned, his own eyes fluttering at the scratches and head tilting back some. The hand on you ventured lower, thumb parting between your folds and rubbing figure eights on the sensitive bundle. Four, maybe five goes before the breath was stuck in your lungs, body seizing up as pleasure wreaked havoc on every nerve in your body. 

His hips faltered at the way your walls were starting to grip him, sucking him in impossibly more. Moans were falling past your lips with stuttering breath, broken and loud. Your nails anchoring into his skin for something to hold onto once your hips begin rocking against his, riding out your own orgasm with the intensity of a storm. 

The scene alone with your mouth parted, a sheen of sweat on your skin, and watching you rock against him pushed Peter towards his own high. You could feel the way his cock pulsed inside the condom, a strangled whimper and moan leaving his own lips. 

With a shaky breath, he moved your other leg to wrap around his thigh, collapsing softly on top of you with his cock still buried deep. Immediately, a soft giggle left your lips, baffled and amused once reality finally hit. Your best friend just fucked you.

Peter glanced up at you, his eyebrows furrowing and lips twitching to fight his own laughter, “What’s so funny?”

“This,” you shrugged, suddenly feeling bashful despite what just transpired. “Never in a million years did I think this would happen.”

There was a ghost of concern on his face, one of his arms moving to hold himself up so he could get a better look at you. “Do you regret it?”

The softness of his words sent a pang of guilt through you. Do you regret it? Could you regret it? “No,” you answered softly, “Though I- I’m just- What do we do after this?”

Your answer seemed to relieve him, a breath leaving him  before he pressed a quick kiss to your nose and was moving again. Peter softly pulled himself out, standing and tying the condom up before tossing it in your trash bin by your desk. “Depends on what you want. We can never talk about it again, or keep it casual if you’re looking for something low risk,” he shrugged as he offered.

It wasn’t lost on you that he wasn’t looking at you as you spoke. “What does casual entail?” You found yourself asking a little too quickly. 

Peter looked at you for a moment before turning to leave the room, his sudden, and naked, departure confusing until he returned a minute later with a washcloth. He came back over to you, spreading your legs and moving you like some doll as he wiped you clean, not missing your thighs as he did before doing the same to himself. “Casual is exactly as it sounds. You’re one of my best friends, but we can fuck every now an then, whenever you need it or the mood strikes. Could be next week, could be months.”

You found yourself sitting up, throwing the blanket over yourself as you watched him start getting dressed. “And I’m assuming we tell no one?”

Peter chuckled softly, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks, “Not no one, necessarily, just not our friends, ya know? Don’t want it to make the friend group messy.” It made sense, and it would be nice to have someone competent to scratch the occasional itch without needing to put your safety or sanity at risk. Peter pulled his shirt on before looking back at you, “So, choice is yours, babe.”

You let out a shaky breath, pushing down the cloud of anxiety that was threatening to swirl a storm in you. “Casual it is then.”

Peter smiled, something closer to a smirk but softer, and like it was meant only for you. “Casual.” He nodded in agreement. He grabbed your pajamas that had been sitting on your desk from the previous night, tossing them to you. “Come let me out so you can lock the door,” he requested, heading out of your bedroom. From where you sat you could see him toeing his shoes back one.

Pulling your pajamas on, you followed behind him, offering him a hushed goodbye that he gave in turn with a kiss to your hairline before making his way out your door. Once he heard the noise of your deadbolt twisting into place he was gone, leaving you to wander back to your bed as you began processing what just happened.

It felt surreal, but the sight of his hoodie hanging off you bed was the confirmation you brain needed.

[imherejustforsebastianstan]

The world moved on but I stayed here 🥲

[taliasburns]

INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY ↳ MCU WOMEN

[elixirfromthestars]

Rollerskating Date With Joaquin Torres

Falcons know how to fly, not how to skate. Joaquin apparently was not aware of that when he invited you on a date to the roller rink. You were a bit apprehensive at first, not having skated much—if at all—in your life. But Joaquin was convinced it would be so easy to learn, and that all he needed was a minute on his own to get the hang of it before he could sweep you onto the rink with him. That was ten minutes ago. You've spent the last few minutes laughing until your stomach ached, holding onto the outside railing of the rink to stop yourself from toppling over. Joaquin had been wobbling all along the edge of the rink like a baby giraffe learning how to walk—feet swaying like he had a pair of two left ones. He was struggling to get his footing, his balance, to stand for just a second. From afar you watched not being able to contain your laughter, and he only sent you playful glares with a smile that said you're next. It didn't take him a minute to get the hang of it, it took him almost twenty. And he learned just enough to keep his balance and skate at a steady pace. By then he took your hand, not wanting to spend another minute without you, and pulled you into the rink with him despite your hesitation. You made him pinky promise not to let you fall, and true to his word he didn't. There were a few times you stumbled, but Joaquin kept you at his side to catch you every time before you were even close to falling. Soon enough you both were able to do a few laps around the rink while only holding hands, getting bold enough to even let Joaquin spin you a few times. And every time he did, he effortlessly pulled you toward him by the end to steal a kiss—or two. Needless to say, for the rest of your rollerskating date, Joaquin would find plenty of opportunities to get many more kisses from you.

It seems fate has decided that both my beloved Mon and my dear Jen get to go on a rollerskating date with Joaquin!! 🛼🪩✨ Thank you so much for sending this in for my sleepover my lovelies @thelomlbuckybarnes & @late-to-the-party-81 !! ♡♡♡

[cafeconmota]

Cute

[lucky-bucky-boy]

would we rather know how peter and reader get together officially or more angsty smut