It feels like just yesterday / He wanted all four of my personalities / Now I don't recognize this /Stranger
He used to be literally obsessed with me / I'm suddenly the least sought after girl in the land / Oh my man on his willpower / Is something I don't under / Something I don't understand
Overview: You and your bodyguard have a closer bond than your father will ever be aware of. While he's sending you off to rich boy suitors, you've got a real man waiting for you just outside the restaurant.
But a bad date with a worse daddy's boy leads to Logan suddenly going distant. No more fraternizing on the job, no more secreteive room inspections safe from your father's eye. He used to be obsessed with you, and now you might as well be talking to a brick wall. What went wrong?
wc: 8.9K
These interrogation rooms always smell the same. Doesn’t matter what agency snatches you or what department you’re being dragged into, you stink of must and bad decisions by the time you leave. Your nails - the ones you hadn’t had time to get done because of the clowns in front of you - drum against the steel table as your heel taps the linoleum. They’re waiting for you to break or to take a sip of their disgusting, cheap coffee and provide them with a DNA sample.
You’re not stupid; you’ve done this before, you know the process. All you need to do is keep your mouth shut until one of your father’s lawyers comes to get you. He’ll have heard about it by now.
A short sigh slips from your lips, and the detectives lean forward like you’re about to confess. You shoot them a sharp look and roll your eyes. Even if you were going to talk, you don’t know anything valuable to them.
Your father calls himself a “businessman.” You’ve never asked any questions because you’ve never wanted to be in a room like this and have answers to give. All you knew was that you’ve been getting snatched up by cops since you were ten and your father’s “business” is the reason your mother is buried.
“You help us,” the one in front of you starts, “we’ll help you.” You don’t pay much attention to his spiel. You’ve heard it a million times before. But you do focus on this absolutely horrid tie under his stained collar. Your lips curl as your eyes flit over his greasy combover and then to his equally disgusting partner.
At least the last agents who’d taken you in had been cute. These two smelled worse than the damn interrogation room. “I want my bag,” you tell him coolly.
He blinks and then opens his mouth. Nothing comes out but a stuttered breath. His partner, who’s been pissed off since they brought you in, slams his cardboard cup on the table. Blackened coffee splashes over the rim and you jerk back before it can stain your silk blouse.
“Enough of the goddamn games!”
You can’t stop the eyeroll this time.
One moment, you’re walking down Fifth Avenue - not a care in the world - showing off your new Coach. Now, you’re stuck here, hearing the same vague terminology for snitching all over again. They’ve thrown it all at you: Honeypot (gross), gumshoe, wire-taps, informant, prosecution, litigation. At some point, they just start speaking nonsensical legalese to confuse you.
Glancing down at your watch, you frown. It’s taking your father an unusually long time to get you out of this.
“Look, boys,” your voice is low, practically a purr, as you send them sharp smiles. “I don’t have any information for you. Even if I did, I don’t snitch, sweetheart. So, if you could just give me my bag, I’ll be out of your hair and we can forget this ever happened.”
The more volatile of the two opens his mouth, and you smack your palm against the table. Not loud enough to make them jump or to have the sound echo through the room. Just hard enough to let them know you’re bored with their game.
“Or, you can keep running your fat mouth, and I’ll file a harassment suit against you and your entire department. Because, as far as I’m aware, you arrested me in broad daylight without probable cause and failed to read me my Miranda Rights. I believe that’s grounds to get your badges. Correct?”
The angry one’s cheeks are growing bright red as he puffs them out, trying to contain his rage. He looks remarkably like a puffer fish. If you weren’t pissed off, you might laugh.
“Usually that’s my line.” You glance over your shoulder and let out a relieved breath. Andy Barber, your father's main lawyer, is standing in the doorway of the interrogation room. And lurking just behind him, like a looming omen of doom, is your favorite grumpy bodyguard.
You smile as you get to your feet. “I think I might be picking up some of this legal stuff.” You tell Andy as he ushers you out of the room.
The cops behind you are helpless. There’s nothing they can do to keep you here. Not now. Especially not with Logan looking like he’s five seconds away from ripping them to shreds.
Andy hums, “Sounded great, hun,” you laugh under your breath as you watch him type furiously on his phone. Most likely already working on the case against those two assholes. You have to say, you’ve met a lot of officers who are far too confident in themselves, but they really take the cake.
“You alright?” Logan leans low, the words only for you to hear. You glance over to make sure Andy’s still distracted and nod.
“I’m fine,” you promise. You reach down and take his hand in yours, you manage one soft squeeze before Andy’s looking up again. “Oh,” you pause in the middle of the hall and they each give you an odd look. “They took my bag,” you glance at Andy, eyes rounded and pleading.
His face drops before he lets out a rough sigh. “I’ll meet you at the car,” he grumbles.
“Thank you,” you call to his retreating back. You snort as he waves you off and glance up at Logan. He’s got an amused curve to his lips that makes you narrow your eyes. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he shrugs. His hand hovers over your lower back as he leads you out of the station and toward your father’s town car. He’s not so bold as to touch you, but he’s still closer than he should be.
Luckily, it seems like dear old dad is more worried about what you told the cops than the “help’s” behavior. You’ve barely slipped into your seat before he’s laying into you.
“What’d you say to them?” His voice is strained, probably already wondering what he’ll have to clean up.
“Nothing, like always.” You pause and reconsider. “Well, I did bitch them out a bit, but that’s just because they took my bag.” Logan shoots you a look from the side of his eye, but you don’t acknowledge him.
You never do. That’s the rules of your game with him. If you want him around and he wants a steady paycheck, around your father, you’re nothing more than strangers in forced proximity.
Your father’s eyes narrow, and he lets out a loud, overdrawn sigh. He believes you, but he doesn’t have faith in you. He probably thinks you accidentally let something major slip out, because apparently, to him, you’re nothing more than a spoiled ditz.
Andy reappears before he can drill you further. He passes you your bag with an aggrieved look and settles beside your father. His head dips low to your father’s ear as he begins whispering information to him. With a sigh, you turn to the window, struggling to ignore the warmth emanating from the man beside you.
Andy and your father dropped you off at the house, claiming they had some business to discuss. You had a vague idea that meant you wouldn’t see your father until tomorrow and his suit would probably be stained with blood. But your motto was ignorance is bliss. Plausible deniability is your only defense when the feds eventually catch up to your dad.
Logan follows you up to the stairs to your room. He’s required to stay until your father returns. Which means you have him and the house all to yourself.
“You were in rare form today,” he comments as he hovers in the doorway.
You frown and reach down to undo your heels. “What do you mean?”
“Look, I know you like that fashion shit,” you shoot him a flat look that only makes him let out a gruff laugh. “What was up with the bag?”
“It’s a limited edition,” you defend, already dumping it out on your bed. “Besides, it’s not about the bag, it’s about what’s inside.” Your fingers scrape across the pile of gloss and maxed-out credit cards before they find what you’re looking for.
With a grin, you turn and present him the strip of pictures. “What’s this?” He mutters.
“It’s from that day at the mall. It’s those pictures we took at the booth.” They’re stupid and grainy, crinkled from too long in your purse. And you hardly managed to get Logan to smile, let alone do any silly faces. But, you’re a girl with all the material things you could possibly want. Items of true sentiment are few and far between.
“Sap,” he teases. But you see the small curl of his lips, the brief stroke of his thumb across your smiling face. You decide to let him get away with it this time. But the next time he gets mushy, you’ll be holding it over his head.
You take the pictures back and place them carefully on your vanity. “Maybe. But, can you blame me?”
He pushes off the doorframe and strides closer. “Nah,” he tells you, hands already coming up to cup the back of your neck. “I can’t.” You can’t stop smiling, not even as he leans in and kisses you.
You know that this is something more casual to him than it is to you. But he feeds you these brief moments in the sanctuary of your room. He holds you like you’re worth something. Like, maybe, you actually mean something more than just fuck buddies. But he never commits, never says let’s be exclusive.
Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer as you part your lips against his. One of his hands drops, gripping your hip and pulling you flush against him. It makes warmth pool in your stomach, a jittery feeling that makes you buzz thrums through your body.
Maybe it's better not to focus on what you are. You should just enjoy whatever he gives you. But that doesn’t ease the ache in your chest every time you see him leave your home and you know he isn’t yours.
“So….” Lisa draws the word out, fixing you with an expectant look. You manage to play dumb for all of five seconds before she’s kicking you under the table.
“Ow,” you hiss, rubbing your shin. There’s a small snort from your right and you look over to find Logan reschooling his features into something cool and distant. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to Lisa. “It was something about my dad, I don’t know.”
Lisa hums and pokes at her omelet, “What? Like, he’s committing tax fraud or something?”
“Or something,” Logan mutters under his breath. You fix him with a sharp look, but he’s watching someone outside, pointedly not meeting your eye.
Normally, when you’re out and about, the rule is that Logan sits at a table separate from you. But Lisa doesn’t care, and, despite how annoying he can be, you enjoy the moments where his mask breaks. Those few seconds where you actually get to see some of his personality.
You know that he uses a front around your dad. Cold, isolated, the type of man that would never look twice at his boss’s daughter. It’s different for you, obviously. But he’s still just out of your reach. Still just a little too closed off for you to get anything from him. You wish he’d just be genuine with you.
At the thought, your stomach sours and your appetite diminishes. You push away your fruit salad and down the rest of your mimosa. Lisa quirks a brow but doesn’t comment. She knows you’re far more generous with your father’s card if you’ve got a decent enough buzz.
“Alright,” you grab your purse and get to your feet, Logan immediately following. “Where to first? Chanel or Tiffany’s?”
“Tiffany’s,” Lisa tells you. “I need to get that clasp on my necklace fixed.”
“The one I gave you?” She hums, and you loop your arm through hers. As always, Logan stays just a few steps behind. “I’ll just buy you a new one,” you tell her flippantly. She makes a soft noise under her breath that makes you smile.
“Hey, kid,” Logan interrupts you both. You glance back with a frown and see him holding out your card. Must’ve left it on the bill. Again.
“Thanks, sweetie,” you give him a saccharine smile and drop your voice to something sultry. Logan’s brows turn down as he gives you a warning look. Lisa grins and nudges your side, forcing you to turn back around.
You’ve been friends with Lisa since boarding school. She was one of those lottery kids who made their way in on a scholarship, and you were the type to buy your friends. But Lisa just likes watching you shop. She thinks it’s like a sport for you. She’s not wrong. If being a shopaholic made it to the Olympics, you’d take gold every time.
The long friendship, one of the few not built on financials, makes her the only one who actually knows about you and Logan. She also knows he’s too stubborn to have any sort of conversation regarding emotions. Which means she eats up every interaction you have like she’s watching some soap.
Forcing your mind off the man behind you, you devolve into mindless gossip with Lisa. She craps on people from her work, and you complain about the men your father’s trying to set you up with.
It doesn’t matter that you’re a fully-fledged adult. He stands by his backward views that you can’t leave home until you’re married. Until you have a big, strong man to protect you. Which is why it makes no sense to you that he keeps sending you on dates with such… pretty boys.
Boys of no substance or mind of their own. Finance bros who spent too long doing keg-stands and walked out with a degree they didn’t know what to do with. The type of man you marry and he bribes you with diamonds while he buries himself in his twenty-year-old secretary.
“He’s still on that?” Lisa scoffs as you regale her with tales of your latest date.
“I’m going to be fifty before I ever get out of that house, Lis.” Logan stands by the edge of the small store, your pink and blue bags dangling from his hands. You notice him stiffen slightly, but dismiss it as nothing.
You kneel beside a pair of red and blue sneakers and hold them up to her. “Think these would work?”
“Didn’t take you for a Spider-Man fan.” You jump at the sound of Logan’s voice, wondering where the hell he came from. He’s looking down at you with an amused glint in his eye.
“I’m not,” you correct, straightening up. “They’re for Maria’s son. I heard her talking about her kid needing new shoes and I know dad doesn’t pay her enough for a decent pair.”
Logan’s brows turn in and for a moment, you see surprise on his features. It makes your chest ache a little. If he’s surprised by something like this, just how vapid does he think you are?
He doesn’t say anything, just lets out a small noise of acknowledgement. You roll your eyes and pass the shoes off to an attendant. “I’m spoiled, not a brat, Logan.”
He pushes off the display he was leaning on as you turn your back to him. The warmth of his palm is a surprise as he slides it around your waist. “You’re still a brat, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. It makes you shiver, stomach flipping as you turn to him with heat already building through your body. But Logan’s gone, hand off you, face impassive, and resuming his position by the edge of your personal space.
Bastard, you curse. Sure, you’re the brat, not him, the one always playing dirty in public. He takes far too much joy in this game the two of you share.
Lisa pointedly clears her throat and you turn back to her with a sharp inhale. “Ready?” She asks, voice amused as her gaze flits to Logan. She’d clearly seen the whole thing. You’re going to be receiving a three-paragraph essay on the implications of that touch tonight. Lisa seems to read into Logan even worse than you do.
“Yeah,” you force a smile and shake off the fuzz in your brain. “Let’s go.”
Your life is monotonous. Absolutely and completely predictable. It’s probably why you need Logan around you as protection. You stick to the same schedule every day, never really breaking it. It’s also why the one time he was with your father instead of you, you got snatched up by the cops.
There’s lunch with Lisa or some of the girls from your father’s political circles. Then, shopping and burning a hole in your father’s wallet. Hopefully, one day, you’ll spend so much that he just kicks you out of the house. You desperately want a place of your own.
After the shopping, Logan carries your bags inside and you play a game of hush. Seeing how much you both can get away with while your bedroom door’s closed and your father’s downstairs in his office.
Occasionally, though, your father likes to stir up your predictable life. And not in any way that’s enjoyable to you.
You walk into the same restaurant he always makes these reservations at. You’re wearing the same silk dress you usually do. Deep red, clings in all the right places, but it’s never for the boys you’re meeting. It’s to provide a view for the man five paces behind you.
Tonight it’s Scott Summers. Some congressman’s son or something. Honestly, you never pay attention to what your father tells you. You know it’s going to end the same way every time: “I had fun, but I just don’t see this going any further.” After trying to be sweet for too long with these men, you’ve discovered that concise and blunt is the best approach.
And as Scott stands and shakes your hand with a grip far too tight, you have to swallow to not let the words spill off your tongue. You slip into the private booth in the corner of the restaurant and will yourself to look engaged.
As always, Logan sits at the booth behind you, forced to listen to dull conversations and poor attempts at charm. Occasionally, when you’re trying your absolute hardest to be polite, you hear him scoff at something particularly stupid and have to bite back laughter.
“...and he thought the Bear Market and Bull Market were the same thing. Can you believe that?”
Your eye twitches as you try to decode whatever language he’s speaking. You think it might be something to do with stocks. “Wow, that’s unbelievable,” you drawl, voice flatter than the table.
Scott is ignorant, nodding along eagerly and launching into another rant about volatility and arbitrage. Just as you feel your soul being sucked out, something nudges against your hand. You glance down and fight back a smile.
Logan’s reached around the booth slightly, grabbing your palm to give you a comforting squeeze. He must know your brain is about to drip out through your ears, so you don’t have to listen to any more of this.
For the briefest moment, you let your fingers tangle together and squeeze his hand. “Are you listening?”
Scott’s voice breaks through the peace and you drop Logan’s hand, turning back to your date. You hum noncommittally and take another hefty swig of your wine.
While you’re drowning your sorrows, you miss how Logan’s hand flexes against his thigh. His frown at how quickly you’d let go of him for the pretty boy across from you.
Logan slides into the seat beside you. The moment his door is closed, the driver’s pulling away from the curb. You let out a loud, dramatic huff and nearly sink onto the floor as you finally relax. Your hand lifts to your neck and you wince at the tension.
“I swear to god, it’s like I’ve got a stick shoved up my ass every time I have to do this.” You grin, shooting a glance over your shoulder. You’re just waiting for Logan to start drilling into the guy, dissecting every one of his flaws.
But he’s not looking at you. His eyes are pointed down at the floorboard and you frown. He’s not always chatty, but usually he says something. “Logan?” You try again. “Don’t feel like piling on?”
You check the rearview mirror and make sure the driver isn’t looking as you slide your hand over Logan’s thigh. It’s not meant to be suggestive, you’re just checking to see where he’s at. But he jerks and gives your hand a surprised look as you jolt him from his thoughts.
“Nah, he wasn’t too bad,” he says casually. It’s almost subtle, how he shifts his leg so your hand falls. But you’re watching close enough to see there was purpose behind the move. Your stomach clenches uncomfortably as you drop your hand back in your lap.
You let out a small hum but don’t say anything else. Something’s wrapped tight around your neck. The tension from earlier is only intensified as you fight off the strong urge to look over at Logan. But you can feel how pointedly he isn’t looking at you and you don’t feel like giving in first.
Despite the small interior of the car, it feels like you and Logan are on opposite sides of a room. Something wiggled up his ass and gave him an attitude. And if it’s something you did, then he’s going to have to be man enough to say it to your face. One thing you’re not going to do is beg for scraps of attention from a man who thinks stonewalling is an attractive quality.
The rest of the car ride passes in silence. The type that’s so quiet it gets loud and your head throbs. Right up until you drive through the gates of your home and your driver bids you goodnight. You call it back lightly, getting out of the car before Logan can try to open the door for you.
He walks you up to your door as he always does. But he doesn’t follow you up the stairs like he usually does. “Security checks,” he calls them, ie, an excuse to get you behind locked doors.
“Sir?” He calls through the open door.
“Go home for the night, Howlett!” Your father calls back. Logan steps down the stairs and you watch his back with your lips slightly parted.
“What the fuck?” You hiss, struggling to remember the last time he let you go without at least a goodnight kiss. When you step inside your home, you slam the door louder than necessary. Your father doesn’t ask about the date. He knows well enough that by the way your heels are landing against the marble, not to try any small talk.
You tug off your heels and the dress that went unappreciated by the man it was meant for. The rest of your accessories are tossed with little care as you stew in your room. You glance at your phone, briefly considering sending him a text.
But, no, if he wants to play games, then he can play games. It’s on him that he’s going to lose.
First step in your monotonous day: Brunch with Lisa.
Except you haven’t forgotten Logan’s abrupt pull-back from you. He still hasn’t so much as acknowledged your existence outside of doing the bare minimum for his job. Each prod for conversation is dismissed by one of his infuriating grunts. Any attempt at any sort of reaction leaves acid boiling in your stomach as you try to bite back venom.
If he wants to play petty, you can play.
Lisa waves from your usual table at the cafe. You smile and walk up to her. When Logan moves to take his usual spot, you drop your purse in his chair. He pauses, hands frozen from where he was pulling it back.
Lisa’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t say a word as she watches you both. But you don’t acknowledge Logan. You immediately start ranting about your date last night. Lisa clearly isn’t listening, eyes still darting between you and a stiff Logan.
Finally, his hands peel off the chair and he backs up, standing at the edge of your space like a good bodyguard should.
Lisa’s lips are parted in something like astonishment as she lets out a small laugh. She dips her head close to you, voice low enough that Logan can’t hear. “Lovers' quarrel?”
You scowl, “Can’t exactly be a fight if someone’s too stubborn to use their big-boy words.” Lisa snorts loudly, and Logan’s eyes narrow on the pair of you. But you just grin, keeping your eyes on your friend as you lean back in your chair.
“And,” Lisa prods, “are you using your big girl words?”
Rolling your eyes, you shrug. “I didn’t start this. Not my fault I’m the one that’s going to finish it.” She looks like she doubts you, but you have no intention of giving in first. Logan’s sent you enough mixed signals over the year he’s worked for you.
After a while, it starts to get to a girl. You start to wonder how much he even really cares about you. You’re certain it’s not nearly as much as you care about him. So, you figure, if he doesn’t break his silent treatment, then you’ve gotten your answer. No matter how much it might hurt.
Following the usual schedule, it’s shopping after brunch. You don’t have the urge to buy much. Instead, you follow Lisa around and whatever she looks at for too long, you buy for her.
She hisses your name at the counter, finally realizing what you’d been doing as you trailed behind her. “You don’t have to do this.”
You’re already passing your card. “I want to,” you shrug. Her face flattens, but it’s too late for her to object. The clerk begins to bag up all your gifts, and you see Logan step forward from the corner of your eye.
Damn, you trained him well. Carrying your bags certainly isn’t in his job description, but you seem to have Pavlov’d him every time you kissed him on the cheek when he took a bag.
You shift your body, blocking him from the counter, and take all the bags. Logan lets out a short huff behind you, but you pay him no mind. Lisa catches onto your game and takes some bags as well.
Without a glance his way, you stroll past him and head out of the shop. Lisa follows beside you, clearly trying not to laugh. “Coffee?” You ask, nodding to another cafe. She follows you inside and just like before, you drop your bags in Logan’s chair before he can sit.
He grits out your name, followed by a short chuckle that sounds like a man reigning in his temper. You glance up at him, batting your eyelashes and shrugging. “Something wrong?”
His eyes are slits as he glowers down at you. Something flickers in his gaze and he backs off with a stiff breath. “No, not at all.”
Disappointment sits heavy in your stomach, but you force yourself to ignore it. Turning, you dismiss him wordlessly and try to pay attention to Lisa’s story. All you can think of is him, though. Of how long he’s going to drag this out. If he even cares.
Something sharp bites at the back of your eyes as you fist the hem of your dress, swallowing back a burn in your throat.
The dress you wear tonight is more risque than you’re used to. Usually, you look nice but try and play it safe. You never know which man might take a short hem as an invitation. But, as always, Logan’s with you. You figured you might as well keep the game going.
It’s a deep green, silk just like the other. But this one wraps tight around your waist, pushes up your bust until it’s the focus of attention. With every step, you can feel the hem hitch up. And against your back, you can practically feel the steam wafting off of Logan as he watches you.
Not quite a club outfit, but it certainly pushes the dress code of the high-scale restaurant. The hostess leads you to your usual table and you bite back a grimace when you see the man waiting.
You’ve never been on a date with him before, but you’ve heard about him from some of the girls. Apparently, his dad’s got him going through a roster of women with influential fathers. And every single time, without fail, it ends with them in tears.
They’ve never told you exactly what he says to them. But you’re not looking to ruin your mascara tonight.
“Fuck me,” you hiss. Logan stops beside you, following your glare to the man. He looks like he wants to say something, but you’re already sucking in a deep breath and striding forth.
Maybe, if you get drunk enough, you can get through this date and forget it by tomorrow morning.
“Parker,” you greet tersely as he stands.
He says nothing at first, just lets his eyes roam over you. “Hm, can’t say I’ve seen a dress like that in a place as fine as this before.” Your face stills on a polite smile. God damn, he’s not even going to ease you into this.
“Who’s this?” He says, sneering as he takes in Logan standing beside you.
“Bodyguard,” you tell him stiffly. “Just in case anything happens. You know how it is,” your voice lowers, an underlying threat of siccing your guard dog on him. Parker huffs but relents as he sits back in the booth.
You slide across from him as Logan takes the table behind you both. Please God, give me the strength not to slam this man’s head into the table, you pray as you reach for the menu.
“My father’s been trying to get this arranged for quite some time,” Parker tells you. He tries to sound casual and fails.
“Oh,” you hum. “Strange it hasn’t happened sooner.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, you’ve got quite the list of suitors. Such a busy woman. I’m not sure how you can keep up with them all.” Hypocrite, as if he’s not gone through every high-value woman in the city.
Your eyes flit up to his and you bare your teeth in a grimace that’s meant to be a smile. “They never make it past the first date.”
“Well, maybe I’ll be lucky number twenty-seven.” He gives you a stiff smile and looks back at his menu. He’s doing his absolute best to slut-shame you. But the only time you’ve slutted yourself out is for the man behind you. And you would certainly never do so with a piece of shit like Parker Jones.
The waitress comes up to you both and Parker pulls out his wallet. Your brow furrows as he pulls out three five-dollar bills. He pats them as he sets them down on the table and smiles at the waitress.
“There’s your tip, doll. Just remember you’re working on a three-strike system tonight.” Your jaw clicks as it drops, unable to hide the horror on your face as the poor girl turns bright red.
She mumbles something you can’t hear and nods. “What can I get you?”
A cab.
“I’ll have the filet and a whiskey, but the good stuff, none of that bottom shelf shit that tastes like piss.” You’re sinking lower into your seat with every crass word out of his mouth. By the time he’s done ordering, you’re going to be nothing but a pile of green silk on the floor.
Just as you open your mouth, he cuts you off. “And the lady will have a house salad, hold the dressing, and a red wine.”
The waitress tucks her pad back in her apron and runs off quicker than you can blink. “I didn’t know I’d decided what I wanted,” you grit out. Your smile is so strained that the muscles in your cheeks begin to ache.
“As pretty as you think you look in that dress, sweetheart, you’re nothing more than a couple of rolls in ill-fitting silk. I’m doing you a favor.” He smiles and your stomach drops so violently you think you might throw up.
There’s a sudden iciness in your veins, spreading higher as his words sink in. It’s not like you to let men speak to you like this and not defend yourself. Yet, you find yourself so caught off guard by such blatant nastiness that not a damn word comes to mind.
A shadow descends over your table and you look up, blinking away the haze to see Logan standing over you both. “Alright, bub, let’s get one thing-”
Whatever he’s going to say is cut off by the shrill ring of his phone. Tugging it out of his pocket, you see your father’s name on his screen. He huffs and turns back to Parker, “Watch your goddamn mouth,” he orders. Parker doesn’t say anything until Logan’s walking away, phone pressed to his ear.
“He reminds me of a chihuahua. All bark, no bite,” he scoffs and shakes his head.
“Well, I’ll make sure to let him know. Clearly sending three of my dates to the hospital doesn’t count as a bite,” you snap, teeth clicking together as white-hot fury bleeds into you.
Parker tilts his head and smirks, “Who are you fooling, sweetheart?”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” you growl out.
“Watch your mouth,” he snaps, voice suddenly so loud that you find yourself flinching back. It draws the attention of a few other guests, but they know better than to stare too long at your booth.
Parker clears his throat and straightens his already-perfect tie. “I’m sorry,” he’s not, “but that’s no way for a lady to speak.”
“Lady or a whore?” You press, nails biting into the wood of the table. If this asshole makes you chip a fresh manicure, you’re going to have Andy bury his father in civil suits. “Clearly, you don’t think highly of my dating history.”
“Of course I don’t. Who’d want a woman that flighty? Not to mention that if you can’t entice someone into a second date, you somehow have a worse personality than you do body. Which, I really don’t think is possible.”
You suck in a sharp breath. His insults are all superficial. He doesn’t know enough about you to say anything that really strikes deep. And you know how good you look in this dress. In anything you wear. But that doesn’t stop the aching tightness in your chest.
“You know what they say about men who have to insult women to get a date?” Parker quirks a condescending brow. “That he’s got a tiny pecker and an intolerable personality. The only way to get someone to stay longer than ten minutes on a date with you is by making them feel worse than you do about yourself. And, I’m sorry, Parker, but I have too much self-respect to let some little limp-dick motherfucker sit here and try to berate me.”
Parker’s grown quiet, cheeks flushing the longer you speak. You pick up your clutch and smooth out your dress. “How’s that for talking like a lady?” You ask, swiping the waitress’s tip off the table.
You don’t wait for a reaction, just give the poor girl her cash, and walk out of the restaurant to where Logan’s pacing outside. He’s still speaking to your father and he frowns when he notices you. Instead of offering an explanation, you text your driver to bring the car around.
Logan’s quick to hang up, stalking toward you with a furrow in his brow. “What’d he say?” He demands.
You scoff, “Probably something he’s rehearsed before all of his dates.” You roll your shoulders back and try to soothe the aching burn in your chest, but it’s futile.
Logan glances between you and the restaurant. He takes a step toward the door when your hand shoots out and snags his sleeve. “Don’t. I want to go home, not watch you break his nose.”
From how tense his bicep is beneath your grip, you know how badly he wants to head back inside. Probably lure Parker into an alley and bloody him up. But you’re tired and you’ve officially reached your limit for testosterone.
The car pulls up to the curb and you release him. Without looking back, you get inside and leave him to make his choice. It takes a minute longer than you would have liked for him to finally join you.
There’s a biting pain at the back of your eyes. It’s humiliating, how quickly your eyes grow glassy after Logan closes the door. Biting your lip, you turn your face toward the window, hoping Logan can’t see.
It’s not Parker, necessarily, that’s making you want to break down. It’s the fact that you have to endure date after date of assholes just like him every week. The man you want is right beside you. It should be him taking you out to dinner. It should be him that you go home with and not have to keep it a secret.
But you don’t get that, and now, you don’t even get the shallow intimacy that you had before. It’s hollow, the ache in your chest. It beats a pathetic melody as you choke back tears, hoping that the car pulls in before Logan can see.
The closest thing you’ve ever had to a real connection was nothing more than shallow conversations and sex. It makes you feel as ugly as Parker wanted you to believe you are. Because if this man, who you’ve been with every day for a year, can’t even commit to something real… What the hell does that say about you?
You pull up to the house and you’re leaping out of the car before it’s even parked. Logan’s quick to follow, calling your name. You ignore him, opening your door and slamming it shut. He pushes it open a second after you, still calling your name.
Your father pokes his head out of his office and you pause on the stairs. “I am not going on any more of those god damn dates!” You shout at him, running the rest of the way to your room before he can argue.
As the tears finally spill, you feel remarkably like a child. It’s horrible, this small sensation engulfing you. Like a little girl pitching a fit, you know your father will never listen to you. You know Logan will never give you what you want.
You sink onto your bed, face dropping into your hands. It’s a cycle, your life. Repeating the same day over and over again. Every time it gets harder. With every completion, you feel more and more hollow. An emptied husk, like you’ve seen hanging off the arm of the men your father did business with.
That was your future. No passion, no love. Just a woman with a diamond ring and a credit card. Like that could actually make you feel alive. Feel one spark of warmth even for a moment.
You lean over, openly sobbing as you struggle with the buckle on your heel. Your nails scrape along it, eyes going blurry with tears and smudged mascara. “God!” You kick your foot out, too pissed off to care as your heel goes flying.
But Logan has suddenly appeared in the doorway and is catching it before it can get him in the groin. You scowl, wishing his reflexes were worse. “What?” You try to sound pissed off, but it only comes out watery and cracked.
Logan lets out a soft sigh, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch him warily as he walks over to you. He slowly kneels between your legs, taking your other leg in his hand and undoing your heel. He sets it down by your vanity. When he turns back around, his hands go to your hips. The warmth of his palms as he soothes up and down your thighs is comforting and infuriating all at once.
“Well,” you wipe under your eyes and know you probably just smudged mascara everywhere. “Have you finally decided to talk to me again?”
Logan sighs, hands pausing and squeezing gently at your hips. You despise him for how natural he makes it feel. Like it’s abnormal not to have his hands on you. Like you’re something real.
“Sweetheart-”
“Don’t,” you interrupt softly, grimacing as you hear Parker’s voice in your head. “Just don’t call me that,” your tone is soft even if you’re feeling anything but.
Logan frowns but doesn’t object. “I was being an idiot, alright? I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“What?” He asks, eyes searching yours.
“Why,” you enunciate sharply. “Why did you stop talking to me?”
Logan huffs, one of his hands leaving you to rub at the back of his neck. The tick makes you narrow your eyes, defenses slowly rising. “It’s not important, really.”
“Yes, it is,” you tell him. “It’s important to me, Logan. I want to know how you feel. How you feel about us! About me! But you never say anything. Why won’t you just talk to me?” It makes you feel pathetic, how you’re practically begging him for just an iota of something real. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s everything you don’t want to hear.
His face twitches and you recognize the expression lingering there. He looks like he’s about to dodge the question again. Placate you with something hollow and hope you get over it.
Scoffing, you slap his hands off of you. Logan shoots you a surprised glance, but you sit yourself firmly at your vanity. He slowly gets to his feet as you begin to wipe your makeup off.
“Kid?” He demands, sounding slightly dumbfounded.
“Why don’t you come talk to me when you feel like using your big boy words?” You tell him coolly. “I don’t like playing games, Logan.”
He stands there for a moment with a look you can’t read. Part of you thinks he’s just going to storm out, decide you aren’t worth the effort. Instead, he scrubs a hand down his jaw, a cold laugh leaving him.
“You want to know how I feel?”
Placing your makeup wipe down, you turn slowly. “Yes,” you whisper. “That’s all I’ve wanted.”
“Alright,” Logan takes slow steps forward, one hand planted on the vanity, the other cupping the back of your neck. The proximity has you swallowing down a lump in your throat.
“How’s this, kid? I’m crazy about you. Is that what you want to hear?” He doesn’t give you a chance to nod, let alone speak. “But I know your father, and I know what he wants for you. I’m not some preppy, rich kid, jackass with a degree from Harvard. I’m the help, and that’s all I’m ever going to be. What’s the point in getting attached if we can’t ever be something real?”
Your heart stutters in your chest. He cares about you. It’s what you’ve been looking for as long as you’ve been with him. But it’s still not enough. Maybe you’re spoiled from a long life of having your every whim met, but this isn’t good enough for you.
“You know what I think?” You’re seething, anger still flooding hot in your stomach. “I think you’re a coward.” He draws back and you stand up, pushing him away from you. “I think you’re afraid of something real and using any excuse you have to get out of this.”
“You’re going to stand there and tell me your father would approve?”
“Yes!” You shout, no longer caring about making sure the rest of the house can’t hear. “Because he loves me. And if he’s so desperate for me to be with someone, why not the man who spends all his time protecting me?”
“Trust me, sweetheart, you tell him about me and all you’re going to get is a hit put out on me. He doesn’t want me.”
“But I do!” You insisted, more tears pushing at the edge of your voice. You just need him to listen. To crack through that dense fucking skull and hear you. “And if I want you, what does it matter? You’re underestimating how much my father loves me.”
“I think you’re overestimating,” he tells you gruffly, crossing his arms.
Your breath is caught in your throat, your next argument dying on your tongue. Your heart beats an unsteady rhythm as you draw back from him. “Too far, Logan.”
His eyes widen, like he hadn’t even realized what he’d said. Maybe if he ever let two brain cells rub together, you wouldn’t be standing here. He whispers your name just as your father opens your door.
“What’s going on? I heard shouting.” He gives Logan a cold glare that makes the man’s lips curl bitterly. Like your father’s proving him right somehow.
“I was ranting. About that piece of shit from tonight.” Your father grimaces, offering you an apologetic look. You ignore him, turning back to Logan. “Consider yourself dismissed for the night, Mr. Howlett.” His arms drop to his sides, but you’re already moving back to your vanity. “And don’t feel the need to come tomorrow, I won’t be going anywhere.”
He says your name again as your father observes you both carefully. “That will be all,” you dismiss. “Enjoy your day off.”
Logan lingers until your father grabs his arm, urging him out of your room. He says something, but you don’t hear or care what it is.
Your hand drops to the vanity as soon as they’re gone, makeup wipe flopping to the floor. This entire time, you’ve had what you wanted. Something real, something that can’t be bought. And he kept it away. Hid it from you because he’s nothing more than a coward.
Sniffling, you wipe your nose and take out your earrings. You’re so tired, all you want is to sleep and forget all about Logan Howlett.
You don’t do anything today. It’s rare for you. Even if getting out of the house means doing the same thing you do every day, you’re never like this. You never lie still long enough to actually let your emotions flood you. You keep moving, keep talking, so you don’t have to feel the ticking time bomb of your life descend.
Now, after doing nothing, not even calling Lisa, you feel numb. You’re not mad anymore, not really. You think you might be sad, but it’s sitting at the far reaches of your mind, leaving you be for a moment.
It’s the disappointment that seems to be weighing heaviest on you. Disappointment at Logan for everything he hasn’t said. Disappointment at your father for claiming to love you and still never listening to you. Mostly, though, you’re disappointed in yourself.
You should have handled last night better. You should have behaved like the adult you are, not like a kid throwing a tantrum. There shouldn’t have been tears or shouting. Maybe if you’d actually managed to rein yourself in, you could have had a good talk with Logan.
Instead, you’re lying in your bed, face and hair oily as you watch the sun sink lower into the sky. Your stomach growls for the fifth time in an hour. Not a single molecule of your body feels like slinking off the bed and making food. You can’t even be bothered to pick your phone up and order something.
Downstairs, a near-silent click rings through the otherwise quiet house. If you weren’t just sitting quietly in your room, you might not have heard it. Sitting up on your elbows, your heart picks up speed as you hear feet creaking against the stairs.
Quickly, you rip open your nightstand drawer. Your hand wraps around the cool metal of the handgun your father had given you. “Just in case,” he’d told you. In case his past caught up to him and you had to pay the price like your mother.
You steady the gun in your hands and flick off the safety. You lift the barrel just as the person reveals themselves.
He raises his hands and lets out a clipped laugh. “Planning on shooting me, princess?”
“Don’t tempt me, Logan.” The gun goes slack in your hand as you flick the safety back on. He doesn’t step inside until you put it back in your nightstand. As if you would really shoot him.
He doesn’t come much closer than taking a seat at your vanity. You sit up in bed, hand going to your hair as you remember what a mess you are right now. “What’re you doing here?” You ask, tone softer than you want it to be.
“Your dad had to head out, called me over.”
Your eyes narrow and you shake your head. “Dad’s in his office.”
Logan frowns and draws back. “He told me that you were home alone.”
You suck your teeth and scoff. “I told you, Logan. You underestimate what my dad would do for me.”
“You mean…”
“Yeah, he’s trying to play Cupid. I guess I should’ve figured he’d catch us at some point. He’s annoyingly perceptive.”
Logan scratches his jaw, seemingly still struggling to comprehend that your father wasn’t trying to kill him. Being with you wasn’t a death sentence. If anything, his letting Logan back in after making you cry means he doesn’t want to kill him.
“Then I guess this is my opportunity to apologize.”
You wipe tiredly at your eyes and sink back into your pillows. “You don’t have to do this, Logan. You can just leave and I’ll tell him things ended amicably. No worries about a hit being put on you.”
He gets up, risking a step closer as he perches on the edge of the bed. When you don’t object, he gets close enough to take your hand in his. You should tell him to get out, put your foot down and mean it. But you’re too tired to fight anymore.
“I am sorry, though. I mean that,” he insists when you won’t meet his eye. “Those guys aren’t anything like me. I never thought that you would want anything more than what we had.”
You scoff and try to pull your hand away, but he’s holding on firmly. “I don’t want them, though. How do you not get that? I had no say in going on those dates.”
“I know,” he sighs, squeezing your hand once. You find yourself returning the gesture unconsciously, seeking the comfort you so often associate with him.
“Logan, you can be jealous. That’s fine. You think I don’t get jealous when my friends start flirting with you?” He chuckles slightly and the smallest smile curls on your lips. “But,” your voice grows harsher. “You’re not allowed to just stop talking to me. You can’t not communicate, Logan. Then we really will be nothing more than what we are now.”
“I know, hun. But, if your dad is letting me in here, I guess that means we have his blessing.” The look you give him screams I-told-you-so. “I want to be something real with you.”
You glance down at your linked hands and feel more water build on your lashes. “I’m not forgiving you,” you tell him. “You didn’t talk to me, you ignored me, and you were just mean, Logan. What type of woman would I be to let you just waltz back into my heart like that didn’t devastate me?”
Logan doesn’t share much. Not with you, not with anyone. He’s not someone who ever wears his heart on his sleeve. But, by God, he looks like he’d be better off if you’d just stabbed him.
“I’m not saying no, not forever. But I need space, enough time to process this. And I think you need to be reassigned,” his grip tightens around you. “You’ll shadow my dad and I’ll take his bodyguard. Because I need to know that this is real, that this isn’t some screwed up case of Stockholm.”
He whispers your name and you shake your head, finally lifting your eyes enough to meet his. “I want you, Logan and I’ve wanted you for a long time. But I want to do this right and I need you to mean it.”
His hand lifts to cup your cheek, rough and calloused and he still brushes tears away, softer than anyone’s ever touched you. “I mean it, sweetheart. I’ll mean it for as long as you want me.”
Your lips quiver before you lean, pressing a light kiss to his lips. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. He doesn’t deepen it or push for more, just follows your lead. Your heart is screaming at you to just forgive him, to let him in and be something real.
But you want this to work. Logan can’t just be tossed into the deep end of emotional availability. You’re going to have to introduce him to that slowly. And you’re going to need a moment to breathe and get out of such an emotionally tumultuous connection.
Slow can start tomorrow, though. For now, you just want to feel him hold you, to hear him tell you how much he cares about you. It’s not perfect, and it never will be, but this can be something good. You know it can.
SUMMARY: Johnny Storm flirted like it was a reflex, so when he starts showing up at work with that grin and some line about taking you out, you didn’t flinch. You want to believe him, want to think there’s something real under all that fire and flair, but it’s hard when every time you look, some starry-eyed fan is hanging on his arm.
WARNINGS: Fantastic Four: First Steps minor Spoilers! Typical Marvel themes, angst, fluff, steamy kiss (no pun intended), cursing, Sue being Johnny’s defender yet still humbles him, self-deprecating thoughts, Ben and Johnny banter, lots of pet names, lovesick!Johnny
A/N: As soon as I saw the first trailer for this movie, and saw Joe Quinn as Johnny I knew he would do the role justice! I’m just sad now we have to wait until next year for the next set of Marvel movies! 😩 Divider by @saradika-graphics <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ johnny storm masterlist
Weekends at Maisie’s Delicatessen were a whirlwind of clinking dishes, muffled jazz from the radio behind the counter, and the sweet, yeasty warmth of the oven creeping into every corner of the narrow shop. Nestled on a street corner in Manhattan, its red neon sign buzzed softly beneath the fire escape, a beacon for locals and regulars alike. Inside, mismatched chairs and linoleum floors bore the scuffs of a hundred hurried mornings.
Your hair had been shoved into a bun since dawn, already loosened by the heat radiating off the pastry case. You moved nonstop, dodging customers and slinging paper bags filled with brownies, marble loaves, and chocolate croissants to neighborhood regulars. The cookies, especially the chocolate chip, were gone before noon, and you'd slipped a few warm ones to the kids who lived across the street, ignoring their mother's frazzled protests. Kids needed sweetness in a city like this.
You leaned against the counter for the first time in hours, arms dusted with flour and sugar, the faint hum of a delivery truck idling outside. You took a quick sip of water, your lips still tasting faintly of cinnamon. Then came the bell, ding-a-ling, that delicate sound above the door. You glanced up and froze in amused recognition. Ben Grimm stood in the doorway, trying (and failing) to disguise his massive, craggy frame beneath a trench coat that strained at the seams.
His fedora sat low, shadowing his unmistakable orange brow, but you’d recognize that stance anywhere. A few folks glanced up, but New Yorkers were practiced in the art of pretending not to notice things that didn’t concern them. “There’s my favorite customer!” You grinned, the weariness melting from your voice as you waved him in. Ben chuckled low in his throat, the sound gravelly and warm. “The usual, a dozen black and white cookies, fresh outta the oven.”
You beamed, already holding out the brown paper bag before he could part his lips. Ben’s rocky features relaxed into a rare, boyish grin. The warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, even beneath the shadow of his hat. “You spoil us way too much, Y/N.” He murmured, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat with those thick, stone-like fingers. Before he could fish out his wallet, you gently laid your hand against his arm. “Nah,” You whispered, your eyes crinkling. “It’s the least I can do. You keep our city from crumbling, literally.”
He hesitated, then chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth pulling into something half-sheepish, half-grateful. The coat shifted slightly as he straightened up, careful not to knock over the tiny table near the window. Outside, the city kept humming, taxis honking, a dog barking somewhere down the block, steam curling from a grate on the corner like clockwork. Ever since that mission to space, the one that turned the four of them into something the world had never seen, they'd been more than just heroes.
Earth-828 called them protectors. Some folks whispered “miracles,” others muttered “monsters,” but to you, they were still people. People who liked black and white cookies warm and still a little gooey in the middle. Ben tucked the bag under one arm with reverence, like he was holding something precious instead of simply just cookies. “Reed says carbs’ll slow me down,” He grunted, already lifting one to his mouth. “But he doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”
You laughed, the sound light above the soft vinyl music playing from the back. The overhead light flickered briefly, a flaw in the old wiring you never bothered fixing, casting a golden glow across the glass counter and catching the powdered sugar still clinging to your forearms. “Anything else I can get for you?” You asked, tilting your head as Ben scanned the pastry display. “Will you let me pay for it this time?” You shrugged with a playful glint in your eye watching as he shook his head in disapproval.
“Just the cookies today. I’ll take the offer next time, though.” Ben grunted, approval or defeat, it was hard to tell, and adjusted his coat. “Fair enough,” You smiled, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Tell everyone their favorite baker said hello.” You added, wiping your hands on your apron. As if summoned, the front door jingled again, and in blew a gust of hot air and unmistakable cologne. “Ben! What a coincidence!” Johnny Storm strolled in like he owned the block, hair windswept, a grin already loaded and ready to fire.
He clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, more for show than anything, before swiveling toward you like a sunflower toward the sun. “Why hello, gorgeous.” He purred, leaning casually against the counter, elbows propped like it was a bar and not a bakery. His blue eyes flicked over you, every detail catalogued in a glance that burned hotter than anything the ovens could crank out. You didn’t flinch. You’d seen this act before. “Johnny.” You replied, arms crossed more for protection than posture.
It didn’t stop your heart from racing, not with him standing there, all charm and endearing smile. He’d been flirting ever since the first time Ben sent him to pick up cookies, weeks ago now, throwing one-liners your way. It had become routine, really. Every day around noon, Johnny would stroll through the doors of Maisie’s Delicatessen, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in civilian charm, like clockwork.
He’d order the same cherry danish or lemon tart he never finished, pick at a croissant he claimed was “too flaky,” or simply ask for something sweet and then spend twenty minutes leaning on the counter and making small talk. You’d never seen him eat more than a bite. The truth? He didn’t like pastries. You knew. You noticed the way he’d discreetly leave half of them on the plate, or slide one into a napkin and “forget” it on the windowsill. But he came back anyway.
Every. Single. Day.
Only unlike all the women in New York City, you’d brushed him off. You always did. The whole city knew Johnny Storm’s reputation. He was the Human Torch, flashy, unpredictable, and impossible not to look at. Blonde hair like sunlight, eyes blue enough to drown in. You weren’t naive. You just weren’t stupid enough to fall for him and get your heart broken. At first, you assumed it was just Johnny being Johnny, chasing a pretty face with his signature swagger and a smirk that could melt through steel.
His flirtation had seemed harmless. But lately… something about him felt different. He asked questions that had nothing to do with your looks. Asked about your favorite books, your childhood dog, whether you liked jazz or doo-wop better. He once brought you a bouquet of tiger lillies because “you looked like someone who deserved a Wednesday pick-me up.” He listened. Really listened. And yet, you still didn’t let yourself believe it. Because he was Johnny Storm.
Famous. Reckless. Traveled to space. And you? You baked cookies on 3rd and Grand and slipped extras to neighborhood kids. So when he leaned in across the counter today, eyes locked on yours like you were the only person in Manhattan, it made your stomach twist. Because you couldn’t tell if it was all just part of the game, or if maybe, just maybe, he meant it. Still, you reminded yourself to breathe, burying the stupid crush on the blonde-haired, blue-eyed heartbreaker as far down as it would go.
You’d dug that hole weeks ago, right around the time he started showing up for pastries he didn’t eat, and you’d kept digging ever since. “Surprised you’re not at the Baxter Building,” You teased, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe a nonexistent smudge on the counter. “Don’t you have a world to save?” He grinned, eyes glinting. “Figured I’d start with yours.” You almost choked on your own breath. Ben rolled his eyes so hard you could almost hear them click.
“Flamebrain, pick up your danish and let the woman work.” But Johnny didn’t move. He leaned in further, elbow resting against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Aw, come on, Y/N.” He drawled with a smirk so effortless it should’ve been criminal. That wink, practiced, perfect, probably had women lining up around the block. You huffed a laugh despite yourself, because dammit, he was impossible not to smile at. Shaking your head, you turned your back to him, pretending to be very, very busy with the new tray of croissants still warm from the oven.
You didn’t need to see his face to know he was still watching you, you could feel it. You grabbed the pineapple danish, the one he always claimed was his favorite, though you were 99% sure he hated pineapple, and placed it gently on the counter between you. “Have a nice day, Johnny.” It was meant to be the end of it. A line drawn in powdered sugar. But the way he lit up when you said his name made your chest tighten in a way that was wildly inconvenient.
His whole face softened, the cocky veneer still there, but something genuine flickering behind it. The corners of his mouth curved, his blue eyes twinkling like he'd just won something. He pulled out his wallet, soft leather, edges worn, and slid a crisp $10 bill across the counter without breaking eye contact. “See you next time, beautiful.” That should’ve been it. Any normal person would’ve taken their pastry and left. But Johnny Storm wasn’t normal. Before you could even blink, he leaned in again, this time reaching for you.
Reflex made you freeze, lips parting on instinct as his hand came up to your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitched. Your skin went electric beneath his touch. “Gotcha.” He whispered with a smug grin, dusting flour off your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, like some cinematic fever dream, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, slow, gentle, and let his fingers linger just a second too long.
You couldn’t even look at him. Not directly. Not with that smile. Not with the way his cologne curled through the air, something warm, woodsy, and undeniably him. Not with his broad shoulders in your peripheral, framed by the soft golden light of the storefront window. Your heart was pounding like the city outside, and you hated how easily he could turn you to absolute mush. With one last cheeky wink, he straightened up and strolled past Ben toward the exit like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.
You stood frozen, still gripping the edge of the counter as the bell above the door chimed again. Ben lingered for just a second longer, eyeing you with something between amusement and pity. “He’s trouble, kid.” You managed a breathless laugh, cheeks still burning. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He gave you one last tip of his hat before he was out the door. Through the foggy window, you watched Ben shove Johnny as they walked down the street, his expression deadpan as Johnny laughed, head tilted back, beaming.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the stupid smile tugging at your lips. The rest of the evening passed like a worn-out record, quiet, predictable, and just a little too slow. No more superhero drop-ins, no flirtatious banter, just the comforting rhythm of clinking coffee cups, parents herding sugar-hyped kids, and the usual faces grabbing day-old rye for half price. You moved on autopilot, smiling when necessary, nodding when expected, but your thoughts weren’t behind the counter anymore.
They were still caught somewhere between Johnny Storm’s hand brushing your cheek and the lingering scent of him that had somehow stuck to the sleeves of your apron. At four o’clock sharp, you finally peeled off the fabric, folding it with practiced hands. You greeted your coworker with a tired wave, slung your bag over one shoulder, and grabbed the small box of pastries you’d stashed for yourself, your ritual comfort after long shifts. With a practiced motion, you nudged open the back door and stepped into the fading amber of early evening.
It was cooler now, a soft breeze threading through your sleeves, but it didn’t soothe the heat still smoldering beneath your skin. You leaned against the brick wall beside the shop, juggling the box and your bag awkwardly as you searched for your keys. Of course, they’d sunken to the bottom. Because today was that kind of day. “Geez, Y/N! Don’t you know it’s not safe out here?” You jumped slightly, box nearly tipping. But then the voice registered, cocky and warm like always, laced with amusement.
You glanced up, and there he was. Johnny Storm, leaning casually against the wall beside you, hands in the pockets of his jeans, wearing a fitted maroon tee that left nothing to the imagination. His eyes sparkled under the streetlamp like he knew exactly the effect he was having on you. You didn’t even bother hiding your eye-roll this time. “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a woman when it’s nearly dark?” He laughed, that rich, golden sound that always felt like it was meant just for you.
“Walking a beautiful girl to her car after a long shift? That’s not rude, sweetheart. That’s practically chivalry.” You hated the way your heart fluttered. “I might even ask her out to dinner, if she doesn’t already have plans.” He added, stepping a little closer. “You never quit, do you?” Your voice was breathier than you intended, your composure already fraying. The city seemed to fall away, no cars, no lights, no sound, just the heavy press of his presence and the impossible closeness of him.
He took one more step, caging you. His arms bracketed the space like a promise. His eyes were softer now, but blazing all the same. “When it comes to you? I don’t.” You looked up at him, and you felt it, that dangerous pull. Like you were standing on the edge of something steep, and he was gravity. For one brief, selfish second, you wanted to fall. His gaze searched yours, blue eyes impossibly sincere, and you felt your whole body lock up. You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or lean in.
It was too much, all at once, the heat, the closeness, the way his words curled inside your chest and ignited everything you’d been trying to bury. “Johnny—” You started, just as quick reality struck. “Johnny! Johnny! Can we get a picture?” A chorus of high-pitched voices broke through the quiet. You both turned. Across the street, three girls, all wide smiles, glossy hair, and miniskirts, were waving excitedly. “Please! We love you!” His shoulders stiffened. For once, he was speechless, gaze flickering between you and them.
And that’s when it hit you.
Of course girls like that followed him. Of course they screamed his name and got his smile and maybe more. Girls who were everything you weren’t, glamorous, shiny, effortless. You felt plain in comparison, dusty from work, apron-wrinkled, flour on your jeans, your lipstick smudged from hours behind the counter and sneaking coffee during your breaks. You felt your throat tighten, breath catching behind clenched teeth.
He looked at you, torn, visibly. You saw the guilt, the hesitation. But you couldn’t handle it. Not the look. Not the choice. You beat him to it. “Go,” You whispered, voice thick. “Take pictures. Sign autographs. Don't let me stop you.” His head whipped back to you. “Y/N—” But you were already slipping. Already falling back into the walls you had spent so long building. Don’t get attached. Don’t believe him. Don’t be a fool. “I’ll see you around, Johnny.” Your smile was brittle.
A cracked-glass version of the one you used to give him. You turned before he could speak, before he could reach for you, because you knew, if he said the right thing, if he looked at you that way again, you’d stay. And you couldn’t. You clutched the pastry box like it was armor and speed-walked to your car, fumbling with the keys as your eyes blurred. You slammed the door shut behind you, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make your knuckles pale.
You let out one shaky breath, but it didn’t help, your chest still felt like it was caving in. The first tear slipped down your cheek, and you swiped at it with the back of your hand. You blinked hard, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from sobbing, swallowing the thick lump that refused to go away. Through the windshield, you could still see him, standing there, not moving. Not chasing after you. Of course not. He was Johnny Storm. And you? You were just the girl who made the cookies.
It had been two days. Two painfully long, quiet days. Ben had still come in like clockwork, trench coat tight around his frame, tipping his hat with a low grunt and walking out with his usual dozen black and white cookies. Business carried on, regulars filtered in and out, the register chimed, the espresso hissed, and the world, somehow, didn’t stop turning just because Johnny Storm hadn’t walked through your door. But you noticed.
You hated how your heart leapt every time the bell over the door jingled, hated how your eyes darted up from the pastry case expecting him, golden hair tousled like he’d just stepped off a beach, sunglasses halfway down his nose, wearing that crooked grin that always seemed a little too proud to be real. But it was never him. An old man wanting lemon bars. A tired mother with her toddler. A delivery guy. Anyone but Johnny.
By the second afternoon, you were scolding yourself. You’re fine. You don’t care. It didn’t mean anything. It never meant anything. But even that was starting to ring hollow. So when the bell chimed again near closing and your head shot up on instinct, eyes connecting with familiar blue ones. Only it wasn’t Johnny. “Sue?” You breathed out, heart stumbling in your chest at the familiar face, equal parts relief and renewed confusion bubbling up behind your smile. “Hi.”
Her face lit up, warm and elegant as always, framed by a neat headband and soft waves, dressed in a powder blue coat that fell just past her knees. You rounded the counter before she could say a word, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Congratulations, you and Reed, you’re both going to be such amazing parents.” Susan laughed softly, pulling back, her hand instinctively resting over the small swell at her abdomen.
“Thank you, darling.” She whispered, her smile tender, eyes softening at your touch as you caressed the curve just barely beginning to show. Susan glanced around the shop, the quiet obvious now that the last customers had filtered out. She must have seen something flicker across your face, something you didn’t mean to let show, because her gaze settled on you a little too knowingly. "Johnny and Ben didn't tell me you were stopping by."
You hoped it sounded casual, but your voice betrayed you, just a little. She tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, Ben's been busy helping Reed with all the baby stuff,” She replied gently. “And, I don’t think Johnny's mentioned anything the last day or two, actually. He’s... been a little off.” Off? Your chest tightened. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have the right to. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure you were a friend.
You were just the girl who made the pastries he didn’t eat, the one he flirted with until fans screamed his name and you reminded yourself to be practical. Still, it gnawed at you. The absence. The silence. The ache that felt like a bruise just beneath the surface of your ribs. You forced a smile. “I’ve got some brioche cooling in the back. Want to take some home?” Susan smiled and nodded, but her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.
And you wondered, how much did she know? Because if anyone could see through the armor, it was the Invisible Woman. You wrapped the warm loaf in parchment, the buttery scent of brioche rising with the steam as you folded the edges with careful precision, anything to keep your hands busy while your mind threatened to spiral. Susan lingered just past the counter, fingertips brushing along the glass display case, watching you with an unreadable expression.
Her silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just... weighty. Like she was debating whether or not to cross a line. The silence stretched a few beats longer before she finally broke it. “You know,” She began, almost too casually. “Johnny’s a lot of things. Loud. Reckless. Infuriating.” A wry smile tugged at her lips. “A complete pain in the ass, honestly.” You snorted quietly, folding the twine over the loaf and tying it into a neat bow. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Her gaze sharpened at that, the playful warmth in her voice dipping into something more sincere. “But he’s also been completely, hopelessly hung up on you.” You froze, not dramatically, but just enough that your fingers faltered mid-knot. Susan leaned in slightly, voice softening. “I mean it. Ever since he met you, it’s been nonstop. You’d think Reed and I were hosting a teenage girl in love. Every dinner, it’s always ‘Y/N made me try this pastry’ or ‘You should’ve seen the way her eyes lit up when I told her a dumb joke.’”
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry as your heart pounded loud enough to rival the ticking bakery clock. “I thought it was just another Johnny phase,” Susan continued, her eyes kind now, but serious. “He’s... well. He’s had his share of admirers. Most of them louder. But none of them stuck. None of them made him show up every morning like he forgot how to sleep or act like a lovesick teenager.” Your lips parted, but no words made it out.
Susan gave you a long look, stepping closer until her voice dropped again, almost conspiratorial. “You know what really got me? He started asking me about baking.” You blinked. “He what?” She nodded, confirming that you in fact had heard her correctly. “Wanted to know how long croissants proof. What makes a good butter ratio. If semi-sweet chocolate was the same as milk chocolate, I nearly dropped a plate.”
She gave a quiet laugh, brushing her coat sleeve with her thumb. “He burns toast, Y/N. He once tried to boil eggs in the microwave.” That startled a weak laugh out of you, but the ache behind it remained. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker,” Susan added, gentler now. “And I know he’s a mess, God, he really is, but... this isn’t a game to him. Not this time.” You stared down at the loaf in your hands, chest tightening under the weight of everything she wasn’t saying outright.
You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s hand on your cheek from two days ago. The way his voice had softened when it was just the two of you. How his grin faltered when he thought you weren’t looking. The worst part? You wanted to believe her. You really did. Yet, that quiet voice in the back of your head, the one that always whispered your insecurities when the lights dimmed and the bakery closed, wasn’t so easily silenced, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
Why would someone like him want someone like you, when he could have models, actresses, girls with legs for days and zero baggage?
You pushed the thought down, deep, wrapping the last piece of tape around the box like it could hold you together too. Susan’s hand landed lightly on your arm, anchoring you for a moment. “Whatever you decide, just don’t let the noise drown out what’s real.” You met her eyes. And in them, you saw none of the pity you were bracing for, just quiet encouragement. Understanding. You gave a faint nod and offered the brioche across the counter.
She took it gently, her smile warm as she tucked it into her bag. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” And then she was gone, the bell jingling softly behind her as she disappeared into the golden spill of the afternoon light. You exhaled slowly, and for the first time in two days, you didn’t flinch at the thought of Johnny Storm. You just ached. The door had barely swung closed behind Susan when you stood there, motionless, loaf of brioche crumbs still scattered across the counter like the remains of a decision just made.
Your heart pounded so loudly you swore the walls could hear it. The hum of the bakery lights, the tick of the clock over the register, the faint laughter of kids down the block, it all faded beneath the sudden, sharp thrum of possibility. What if she was right? What if he wasn’t just another cocky grin in a fireproof suit? What if, under all the swagger and fanfare, Johnny Storm had been waiting, hoping, for you to see him the way he saw you?
Your hands moved before your fear could stop them. You ripped off your apron, tossing it onto the hook so fast it spun, grabbed your purse and keys, and locked the till with barely a glance. You rushed around the counter, fumbled with the light switches, not bothering to sweep the back or double-check the signage. The “Closed” sign swung crooked in the door’s window as you burst out into the late afternoon sun, scanning the sidewalk like a woman on a mission.
There she was. Susan, a block away, was sliding her sunglasses on as she reached the driver's side of a navy blue Fantasticar. You called out her name, your voice cracked with urgency and nerves. She turned, brows lifted in surprise, then slowly tilted her sunglasses down as you approached, breathless and wide-eyed. “I need a ride,” You exhaled, planting your feet like you might change your mind if you moved again. “To the Baxter Building.”
A slow, knowing smirk curled on her lips, like she’d known this would happen all along. Like she had simply laid out the breadcrumbs and waited for you to follow them. Without a word, she unlocked the car with a flick of her wrist and gestured to the passenger side. You slid in, heart hammering, palms damp, and stared out the window as the city blurred by. Your mind ran faster than the wheels on the pavement. What would you say when you saw him? What if he laughed? What if you were wrong?
But then you remembered the way he looked at you. Not like you were an option. Like you were it. The crack in his cocky demeanor when he thought nobody was looking. Susan glanced at you from the corner of her eye, her voice casual as she merged into traffic. “Took you long enough.” You glanced down, flushed and nervous, but a small smile crept across your lips. “Yeah, I guess it really did.” And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel afraid of what came next.
The drive to the Baxter Building felt endless, not because of traffic, but because of what waited at the end of it. Every red light was another second for doubt to crawl back in. Every street corner flashed with reminders: his face on magazines in bodega windows, girls with teased hair giggling over autographed photos, memories of your own reflection feeling small in comparison. Still, you didn’t ask Susan to turn around.
The building rose ahead like a monument, sleek steel and glass stretching toward a stormy Manhattan sky. As you stepped through the lobby, nerves clamped around your lungs, but Susan’s hand on your arm kept you grounded. “Just breathe,” Her eyes told you without a word. The elevator ride was silent, the kind that buzzes with everything unspoken. When the doors opened, both Reed and Ben turned like they’d sensed a bomb ticking.
Ben looked you up and down like you’d grown an extra head, half a cookie still in his massive hand. Reed’s brows lifted, already calculating variables. But before either of them could utter a syllable, Susan threw them a look sharp enough to slice concrete, one perfectly arched brow raised, hand on her hip. You chuckled inwardly, thinking she had definitely mastered the 'mom look'. Ben grunted, glanced between the two of you, then quietly retreated toward the kitchen, muttering something about minding his own damn business.
Reed blinked a few times and gave a tiny, approving nod before following suit. You turned to Susan, your pulse thudding like it might give up entirely. She only smiled, placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Third door on the left. Go.” You didn't need to be told twice. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor as you approached the door, H.E.R.B.I.E chirped a happy greeting in your direction. You waved, resting a hand on the smooth top of the robot’s head with an affectionate pat.
As you eyes locked on the door just past him, you could have sworn your heart lurched. You didn’t bother knocking. Your hand turned the knob, and the door flung open with all the force of your barely-contained storm. There he was. Johnny Storm, sprawled across his navy couch in a gray NASA tee and sweatpants, wearing a full space suit helmet. His posture screamed boredom, limbs flung over the cushions, one leg lazily propped up on the coffee table, until he saw you.
His eyes widened, nearly cartoonish behind the visor, and he jolted upright with such force the helmet slipped sideways on his head. “Y/N!” The name flew from him like he’d been holding it in for days. His voice cracked with disbelief as he scrambled to yank the helmet off, his hair sticking up wildly from the static. “Uh, hi! I mean—hey, you’re here. You’re… in my room.” You stood just inside the doorway, hands curled into your coat pockets to keep from fidgeting.
He blinked at you, breath shallow, eyes flicking from your coat to your flushed cheeks to the tense set of your jaw. “You okay? Did something happen? Are you—?” You didn’t even let him finish. Five steps, that’s all it took. You crossed the room with a force you didn’t know you had, your palms gripping the soft cotton of his white t-shirt, knuckles white with all the tension and longing that had been brewing for weeks, and tugged him down to your level.
Then you crashed your lips into his like it was the only way to keep from falling apart. Johnny’s breath stuttered, caught completely off guard, but only for a second. One of them slid up your spine, fingers splayed wide, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss like he’d been starving for it.
Your tongue brushed his, tentative at first, but then his low, guttural moan vibrated through your chest and your grip tightened in his shirt, knuckles aching. You kissed him deeper, mouths moving in perfect sync, hot and messy, with the urgency of two people who had waited too long and couldn’t wait a second more. Johnny broke the kiss just long enough to gasp your name against your jaw, voice rough and reverent.
He ducked his head, lips dragging down your neck in soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. When his teeth grazed just beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escaped you, unfiltered and raw. “God, do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse, like the words had clawed their way out of him. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not with your pulse pounding in your ears.
Not with the way he was looking at you like you were something sacred. Instead, you kissed him again, harder this time. The scent of him, smoke and whatever cologne he wore that made your knees weak, clouded your senses as his tongue swept across your bottom lip. Your teeth knocked, breath mingled, and his hand slipped down to the back of your thigh. Without breaking contact, Johnny bent slightly, hooking his arms under your legs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing.
You gasped into his mouth as your back met the cool plaster of his bedroom wall, the contrast making you shiver, but Johnny’s body was all heat, all fire pressed flush against you. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips, and the sound he made in response, part growl, part groan, was nearly enough to undo you right then and there. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he’d held back every second since the first time you handed him a croissant and smiled in his direction.
His fingers flexed at your hips, anchoring you, grounding you, while his mouth explored yours with a tenderness that burned hotter than anything reckless. You broke apart only when your lungs screamed for air, panting, foreheads pressed together. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped you, and your own were buried in his hair, fingers tangled and unwilling to let go. Your gaze met his, blue eyes wide, wild, soft, and for once, all the noise in your head quieted.
You could feel it in the space between heartbeats, in the way his thumb brushed over the back of your knee, in the breath he stole and gave back with each kiss. This wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t a game. “Now, can I take you to dinner?” He murmured, lips brushing yours. You let out a breathy laugh, stealing one more chaste kiss that left both of you grinning like fools. “I think we might've missed a couple steps.” You teased, hands absentmindedly playing with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.
The same ones you’d always dreamed of running your fingers through but never dared to. His eyes softened, that usual cocky glint melting into something heartbreakingly earnest. “I don’t care in what order it happened,” He whispered, blue eyes tracing every line of your face like he was trying to burn it into memory. “As long as it’s you.” Your chest tightened, the words wrapping around something fragile and long-buried in you. He leaned in, nudging his nose gently against yours, and the breath that left him was barely a whisper.
“I should’ve stayed with you that night. I should’ve kissed you the second I saw you leaning against that wall. I should’ve never let you walk away. God, I’ve been such an idiot.” You drew in a shaky breath, heart swelling in your chest. Lifting your hands from his neck, you cupped his face in your palms, thumbs brushing across the faint hint of stubble along his jaw. “Hey,” You coaxed, voice soft but firm, grounding him before his thoughts could wonder. “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”
He closed his eyes like he didn’t trust himself to believe it until you said it again, so you kissed the tip of his nose. Then the corner of his mouth. Then fully on his lips, almost as if sealing the promise between you. A knock sounded faintly, followed by Reed’s voice muffled through the door. “Johnny! Is your friend staying for dinner?” You paused, eyes meeting his. There it was again, that flicker of vulnerability, like the part of him that still feared you’d run if given the chance.
But you didn’t even need to speak. Your smile answered for you. Johnny turned toward the door, cocky grin returning with full force. “Yes she is!” He called out, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell Herbert to set another plate at the table because—” He leaned closer, pressing a final lingering kiss to your flushed cheek. “My gorgeous girlfriend is staying over for dinner.” You couldn’t help it. You beamed. That word, girlfriend, made your skin tingle.
It felt impossibly good. Honest. Earned. You tugged him back down for one more kiss, slow and sure and full of everything you’d both kept buried for far too long. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t second-guessing it. You were exactly where you wanted to be. Where he wanted you to be. Wrapped in the arms of a man who once flirted like it was a reflex, and now held you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made him feel real.
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KINKTOBER ‘25, DAY 16: SACRILEGIOUS ACT. SPIT KINK.
PAIRING: matt murdock x female! reader
SUMMARY: matt murdock is a faith-driven man and he loves wearing his cross whenever he can… but when he’s fucking you, your mouth is unable to stop itself from biting the same faith driven necklace that he keeps close to him.
CONTENT WARNING: 17+ CONTENT, vaginal sex, sacrilegious behavior (aka premarital sex and disrespecting the cross), patronizing! matt murdock, spit kink, dirty talk, rough sex, hair pulling (matt! receiving)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: matty, my love~ don’t like what you see so far? don’t read! nobody saw the fact that I changed the prompt, nobody saw that. I just could not finish it to save the life of me. eventually it will come out, and I’ve had this one cooked for a while, so enjoy this shorter one! (the next matt one is so hot and so good)
matthew murdock was a fair man. he treated those with kindness, he acted upon the graces of god, and he made sure he did everything in his efforts to get the bad people locked up… he was a fair man, until it came to your pussy.
right now, matt has you on your back, your legs on his shoulders as your knees pressed against your breasts, your hands gripping his biceps.
“look at me angel…” he whispers, cock drilling in and out of you… but you couldn’t look at him… “look at me while I fuck this pretty cunt…”
your eyes were entrances on his cross. his silver cross that has seen better days but still glint in the light as he thrusted back and fourth. there was no ring on either of your fingers… but there was a cross, and you couldn’t resist the groan that left your throat.
“matty…” you moan out, feeling him adjust his hips, knees pressing into the bed as he began to hit your cervix directly. “matt! oh fuckkk! so g-good.”
he groans as your walls tighten around his cock, he wasn’t thick but he was long. unfairly long. with a special right curve and the long vein on the left side of his cock… his happy trail shaved and his thigh muscles flexing.
the bed squeaks, the springs retracting with each harsh push of weight on it. your moans were loud enough that they overpowered the squeaky springs, the headboard against the brick wall of his hell’s kitchen apartment making scratch marks against the wood as the legs of the poor bedframe tried to keep themselves up.
your eyes pierced his, knowing there was nothing behind them… but you didn’t care, you loved staring into his eyes. his heightened senses were so good, but it’s almost like he knew when you were looking at him. your vision fogs up with each movement, and you can’t help when your eyes dart downwards to watch his cock piston in and out of your sobbing folds that something’s catching your eye instead… his cross.
watching the cross sway back and fourth with each thrust of his hips, each stretch of your walls around his thick cock. the way it dangled in your face like it was a taunt, taunting you, daring you to touch it. the same man who you fell in love with due to his devotion and loyalty that shared itself with you. mind too full of love, you don’t even give yourself a second chance before lifting your head, bringing your lips closer to the cross.
and before you could stop yourself… your teeth found the cross, the vertical line of the cross pressing on your tongue as your top teeth bit into the horizontal axis of it. your bite wasn’t out of disrespect… but almost love.
love for matt.
he chuckles as he feels the tug of your teeth. any other person? he’d be getting on their ass about even touching his cross… but you? he didn’t mind.
his cock drags in and out, your moans muffled by the cross. “you like my cross baby?” he murmurs, neck vein bulging as his jaw clenched.
you nod. “ma-matty… ‘just want to be close to you…” you explain, rolling your eyes back after a particularly delicious thrust.
“my love… ‘m pretty sure my dick being balls deep in you is close enough.” he chuckles, purposely going balls deep after his words and grinding as much cock into your pussy as possible.
you dig your nails into his biceps harder, a moan splitting out of your mouth and even through the teeth that’s pressed onto the cross. drool begins to leave your mouth.
“ah, gosh, baby, don’t make a mess.” he whispers, lifting his thumb to wipe the drool off your chin. “make a mess on my cock, not my cross.” he coos, as if he’s not letting you bite it in the first place. he presses the thumb against his lips, getting a taste of your spit. it’s delicious in his mind.
you roll your eyes back as his cock hits deeper within you. your teeth are still attached to the metal, spit falling from your lips and onto your chin. your too cock-drunk to even care that what you’re doing might be disrespectful, you love matty but damn it, why would he wear that damn thing during sex—
matt groaned under his breath, his balls tightening with each clench of your insides. he loves seeing how desperate you looked for him, how the drool dropped down your chin, how slick your skin looked as you moaned around his cross. he would be in the doghouse if anyone downtown at the church he goes to found out about any of this… but you’re a sight to be ahold.
“m-matty…” you whine, eyes screwing shut as his tip kisses your cervix. each movement of his hips gets you closer and closer to the euphoria you’ve been chasing. “matt, pleaseeeee.”
he grins above you, leaning down and sticking out his tongue. with one clean swipe of his tongue, he licks the spit that decorates your chin, swallowing it without a damn care in the world. “look so fucking good, angel, drooling all f’me, only f’me… so fucking sexy.” he groans.
you shiver at his tongue licking your chin but you nod, the chain connecting the cross stretching and yanking with your nods. “matt- oh fuck! oh fuckkkk! g-gonna cum!” you moan around the metal.
“do it baby, cum for me.” he tells you… and in no time at all to even hesitate, your cumming around his cock, he’s not edging you or making you wait or teasing you any further.
because if there’s anything matt murdock is more devoted to than god… it’s your pleasure.
main masterlist | kinktober masterlist
meow. gotta live up to my username. sorry for less filth in this one, I just really wanted to focus on the cross biting but I’ll have a new filthy matt one up soon! luv himmmm
Frank doesn’t let you carry a single grocery bag. Ever. Even if it’s one little bag with bread and a bottle of milk, he plucks it out of your hands like it weighs nothing.
And when you go for a bigger shop? He carries it all in one trip, arms stacked with bags, muttering “Don’t worry about it, I got it” when you suggest splitting the load. His strength makes it look effortless, and he secretly loves the way you tease him for being your personal pack mule.
2. Fixing things before you notice they’re broken
Lightbulb flickers? By the time you’ve mentioned it, Frank’s already got the step stool and a new bulb in hand.
Your cabinet door is hanging loose? He’s crouched down with a screwdriver before you even think to call maintenance.
He has this quiet way of moving through your space, noticing what’s off and fixing it before it can bother you. It’s not just practical — it’s his way of keeping your world stable when so much else is chaotic.
3. Security detail 24/7
Frank doesn’t say he’s doing it, but you know he memorizes your commute, knows which neighbors to trust, and checks the locks on your doors and windows every night.
If you’re walking home late, he’s waiting on the corner, leaning against a wall, arms crossed — like he just “happened” to be in the neighborhood.
He never admits it’s on purpose, but when you catch him, he just shrugs: “Can’t hurt to be careful.”
4. Cooking for you when you’re too tired
He’s no gourmet chef, but Frank can throw together a mean skillet dinner or pasta dish.
If you’re exhausted, he’ll quietly put a plate in front of you without asking, then hover until you eat. “Need fuel,” he grumbles, watching you take the first bite with a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t show anyone else.
And yeah, sometimes the portions are massive (soldier appetite), but he always gives you the best piece of whatever’s cooking.
5. Remembering the little details you forget
You mention offhand that you’re almost out of toothpaste? Next day, there’s a new tube in the bathroom.
You once said your favorite tea helps you sleep? He keeps a box stocked in the cupboard.
He’s hyper-observant — a skill from years of training — but he uses it now to track your habits and anticipate your needs. It’s his way of saying, “I see you. I pay attention.”
6. Running interference with people who stress you out
Nosy neighbor won’t stop asking questions? Frank answers the door and gives them a look that shuts them up instantly.
Pushy coworker tries to corner you at a bar? Frank appears at your side, hand at the small of your back, voice low and calm: “She’s done talking.”
He never makes a scene, but he has this way of silently removing obstacles, making space for you to breathe without having to ask.
7. Driving you everywhere
Doesn’t matter if it’s across town or just down the street — if it’s dark out, if it’s raining, if you’re tired, Frank tosses you his jacket and says, “c’mon, I’ll take you.”
And even though his driving style can be… intense, with sharp turns and quick stops, he always drives slow with you in the car. One arm casually across the back of your seat, thumb brushing your shoulder while he navigates like you’re the most precious cargo he’s ever carried.
8. Being your built-in bodyguard in public
Crowded subway? He stands behind you, a solid wall of muscle, one hand resting lightly at your hip so you don’t get shoved.
Busy street? His hand automatically finds yours, guiding you across, even if it means he’s the one getting jostled.
He doesn’t draw attention to it — it’s instinct. He makes sure you move through the world with a bubble of safety around you.
9. Taking care of chores you hate
He learns quickly which tasks you dread — laundry, trash, vacuuming — and just… does them.
Never asks for credit, never makes a big deal out of it. You’ll just walk into the room and realize the dishwasher is empty or the floor is clean, and Frank is sitting on the couch like nothing happened.
If you thank him, he grumbles, “Wasn’t a big deal,” but you catch the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
10. Grounding you when life feels overwhelming
Sometimes the best way Frank makes your life easier isn’t about chores or errands — it’s about the way he can quiet your head when it won’t stop spinning.
He notices when you’re stressed, when you can’t breathe, when you’re about to snap. That’s when he pulls you into his chest, big arms wrapping around you, voice rumbling low: “Breathe. Just breathe. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t try to fix everything with words — he just makes the world simpler, quieter, safer, by being your anchor.
Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; it helps to craft my writing!🥰
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Prompt: "Moving In" Day 7 of @flufftober
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Synopsis: Moving in with Bucky means packing up more than just boxes and books. It's carrying every memory, every fear of being "too much," and learning that sometimes, home is found in the person who wants all of you, clutter and all.
Word Count: 1.8k
Tags/Warnings: moving in induced anxiety (but gets resolved!), soft!Bucky Barnes, domesticity, emotional healing, Bucky Barnes is a supportive boyfriend, allusion to past awful relationships, Reader is a bookworm, no use of y/n
Chirps: I really didn't mean for this to get so...angsty. My bad! But I hope it resonates with anyone who's every felt like they take up too much space. I'm here to remind you that you will find the person who makes room for you, no matter what ♡
Flufftober 2025 | Main Masterlist | AO3
They say if you really want to know who someone is, just ask for their favorite book.
But whoever they are has clearly never met you. Right now, you are surrounded by five bulging boxes of books, a dozen more piles stacked precariously at your feet, and half a bookshelf still stuffed to the brim. Almost every other one is your favorite. How could you possibly pick just one? There are different genres, authors who use words like weapons or lullabies, stories that shape-shift every time you turn the page. How could you compare them? It’s impossible.
Just like moving all of this would be.
You’re sad to give up your apartment. It’s been your sanctuary ever since you first peeled yourself away from your parents’ house. A quiet reprieve from the bustling gray city sidewalks outside your stoop. But when your super soldier boyfriend asks you to move to a Brooklyn apartment with a view of the bridge and a private patio, you don’t really argue.
Not until you’re standing in the middle of your living room, realizing what an impossible, Herculean task it is to move your entire library and everything else you’ve collected that makes up your life. Not to mention the boxes of “necessities” piling up in the hallway, multiplying when you’re not looking.
“Bucky, it’s too much…” you sigh, hands on your hips as you watch him nimbly dodge towers of cardboard and chaos. The boxes are labeled in your own frantic script: idk what this is but can’t throw away, memories I need to hold onto. The closer you got to moving day, the more you just began to either throw things away or shoved into boxes hurriedly.
You can feel your thoughts starting to spiral, quick and mean, jabbing at the soft spots you thought you’d kept protected. He’s going to think you’re too much. There isn’t space for you in his life. Not really.
Bucky just shakes his head, unfazed. “Nope, it’s not, sweetheart. I even went to IKEA and got those bookshelves you wanted. Put ’em together last night and everything. All that’s missing is for you to come make it a home.”
Some of the tension in your shoulders loosens. Not all the way. Not even when he presses a kiss to your temple and hoists the first box into the moving truck with the ease only someone with super soldier serum in their veins could. You have always, always been deemed too much in relationships.
Too clingy. Too soft. Too needy.
There are so many ways to leave, you’ve learned. Sometimes with slammed doors, sometimes with silence. Sometimes it’s just a gentle drifting, a slow untangling until everything falls apart at the seams. You spent years convincing yourself it was safer to stay small, to never hope for more. After all, hope is a dangerous thing to want when you’d always been braced for disappointment. Yet here you are. Your whole life packed into boxes, standing at the edge of trusting someone not to get tired of you.
When everything is packed, you pause at the doorway, keys heavy in your palm. Your apartment looks wrong, stripped bare. The window to the fire escape where you read all your best books in the warmth of late-afternoon sun is empty now. The shelves are hollow. The ceiling looks lower, the walls…were they always this sad, tired shade of beige?
Bucky slips his arm around your waist, steady and solid. His other hand brushes your hair to one side, lips pressing to that soft spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. His voice is a warm weight at your back. “They’re just walls, sweetheart. You’re what makes a place a home. We should go before we hit traffic, but take all the time you need.”
He steps back to give you space, but keeps his fingers loosely tangled with yours—a quiet promise that he’s not rushing you, that he understands this is harder than just moving boxes. The choice is always yours. But he never lets you forget where he stands.
—
A couple hours later, you stood in a sea of boxes in Bucky’s apartment, trying to push the panic down that was clawing at your chest. His normally tidy apartment was about to be overtaken by something you knew he didn’t care for: clutter. So when was it going to be that he stopped caring for you?
Meanwhile, Bucky moved around the stacks with ease. Whistling something low as he carried boxes to their respective spots. You wished you could feel the same nonchalance as you began tearing open the tape, testing the waters to see if you could bring yourself to take up space. Despite there being more than enough room in the closet for your clothes, empty shelves for your books, and more than half the bathroom cabinets ready for you, you hesitated. Each box felt like a gamble, a risk that one day he’d change his mind.
Still, you reached for a box labeled ‘fiction – comfort reads’. That seemed safe enough, Bucky said he bought the shelves for you, and they were assembled on a previously empty wall. And still, your fingers trembled as you slid it open. The smell of paper and home wafted up to greet you, grounding you just enough to push the first few novels onto the nearest shelf. Your movements were careful, a little shy, as if the books themselves might make too much noise in this new space.
You were halfway through arranging a now full bookshelf, thoroughly debating on how you wanted to categorize them, when Bucky wandered over, a stack of your sweaters in his arms. “Where did you want these, sweetheart? Closet or drawer?”
Standing, a few books in hand, you made your way toward him. Before you could answer, something slipped free from between the pages—a crumpled receipt, landing on the hardwood with a soft, papery thwip.
Bucky stooped to pick it up, curiosity bright in his eyes. Your heart dropped, panic tightening your chest as you realized exactly what it was. He smoothed the slip between his fingers, brow furrowing as he read your handwriting scribbled on the back.
“What’s this?” he asked, voice gentle, but your pulse thrummed with dread all the same.
Of course. When you were already worried about being too much, your sentimental hoarding tendencies were about to be exposed.
You cleared your throat, putting the books down on an end table. You felt the heat rising to your neck and cheeks. “It's…uh, the receipt from the first time I paid for dinner. At that Italian place when you forgot your wallet.”
Your voice was small as you braced for the fallout. You waited for him to laugh, or look at you like you were unhinged, like every ex before had.
But Bucky just groaned, a big grin on his face as he turned it over in his hands. “Can’t believe you kept this. That was what, our fifth or sixth date? I felt like such a putz…my ma would’ve given me a smack for that one. Forgettin’ my wallet.”
“You made such a show of paying on the first few dates,” you said, smiling despite the storm of unease swirling in the pit of your stomach. “And I knew you were old-fashioned…just felt like something worth keeping. I like remembering things like that.” It came out small, almost apologetic.
Instead of recoiling, like so many before him, Bucky dropped onto the couch and tucked the receipt gently back into the book. He looked up at you with a soft smile like you’d hung the moon. “So, what else have you got hidden away in these boxes, huh? Anything as embarrassing as my wallet slip?”
You let out a small laugh, some of the tension in your chest easing. Your gaze drops to the box labeled ‘memories to not let go of’. “No, not embarrassing. Just…the little things that remind me of us.”
“Well, let’s see,” he said, patting the cushion next to him. “I’d like to see what you thought was worth remembering.”
You nudged the box closer and settle beside him, knees just barely brushing. For the first time all day, you can actually feel yourself beginning to relax.
With Bucky beside you, you flip open the box and pull out the first treasure. A clear glass box with an assortment of pressed flowers.
He takes it gently, thumb tracing along the edges of the box as he examines it from all angles. “Are these from the first bouquet I got you?”
You nod, smiling. “It was the cutest little assortment of flowers…and no one had really ever gotten me flowers on a first date before.”
He grins, placing it gently on the coffee table with a soft click. “Guess I did something right.”
Next, you hand him a small shirt button, navy blue with thread still attached. He laughs, looking it over. “From the time you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Found it under my bed.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re never letting me live that down are you? It’s not my fault, it was that dress you wore.”
“Sure, blame me,” you tease back, feeling lighter with every confession.
With every confession, the air grows lighter. The two of you settle into a rhythm. Him pulling out a memento, you sharing the story. Coffee sleeves with his doodles, a napkin scribbled with an inside joke about waffles, movie stubs, faded love notes, a visitor’s pass from the first time you’d visited him at the Avengers compound. Each item is its own little universe, its own proof of the love that grew between you.
The box empties, and the coffee table fills. Scattered with pieces of your life together, a messy constellation of memories. You find yourself drifting closer to Bucky the more you share, your shoulder pressed to his, his arm draped lazily against your body, fingers tracing slow circles against your bicep. For the first time all day, the apartment feels less like a minefield and more like home.
“You know,” Bucky murmurs, pulling out the last item. A takeout menu from your favorite Chinese place, complete with a sticky note with his favorite order that reads ‘The Bucky Special’. “We don’t have to unpack everything tonight.”
You glance around at the chaos, boxes still piled high and half unpacked. “Are…you sure you don’t mind? Isn’t it overwhelming, having all this clutter around?”
He leans down, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Not even close. You’re not too much. I want all of this. Someone who cares enough to save the small things. Every memory, every box…every bit of you. And tomorrow, we can tackle the rest. Tonight, I just want to eat greasy noodles and egg rolls with you, fall asleep in our place, and wake up wrapped in each other.”
The reassurance settles over you like a weighted blanket, gentling the nerves you’d carried with you all day. You breathe in, heart full to the brim, and meet his gaze, finally, truly at peace.
“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling up at him for real. “That sounds perfect.”
Please drop a like, reblog, or a comment if you enjoyed! This author thrives off of words of affirmation. :3
Banners & Dividers made by me
Prompt: "In Vino Veritas" Day 3 of @flufftober
Pairing: Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Female Reader
Synopsis: The mission was a success. The drinks were flowing. The vibes were deceptively chill. All you had to do was play it cool. Keep your secret relationship with Bucky under wraps for just one more night. Too bad Tony Stark had other plans and Bucky Barnes is a hopeless romantic with zero chill.
Word Count: 4.5k
Tags/Warnings: Drunken confessions, alcohol use, soft!Bucky, drunk fluff, hidden feelings, secret relationship, Tony Stark being an instigator, Reader is described having hair that can be braided
Chirps: out of all the Flufftober fics I have done so far...this one is my favorite. idk why I'm such a sucker for Drunk!Bucky, but here we are...
Flufftober 2025 | Main Masterlist | AO3
The Avengers Tower had a gentle buzz in the early evening. A lazy warmth was flowing through the open floor plan of the common room after a successful mission. The team was still coasting on adrenaline, with half-empty glasses sweating on side tables with a low, mellow music wafting through the air.
While it wasn’t technically an official celebration, no one had died, the mission had gone off without a hitch, and Stark had been ‘feeling festive’ enough to open his private bar. His own words, though you were watching him gesturing wildly from across the room while talking to Bucky and Steve. Something felt off about him offering one of the most expensive bottles of alcohol to the super soldiers. You knew that he knew they couldn’t get drunk. So really, what was he playing at? Sure Stark was generous, but he currently held a bottle of single malt scotch that you knew was worth over $10k like it was nothing.
Bucky nursed his own drink shaking his head at something Stark said, perched like he was ready to run. Like he always did in these types of parties. You knew he hated crowds and small talk and being seen. You kept your distance, drifting just close enough to keep an eye on him and intercept a conversation if needed, but just far enough that Tony wouldn’t get suspicious. The last thing either of you needed was him turning that genius-level focus on trying to solve the equation that was you and Bucky Barnes.
Stark was good at that, sniffing out secrets like a bloodhound when he got just a whiff of a trail of secrets. And you were sitting on a pretty big one you just weren’t ready to share yet. And more recently, you’d started to notice Tony watching the two of you more closely. A little too closely. Enough to make your skin prickle any time you saw Tony and Bucky interacting. Like he was testing out hypotheses and just needed a few more variables to prove it. He’d never been confrontational about it, but the way he kept glancing between you and Bucky tonight felt like he was just on the verge of a breakthrough.
You just weren’t ready. It used to be easy. Sneaking into each other’s suites, keeping it casual in the field, pretending you were just teammates. It used to feel like a fun little game. The thrill and adrenaline of getting caught mixing with passion in the best way. But lately, it didn’t feel fun anymore. It just felt like you were hiding.
Tonight and during the day’s mission especially. Bucky had barely looked at you. Not during the mission, not on the jet back to the Tower, not since you got back and quickly changed to come to this little party Stark had insisted on having. He was professional and cool as ever, the perfect soldier. He even barked orders at you like you were anyone else out there, despite the fact that you absolutely weren’t.
Dating Bucky Barnes was the easy part. Loving him even more so. Pretending you weren’t hopelessly head over heels for him? Pretending you didn’t want to easily squish yourself against his side, run your fingers through his hair, and be warmed by his comfort after the adrenaline spike was wearing off? Well that part was starting to wear a little thin.
The both of you had agreed to keep it a secret, not really wanting to make it into a whole…thing. To have it spiral into some Tower-wide event with teasing and bets and jokes every other time either of you so much as shared a quick glance. You both liked quiet and privacy. But maybe you were scared. Or maybe he was. Maybe it was just easier this way, whispering it to each other in the dark instead of being loud about it.
But if Tony Stark had his way tonight, that secret bubble was about to pop.
“What’s Tony doing?” you murmured to Natasha, nodding toward the bar.
She shrugged, indifferent, “Not a clue. But you know you can only keep your little arrangement secret for so long.”
“I just don’t want it made into a big deal when it’s really not.”
Natasha glanced at the glass now in Bucky’s hand that Tony had produced, eyes narrowing slightly. “He’s watching Barnes like he’s trying to catch him slipping. Whatever’s in that? Definitely can’t be good for your…secret.”
You swallowed heavily, scooting a bit closer to the three men. The liquid in the glass Bucky was holding was golden and fizzy, with bright white foam at the top, it looked like Simpsons cartoon beer somehow. Unnatural both in color and the way it moved in the glass. And he was far too casual when he said, “Here, Barnes. Special recipe. Help you loosen up a little, you’re going to get a permanent scowl on your face if you keep glaring like that.”
Bucky eyed the glass like it might bite him, “What the hell’s in this?” he asked flatly, brow furrowed as he tilted it forward, watching the golden liquid bubble like it was half carbonation.
“Relax,” Tony drawled, already halfway behind the bar again. He motioned you closer, already mixing a drink for you that you hadn’t asked for. “Just something I’ve been workshopping. Thought I would branch out into Stark-branded cocktails. Should taste like beer, but hits like fifteen.”
You warily eyed the glass in Bucky’s hand and gave a small shake of your head while Tony’s back was turned. Steve mirrored your look, but he looked somewhere between don’t do it and you’ll do it just to prove a point.
“Look,” Tony added with a shrug, handing you a vodka cranberry like he wasn’t setting up an elaborate experiment. “If your metabolism still tanks it, no harm done. Just figured someone around here deserves to enjoy it for once. Unless you’re scared.”
There it was. The bait. You saw it clearly now, the way he was trying to goad Bucky for answers, and he was playing your secret boyfriend like a fiddle. You resisted the urge to groan aloud and just…knock the thing out of Bucky’s hand. But that would be way too suspicious. You could already feel the slow-motion car crash of this entire evening unfolding and your brain was working overtime to try to figure out solutions for worst case scenarios.
Damn it. You knew the second Tony threw in that jab that Bucky wouldn’t listen to you. And you were exactly correct when you saw his jaw flex and eyes narrow at the gold liquid. He knocked the drink back in one smooth motion. “Not scared,” he muttered, setting the glass down with a sharp clink.
You exhaled heavily through your nose. This was going to be fine. Probably.
Tony lingered by your side at the bar, looking more like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. You sipped your vodka cranberry, bracing for an impact of some sort as Tony and Bucky continued a staring competition.
“So.” Tony began finally, clapping his hands together, “you seeing anyone, Barnes?”
Bucky didn’t even finch. He just took another slow sip of his whiskey that had previously been abandoned for whatever concoction Stark had him drink. You felt the need to say something. That maybe he should wait to see if whatever he drank actually did bypass his metabolism before drinking more, but...it really wasn’t your place.
Tony, undeterred by Bucky’s usual silence, nodded toward you. “Because I know she’s single. Just saying.”
You choked a little on your drink. Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but you caught the slightest shift in his eyes before he turned back to Stark.
“No,” he said flatly. “Not seeing anyone. Don’t really have time to date.”
Tony tilted his head, studying the two of you. “Really? Huh. Thought maybe you were. Or at least were getting laid on the side. You’ve been awfully mellow lately.”
“Jesus, Tony, is it always about our sex lives with you?” You muttered.
Bucky’s lips twitched at your response, but continued, “Maybe I’m just finally getting used to your sparkling personality, Stark.”
Tony laughed, but you could tell he didn’t buy it. There was still that mischievous glint in his eye that told you this was far from the last of his meddling this evening.
You kept your expression smooth, subtle relief settling in your chest as your eyes cataloged every one of Bucky’s movements. Maybe the cocktail hadn’t hit him as hard as you’d feared it would. His metabolism must have burned it up before it had a chance to hit.
“Okay, but if you’re not seeing anyone,” Tony continued, waving a hand up and down in your direction. “I’m just saying, she’s right there. And she’s got that dangerous look in her eye I feel like you go for. Pretty sure I’ve seen her take down six enemies on her own, and she isn’t even a super soldier.”
You blew out a sharp breath, “Thanks, Stark.”
He winked, “You’re welcome.”
You felt Bucky’s gaze again, lingering for just a second too long. But it wasn’t just a glance. It was a look. And your heart stuttered in your chest because you knew that soft look. It was the one he gave you when it was just the two of you. When he kissed your shoulder in the dark or opened his arms for you to fall into after a long day. It didn’t belong here, certainly not with Stark watching so closely.
You avoided his eyes, pretending to sip your drink. Not knowing what eye contact would crack open. When Bucky had turned away, he was leaning toward Steve, whispering something low under his breath like nothing had happened. Slipping back into the perfect picture of control and composure.
But you could feel the dam breaking.
Bucky’s shoulders weren’t as tense as they usually were at these gettogethers. His grip on the glass was lazy, his smirk – he never smirked around this many people– was too relaxed. A flush was creeping up his cheeks that wasn’t fading. Whatever was in that drink was definitely doing something.
You gave it another ten minutes. Just long enough to watch Tony try to needle his way back into the conversation and Bucky wave him off with a dry comment and a dismissive flick of his fingers. And maybe that’s when you knew it for sure. He wasn’t just being careful. He was holding it together on instinct even as it was slipping through his fingers.
And you knew that if you stayed, it would just give him a reason to slip. You retreated to the safety at the other end of the room, leaving Bucky in Steve’s hands. Thankfully, Captain America hadn’t been swayed into Tony’s trap, and could maybe help hold the line a little longer.
You settled near the edge of the pool table, cue stick in one hand, trying to slow your breathing. Not that you’d been running, but…it sort of felt like you had. Running away from feelings, from the panic of people finding out. Or maybe it was just the quiet hum of hope that you were mistaking for panic. Hope that you wouldn't have to hide anymore. Or there was also the possibility it was both.
Sam lined up a shot with exaggerated focus while Clint manned the scoreboard with all the focus of an Olympic official. Natasha handed you a glass of water, raising an eyebrow as if to ask you okay? that you promptly ignored. Because saying it out loud may just set this small, yet contained fire into a five alarm blaze.
“I’m just saying,” Sam said, leaning over the table. “If I hadn’t been benched, that last guy would’ve gone down in twenty seconds, tops.”
“You were pinned under debris yelling for help,” Natasha replied without looking at him. “Steve had to practically sprint across the field to lift it off of you.”
“I was delegating,” he shot back, sinking a ball with a smug smile. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”
You spun the cue in your fingers, letting the banter settle around you like a weighted blanket. This was familiar and safe. No one over here was paying too much attention, unlike Stark who had been circling the room like a shark out for blood. But your eyes kept drifting back to the bar area. To him.
Bucky was still seated, drink in hand, turned slightly toward Steve. And it was subtle, but you still noticed the shift. A little more slouched and relaxed, a little more pink in his cheeks, smiling too wide. He was leaning in now, talking low and easy, voice soft enough you couldn’t hear it from this distance over the clacking of the pool balls and chatter. But whatever he said had made Steve glance around, expression tightening for a second.
You knew that look from him. That oh no, he’s saying way too much look.
Bucky shrugged easily, sipping from his whiskey. But then he turned back and said something and Steve actually lifted his hand in the universal stop fucking talking motion.
That…couldn’t have been good.
Your fingers tightened around the pool cue just as Natasha nudged you toward the table. “You’re up.”
∘₊✧─────✧₊∘
“You’ve gotta reel it in,” Steve said, low and around his glass, not quite looking in Bucky’s direction.
Bucky frowned, “What? I’m just talking.”
“You’re gushing. Big difference.” Steve continued. “And if you say one more word about how her hair looked on the jet, someone is going to figure it out. Probably Stark. And he’s going to blab to everyone.”
Bucky tilted his head back like he was contemplating, before his mouth pulled into a soft smile. “It was braided,” he whispered. “She looked like…a badass viking princess.”
“Jesus,” Steve muttered. “Pull yourself together, man.”
∘₊✧─────✧₊∘
Back at the pool table, you tried to focus on your shot, but your gaze kept pingponging between Steve, Bucky, and Stark who was still making his way around the room like he was taking notes. But it always landed on Bucky more often than not. Like you were pulled into his gravity even from across the room.
And sure enough, Bucky was laughing. Full on laughing. Not the dry huffs of amusements or grunts of agreement that let the person talking he at least was acknowledging them. But an honest-to-god laugh that shook his shoulders, made him clutch his chest, and crinkled the corners of his eyes. The kind of laugh you only ever heard when it was just the two of you, curled up on his couch at two in the morning when he finally let himself relax.
Your stomach dropped. Because if he was laughing like that here and now? The fire was breaking containment faster than you thought it would.
He leaned toward Steve again, a little too close, voice low and words lost in the hush of a whisper. But the way his eyes softened more, the small tilt of his head in your direction…you didn’t need to hear to know what he was talking about.
And Steve looked one second away from putting duct tape over Bucky’s mouth.
You took your shot, sank a stripe ball, and forced a smile at Sam’s groan of defeat. You pretended like your pulse wasn’t kicking harder by the second and making your head throb. Because it was only a matter of time before however subtle Bucky thought he was being slipped straight into something obvious.
And you weren’t wrong.
You chalked the end of your cue, focusing on the table, and your next shot. But every nerve in your body had become tuned to him.
Another laugh carried across the room, warm and unguarded. You really needed to finish this game of pool and figure out how to get him up to his suite without being suspicious about it. Then, just as you lined up a shot, you heard a chair scrape back. You tried not to look. Really, you did. Tried to focus on the smooth glide of the cue over your fingers. But when the steady rhythm of his boots started toward you, your pulse spiked anyway.
“Don’t look now,” Clint muttered behind you, spinning the pool rack in his fingers. “But Barnes is on the move. Guess that shit Tony gave him really did pack a punch.”
Natasha’s voice beside you held the barest trace of a smirk. “Oh, this should be good.”
Before you had a chance to tell either of them to shut up so you could focus, you felt the pool cue steady in your hands like someone grabbed it. A second later, a familiar arm wrapped low around your waist and pulled you back against a wall of heat and muscle.
“There you are, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured into your ear, his voice too soft for anyone else to hear, but his actions were speaking for themselves. “Thought you left me to the wolves at another Stark party.”
Your entire body went stiff. Nat’s grin only widened. Sam actually choked on his drink.
“Hey, Buck,” you said slowly, handing your cue to Natasha before it could clatter to the floor. “You feeling okay?”
“Mhm.” His chin settled on your shoulder, heavy, like it belonged there. Which, okay, it did, but not in this capacity. His breath was warm against your neck as he pressed a lazy kiss just below your ear that sent a shiver down your spine. “You smell nice. Like...strawberries.” He paused, then hummed. “And danger.”
Natasha stifled a choked laugh. Sam had to turn away and look way too interested in the ceiling to hide his grin. Clint squinted at the two of you like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
And you were trying not to combust on the spot.
“Okay,” you said, gently prying yourself free. “Come with me, let’s get you some water.”
Bucky followed without hesitation, a big six foot tall shadow. His hand slipped into yours, fingers lacing like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you didn’t spend every day carefully avoiding exactly this.
A part of you wanted to chastise him for even drinking whatever Stark had coerced him to. But it was no use. It would be like arguing with a giant toddler the way he was swaying and stumbling slightly beside you, your hand the only thing he had to anchor him into not falling over. Not that you could stop it if it did happen. Even you weren’t that strong.
The other part though? Was…actually a little relieved. His show of affection had all but outed your relationship to those of the team who didn’t know. You didn’t have to hide anymore. And the fact that he went straight to you in this moment of vulnerability made your heart do cartwheels in your chest.
Once he was sober though? He was absolutely getting an earful about being dared into getting this wasted.
You glanced over at him as you walked him to the elevators. His cheeks still a rosy pink, eyes completely unfocused, but shining like he was the happiest man alive.
“You,” he said suddenly as you reached the elevator. “Are under citizen’s arrest.”
He tried to pull you closer to him, but missed spectacularly and ended up nearly face planting into the wall.
You raised an eyebrow, pressing the button for the elevator. “For…what, exactly?”
“For stealing my heart,” he said, leaning his shoulder on the wall. His face told you he was absolutely serious.
He grinned, proud and lopsided, completely smug like he’d just delivered the greatest pickup line in his life.
You groaned, running a hand over your face. “God, you’re lucky you’re handsome.”
That made him gasp in shock, “You think I’m handsome?”
Your eyes flicked to the elevator display above the metal doors like maybe they would open faster if you stared hard enough. If he was going to keep being this…unabridged the last thing you wanted was for some poor Stark Tower intern to have to hear what drunk Sergeant Barnes called flirting. ”We’ve been dating for eight months, Bucky.”
“Still!” he said, like this was a new development. Like you hadn’t called him every adjective and version of cute and handsome before. “You’ve never said it like that.”
“I’ve said it while my mouth was on your mouth. And other places.”
He looked scandalized. “I rest my case,” he mumbled, then leaned forward, pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “Criminal behavior. I really should cuff you for saying that.”
“Absolutely not.”
The doors dinged open, and somehow, he managed to walk in without face planting. You punched the button for his floor while he leaned against the back wall, swaying slightly as the elevator rose. He was shamelessly running his gaze up and down your body, and you just had a feeling what was coming next.
“Did you know,” he said, completely unprompted. Yep, here it comes. “You’re really pretty?”
You sighed. “Yes, you’ve told me.”
“And like…really smart. Smarter than that Doctor Strange guy, that’s for sure.”
“Bucky.” You couldn’t help the chuckle that let your lips at that.
“And also part-witch I think? Because I swear to God you hexed me with those eyes of yours.”
You miraculously made it to his suite without further incident. Barely. He had tried to go in at least 3 wrong doors, muttering they all looked the same.
As soon as he entered, he kicked his boots off unceremoniously and left them by the door. His leather jacket was shrugged off like it weighed fifty pounds and tossed on the nearest chair. And then he collapsed onto his back on the bed with a satisfied groan.
You stood there for a second, hands on your hips, wondering if he was going to pass out right away or continue to declare his undying love. Or maybe vomit everywhere. Honestly, all three of those felt equally possible at this point.
Moving to the mini fridge, you grabbed a bottle of water and set it on the night stand closest to him, and then put a bottle of tylenol next to it for good measure. You bit the inside of your cheek while trying to figure out if you could get him out of his jeans and t-shirt with both of your dignities intact.
You nudged at his arm, knowing what you would want if you were in this state of inebriation. And that was to wake up in something soft. “Sit up, Barnes, you’re not sleeping in denim. I don’t care how indestructible you are.”
“Denim’s fine,” he mumbled into the pillow. “And don’t call me Barnes, you only do that when I’m in trouble.”
“Denim’s uncomfortable,” you countered, still tugging at his arm, but he was an immovable, drunk object that wouldn't budge. “And you’re not in trouble, just…come on. Help me out here.”
To your surprise, he actually sat up at your insistence, though he was swaying dangerously like he was on a boat at sea. He looked up at you with that lazy smile, like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “Arms up, please.” You requested as you pulled the hem of his shirt over his head.
He obliged, but it was not without comment. “You could at least take me to dinner first,” he said, completely earnest. “Before you undress me.”
“Jesus,” you muttered, tossing his shirt aside. “Pants next, I’m trying to make sure you’re comfortable. Whatever you’re imagining is off the table.”
Your hands carefully undid the button and zipper on his jeans, and somehow you were able to shimmy him free. “God it’s hot when you take charge,” he said, and you choked down a laugh.
“Alright tough guy, come on,” you murmured softly, adjusting his body into a position you thought maybe his sober self would find comfortable. “Get some rest so I can tease you mercilessly about this in the morning.”
As you reached to tuck the blanket around him, his hand caught your wrist. Warm fingers curled around yours, gently pulling at you until you met his gaze. “I’m being so serious though,” he said in an exaggerated whisper, like a toddler telling a secret.
His eyes were half-lidded, soft like he might actually pass out any second, but still blinking to keep his focus on you. The goofy grin was gone, replaced by a look of steady adoration.
“I’m gonna marry you someday,” he whispered. “As soon as you let me.”
You felt your heart actually stop at that admission. He didn’t even seem to notice the way your whole body froze, like he hadn’t just said something that tilted the world on its axis. He just kept blinking at you like he was stating facts.
“I picked out a ring the week you joined the team,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “Knew it then. You came in swinging and didn’t take any shit and I thought…that’s her. That's the one I want."
Your mouth dropped further open the more he said. You weren’t even sure you were actually breathing or if your body had just gone into catatonic shock. Because you knew he meant, and there was a possibility he wasn’t going to remember any of this.
You sat beside him, holding his hand until his eyes drifted shut, and his breathing evened out.
“Okay,” you whispered, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. “We’ll talk about this when you’re not drunk off questionable Stark moonshine.”
“M’not drunk,” he pouted, eyes still closed. “'M so in love with you it hurts.”
Your heart clenched in your chest. You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t really trust your voice not to break. You just sat quietly beside him, hand still tangled with his, thinking about how absurd and perfect this all was.
Your phone buzzed in your back pocket.
Tony Stark [1:07 am]:
Knew it. Called it. Happy for you kids.
You groaned softly and dropped your head to your chest. Trust Tony Stark to text at the exact second your heart was exploding from new revelations.
Still, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care. Not tonight with Bucky’s fingers warm in yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally pulled him under. The echo of his words still humming your chest.
I’m gonna marry you someday.
You brushed a bit of his hair back from his face before you turned to lay and snuggle into his side, where you belonged. A smile forming on your lips despite the chaos you knew was waiting for you in the morning.
“Yeah, Buck,” you whispered into his chest as his heartbeat thudded under your ear. “I think you will.”
Please drop a like, reblog, or a comment if you enjoyed! This author thrives off of words of affirmation. :3
Banners & Dividers made by me
summary | bucky barnes, heir to the barnes empire, could have anything money could buy and yet, the only thing he’s ever truly wanted is the housemaid who ruined him before he was even a man
tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, pervert!bucky, cocky rich boy x seductive maid, domme!reader, bratty sub!bucky, but also dom!bucky too, voyeurism vibes, masturbation (m), panty sniffing, bucky is down bad and he’s not hiding it, body worship, oral fixation, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, groping, tits in his mouth like a pacifier, mirror kink, unprotected sex, possessive sex, marking / bruising / scratching, clothes ripping, rough & desperate fucking, filthy dialogue, creampie, overstimulation
a/n | this fic is brought to you by: ovulation, unresolved maid fantasies, and the belief that if i was hired at a mansion by rich people, i too could emotionally and sexually destroy their rich son.
bucky is a filthy little pervert and i can't seem to stop writing him that way 🥀 lowkey he's giving carter baizen
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
Bucky nodded when his mother said something about mergers.
Or was it marriages?
Honestly, it didn’t matter.
Whatever words were dripping out of Winifred Barnes’ diamond-laced mouth — they barely made it past his collar.
He sat at the long oak table like he had a thousand times before, suit pressed, knife gliding through a steak he couldn’t taste, pretending to listen while his mind tuned into something else entirely.
Someone else.
You.
You were at the far end of the room, back turned, wiping down the sideboard with slow, steady strokes that made his jaw twitch.
Still here. Still working. Still fucking flawless.
His eyes dragged over your silhouette — the familiar curve of your waist, the flash of your thigh when you shifted, that damned uniform that hadn’t changed in years. Tight black fabric, lace trim. Still fitted. Still teasing.
His fork hit his plate too loud.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and stabbed another bite of steak just to keep from letting out a sigh.
Jesus Christ.
It had been six years.
Six goddamn years of lectures and internships and painfully average girls who moaned too loud and came too fast.
Six years of keeping his hands busy when they weren’t writing papers — busy with his cock, fist tight, eyes closed, whispering your name into a dark dorm room pillow like a fucking pervert.
And now? You were right there.
Same smirk.
Same sway in your hips.
But god, you looked even better.
His father cleared his throat.
Older. Softer in the thighs. Sharper in the eyes.
Like someone who knew exactly what they did to boys like him.
“James, are you listening?”
He blinked.
“Sure.”
Winifred clicked her tongue. “Honestly, James. You could at least pretend to listen when your father and I are trying to talk about your future.”
He looked up, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
George folded his hands. “We were saying — we’ve arranged a dinner. This weekend. The Sinclairs are bringing Bonnie by.”
“Who?”
“Bonnie Sinclair,” his mother repeated, with the kind of smile she wore when she was proud of her own scheming. “You remember her — the family owns the vineyards out in Napa. Lovely girl.”
His brow furrowed. “No.”
“No, you don’t remember her?”
“No, I’m not going to dinner.”
His father sighed. “James—”
“What, you want to sell me off to the highest bidder now? Come on. It’s not the 1800s. Arranged marriages are dead, and so is your fantasy of me falling in love with some bottle blonde wearing pearls and a trust fund.”
“James—”
He dropped his knife a little harder than necessary. “Why don’t you try setting Becca up with some rich prick when she’s home next break? See how she likes it.”
Winifred’s smile slipped.
“This is different,” she snapped. “You’re the heir. You have responsibilities—”
“To what? To your image? Or your fucking legacy?” he muttered.
They kept talking. Rambling about dynasties and preserving the Barnes name and how beneficial the Sinclairs could be for future ventures, but Bucky had already tuned them out again.
His eyes flicked to the far corner of the room.
Empty.
You were gone.
He let out a quiet sigh, leaned back in his chair, head tilted toward the ceiling like it might save him from the pressure creeping up his spine.
Great. Fucking great.
First night back in this godforsaken mansion, and not only were they trying to auction him off like a prized racehorse, but now you’d moved on to some other wing of the house.
And the worst part?
He didn’t even get a proper look at your ass yet.
Later That Night
He waited until after dinner. Until his parents retired to their wing, until the halls were dim and quiet and full of shadows.
Then he wandered.
Not with purpose — no, that’d be pathetic. It was casual. A stroll. Just stretching his legs. Familiarizing himself with home again.
Except his legs kept stretching toward all the usual spots you used to be in.
The reading room. The conservatory. The hallway by the west guest suite with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
Nothing.
Not even the click of your heels.
He passed the kitchen. Slowed. Even stepped in and leaned against the counter for a minute—under the pretense of grabbing water—But the space was empty. Not a single trace of you.
He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching.
"Right. Because the woman he used to fuck during summer break is just gonna materialize out of nowhere now that I’ve got a degree and a new haircut."
Eventually he stopped at the foot of the servant stairwell. The one that led to the staff quarters.
He stared at it like it might open on its own.
No.
He wasn’t going to climb that staircase again.
Not after what happened the last time — back when he was eighteen and naive enough to think you’d want him to stay the night.
And you? Laughing into your pillow.
He could still remember the creak of the floorboard, the way he scrambled half-naked out the window when someone came down the hall.
Heart racing. Dick leaking. Your cum drying on his thighs.
Fuck no.
Not again.
He made it back to his bedroom around midnight. Jaw tight. Cock aching. Stripped his shirt off, threw it across the room. Sat on the edge of the bed like a fucking failure.
The worst part? He was hard. Like achingly hard.
The ache between his legs had turned into a full-throb punishment, buzzing just beneath his skin like static. He rubbed a hand over his face, then across his jaw, restless, annoyed, half-hating himself — until his eyes flicked to the armoire.
His old one. From before school.
The tall, cherrywood thing with the drawer he used to keep locked. With the key still hidden in the false-bottom of his cufflink box.
His pulse jumped. He sat up slowly, legs wide on the edge of the bed, and reached for the key.
The drawer slid open with a familiar click — and there it was.
The shrine.
Soft silk and lace folded neatly like it was holy. Panties. Bras. A few sheer thigh-highs. A wrinkled black ribbon he once slid from your hair while you weren’t looking. And beneath it all, tucked like a secret: a napkin with your lipstick stain from that time you took a sip of his champagne at his nineteenth birthday.
Fuck.
He swallowed, throat thick.
God, he used to be such a little fucking perv.
But he didn’t stop himself.
Didn’t hesitate.
And yeah.
His fingers reached out and traced the edge of a deep burgundy lace panty — the kind that cut high on your hips, left little to the imagination.
He brought it to his nose.
The scent was faint — barely there — but it was you. Soft. Clean. Sweet. Like something he should never have touched.
His eyes fluttered shut. His other hand slid towards the waistband of his boxers.
He hissed through his teeth as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already leaking like it had been waiting all fucking day for this.
His hand wrapped around it, tight, just the way he remembered you liked it. The lace pressed to his nose, breathing in the ghost of you. His hips lifted off the bed.
”Fuck, fuck—”
He could see it now.
It was late spring. House empty. You in that tight little skirt and red lipstick, whispering into his ear, “You’re hard again?”
He nodded, breathless, embarrassed.
“Poor baby.”
You pulled him behind the west wing stacks, shoved his back to the shelf. Sank to your knees, tugged his pants down like he was a fucking treat and sucked his dick like he owed you his life.
“You’re so loud, Jamie,” you’d teased. “You want someone to catch us?”
Except he kept whining. Kept moaning your name. Kept trying to say how good it felt, how much he missed your mouth.
So you snatched the panties off your own body — and balled them up tight.
“Open.”
And when he did, wide-eyed and obedient, you shoved them into his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips like a silencer.
“Bite down and be quiet, Jamie.”
He ended up cumming thirty seconds later.
Meanwhile Bucky’s back hit the headboard, abs flexing, muscles jerking. His hand pumped faster. His breath stuttered.
Your voice was in his head. Your tits in his face. Your fucking panties were in his hand and goddammit, he was so close—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
He groaned low into the fabric, the lace catching his breath, your name tangled between his teeth as his hips jerked up into his fist.
And when he came? It was hot and thick and messy — all over his knuckles, spilling past his hand, some of it catching on the lace he still hadn't let go of.
His breathing was heavy as he stared at the ceiling. Then he let out a bitter, strangled laugh.
“Jesus Christ…”
No relief. No peace. Just sweat, regret, and the scent of you still burning his fucking lungs.
The sun was too bright. The air too crisp. And Bonnie Sinclair’s laugh grated on his last fucking nerve.
“Oh my god, is that a peacock? Do you have actual peacocks?”
Bucky didn’t even glance toward the bird strutting across the lawn. He kept walking — hands in his pockets, jaw tight, sunglasses shielding his dead, uninterested eyes.
“Yeah. They scream a lot. Make sure to watch your toes.”
She giggled. He didn’t.
His parents and hers were tucked away on the back veranda, sipping champagne and pretending this was 1890. Bonnie’s dad already talking about business mergers and dowries, probably. And Bonnie?
Bonnie was doing her best to make an impression.
She was pretty, sure. In the way white tablecloths are pretty. Elegant, polite, and utterly forgettable.
Her voice was all breathy vowels and praise for things she didn’t understand —
He smiled politely. “Everyone’s tall next to you.”
“Wow, the roses here are divine.”
“Is that real gold in the fountain?”
“You’re so tall, James.”
She kept trying to loop her arm through his. Kept brushing against him like it meant something.
And all the while, his brain wasn’t even in the conversation.
Bonnie turned to him suddenly. “So… do you have a girlfriend?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You know. A girlfriend. Or like — someone you’re seeing?”
He looked her up and down. The pearls. The flats. The nude lipstick. Then glanced past her, toward the open french doors of the estate. Hoping—praying—he’d catch even a glimpse of you.
“No,” he said finally, lips twitching. “Nothing serious.”
He told himself he’d try.
Be polite. Be gracious. Be the gentleman his mother raised him to be — or at least pretend to be, for the sake of appearances. This was part of the game, after all.
Bonnie was smiling up at him, eyes wide with polite curiosity, and he forced himself to meet her gaze — just for a moment.
“Those earrings,” he said, nodding toward the small gold hoops with tiny garnet drops nestled against her jawline. “Where’d you get them?”
She lit up like he’d handed her a fucking rose.
“Oh! These? I got them in Milan last summer — there’s this boutique, just off the Galleria. Tiny place, but everything’s handmade. Vintage inspired.”
He nodded slowly, processing. Not because he cared, but because maybe… just maybe… it was something you’d like. A little box from Italy. A pair of delicate gold hoops with a velvet ribbon. He could picture it now — you wearing them, hair up, throat bare, his mouth on your collarbone.
He’d have to find the place. Or have someone find it for him. Add it to the mental list. Right beneath that vintage perfume you used to wear and that lace garter you once claimed was “just for fun.”
“That’s nice,” he said absently, offering a faint smile. “They suit you.”
It was the best he could do.
Because everything about this felt wrong.
The way she walked beside him, too close. The way she kept trying to slip her hand into the crook of his arm, like this was a first date and not a fucking business meeting arranged by bored billionaires.
They turned the corner near the east garden. Hydrangeas blooming wild against the stone wall.
And just as Bonnie began to speak again—something about polo lessons—Bucky’s eyes drifted.
Toward the veranda. The doors were open. And there you were.
Just inside. Bent ever so slightly as you adjusted a vase on a side table.
Hair swept up. A few tendrils falling into your face. Black uniform hugging your hips like it was designed to torment him personally.
You didn’t look up. Didn’t glance his way. Just straightened, turned, and disappeared down the hall like you hadn’t just punched him in the balls with one fucking glance.
He stopped walking for a second. Bonnie didn’t notice — just kept talking.
“…and Daddy’s trying to get them to expand distribution but the French are always so stubborn about—”
His fingers twitched in his pocket. His jaw ticked.
There you were. In the same house. So close. So far.
And he was here.
By the time they were seated, Bucky was already regretting his entire bloodline.
Playing escort to a girl he couldn’t even remember the last name of without prompting.
The dining room was glowing with gold-trimmed candlelight, glasses clinking, servers moving with quiet grace, and that oppressive scent of roasted duck hanging heavy in the air. His parents were in their usual seats, perfectly postured, wearing the expressions of people who genuinely enjoyed this sort of thing—parading tradition like it was holy.
Bonnie sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something floral. Too sweet. Forgettable.
The Sinclairs were all smiles and white teeth, praising the wine, the estate, the family history carved into the walls. His father lapped it up, nodding, chuckling, dropping little hints about future partnerships, as if this dinner wasn’t just a formality but a deal waiting to be signed.
Bucky stabbed his fork into the duck breast. It bled red beneath the glaze, and he imagined dragging the tine through his own thigh just to get out of the conversation.
He wasn't listening—again. Not really. Just catching words here and there. Napa. Legacy. Matrimony. “Bonnie’s such a well-rounded young lady.”
Sure. Round. Like the sound his head would make if it hit the polished marble floor.
He sipped his wine and glanced across the table at Bonnie, who was smiling at his mother, playing her part like she’d memorized the script. Her hands were folded just right, posture perfect, voice low and sugary. It was like watching someone try to audition for a role they didn’t even want—but were born to play.
Bucky’s jaw flexed. He shifted in his seat.
I’d rather be kicked in the dick by a horse.
He made another pass at the duck, chewing like it might keep him sane. His foot tapped beneath the table, his spine buzzing with something feral.
And then it hit him.
You hadn’t shown up all day.
Not in the halls. Not during lunch. Not even in the shadows of the estate where he used to find you quietly arranging flowers, humming to yourself, pretending not to notice how hard he stared.
You were gone.
And now he was stuck in this fucking chair, nodding along while some vineyard heiress described her favorite breed of horse.
He swirled the wine in his glass with too much force, splashing a little over the rim. Winifred gave him a sharp look. He ignored it.
Maybe if I fake a seizure I can leave early.
Another laugh from Bonnie. Another smug glance from his father. Another fucking sip of a vintage red that didn’t even taste like anything.
He was miserable. Genuinely, exquisitely, violently miserable.
“James, darling,” Winifred cooed, dabbing at the corner of her lips with a linen napkin, “Bonnie was just telling us about her experience at the Sotheby’s summer program. Isn’t that fascinating?”
Bonnie smiled sweetly, clearly oblivious to the sarcasm. “It was such a whirlwind. Between the gallery showings and the auction previews, I barely had time to sleep. But it was worth it — I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend their summer surrounded by Picassos and vintage Cartier?”
He looked up from his plate, forcing a smile that didn’t even reach the bottom row of his teeth.
“Oh. Yeah. Super fascinating.”
I’d rather be surrounded by bees.
“That’s impressive,” he offered blandly, draining the rest of his wine in one go. “You sell any?”
She giggled. “God, no. I was just assisting. But I did get to try on a necklace that was once worn by Princess Grace. Isn’t that insane?”
His mother leaned in, breathless. “I’ve always said you had the neck for that kind of elegance.”
Jesus Christ, just say you want to be related already.
He set his glass down, motioned subtly for more wine. The server filled it like clockwork. He resisted the urge to ask for the bottle.
George chimed in, his voice booming with false enthusiasm. “We were just telling the Sinclairs that once you’re settled, maybe it’s time to start thinking about property. Your mother and I have been looking at the old Whitmore estate. Plenty of room, good bones. Perfect for a growing family.”
And a burial plot, if I snap and murder everyone at this table.
Bucky smiled, sharp and tight. “Already planning the wedding? Do I at least get to pick the tux color?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Winifred said with a wave of her hand. “We’re just discussing possibilities.”
Bonnie laughed again — high-pitched and unbothered. “Well, for the record, I think you’d look dashing in navy.”
His eyes flicked to her. Then back to his plate. Then, instinctively, across the room — to where you should be. Hovering near the wall. Pouring wine. Wiping down glassware with that soft, smug little smirk on your lips. But nothing.
Empty.
He clenched his jaw, fork pressing so hard into the duck he felt it slice through porcelain.
God, you’re missing all the fun.
“James,” his mother tried again, with the same desperate pleasantness she always used when things weren’t going her way. “Why don’t you tell Bonnie about your time at Columbia? You made such wonderful connections.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. “Great school. Lots of connections.”
Then he took another sip of wine, leaned back in his chair, and added, “Didn’t learn a damn thing that matters.”
The mansion was silent by nine.
The Sinclairs had retreated to the guest wing, his parents to their rooms, no doubt already tucked into their separate, sterile sheets, dreaming of mergers and grandchildren.
He rounded the corner into one of the eastern wings, the one with the tall windows and antique mirrors, and that’s when he saw you.
Bucky wandered the halls like a man possessed.
No real direction. No plan. Just the familiar weight of the house around him, the echo of his own footsteps over polished marble, and the burn of restless energy licking down his spine like he was still that horny teenager sneaking around past curfew.
You hadn’t noticed him. You were too busy — bent over the edge of the display cabinet beneath the mirror, polishing the surface with slow, methodical strokes.
And his mouth went dry.
Your skirt was higher than it should’ve been. Not obscene. Not intentional. But just high enough to reveal the cut of your ass, soft curves hugged tight by black lace and the smooth line of your garters strapped to your stockings.
His fingers twitched. His breath caught.
Every cell in his body locked onto you like a lion scenting fresh prey — hungry, low, and damn near feral.
The fabric of his slacks grew tight.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
He moved without thinking. Quiet. Controlled. Every footstep calculated like it might crack the floor.
The shadows helped. So did the velvet hush of the hallway.
You just kept working. Oblivious. Bent. Soft. Beautiful. Like a goddamn offering.
His eyes dragged up the back of your thighs, to the hem of that cruel little skirt, the faint indent of your waist beneath the apron ties, the shape of your hips. His throat burned.
Another step. Closer.
He was behind you now. Not touching. Not breathing too loud. Just standing there. Watching. Letting the moment devour him whole.
It wasn’t even seductive. It was just you, working like you didn’t know he was right there, like your scent hadn’t been haunting him for six goddamn years.
His restraint snapped with the sound of your hum.
That soft, casual melody you used to hum back when you’d fuck him in between folding linens and straightening bookshelves.
He didn’t remember crossing the distance. One second he was standing in the dark like a stalker, the next he was pressed against you — flush, hips grinding into the curve of your ass, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding around your front, flat against your stomach, pulling you back into him.
Your gasp wasn’t surprised.
Just amused.
“Mr. Barnes,” you said sweetly, all innocent and breathy, like your ass wasn’t already rolling back into his hips. “How inappropriate.”
His nose dragged along your throat, lips brushing the space just beneath your ear as he breathed you in like a drug. Like it would settle the fire in his chest instead of pour gasoline on it.
“You smell the same,” he rasped, voice low and breathless against your skin. “Fuck. You smell even better.”
Your laugh was barely a breath. “Mr. Barnes. That’s hardly appropriate either.”
His hips ground against you. Once. Slow. Hard.
You felt it—thick, hot, straining against the front of his pants. And that’s when his mouth found your ear.
“I’ve missed you. You've been… hiding from me.”
You let out a soft sigh, your hand coming to rest gently over his on your stomach, not trying to push him away. Not even trying to move.
Just holding him there.
Playing with him.
“I was just working,” you said. “Nothing more.”
His hips snapped against yours. Hard.
Once. Twice. Not enough friction, not through the layers, but the pressure was dizzying. His cock was thick and stiff between you, already trapped tight against the zipper of his slacks, rutting into the dip of your ass like he’d fucking die if he didn’t get more.
“Bullshit.”
He nipped at your neck, jaw tense. “You knew I’d find you. You wanted this.”
You laughed, soft and quiet.
“You always were so easy to rile up, Mr. Barnes.”
He groaned — low, sharp — and thrust again, hands gripping you tighter, like he could shove himself into your skin if he just held you hard enough.
“I’m not a boy anymore.”
His hand slid up, cupping your breast through your uniform, fingers slow and possessive, like he’d earned the right. Like this body was already his.
“Tell me no,” he breathed, lips trailing lower, grazing your jaw. “Say stop, and I will. But if you don’t—”
His voice caught.
“If you don’t, I’m gonna fuck you right here. Against this mirror. With my parents down the hall.”
You could feel his cock pulsing through his pants.
Your breath hitched.
But your smile was sift. Delicate.
“Then I suppose you’d better make it quick.”
You didn’t even have time to blink.
The second those words left your mouth — that soft, dangerous permission — he was dropping to his knees behind you like it was instinct. Like his body knew its place, and it was there, right between your thighs, beneath your ass, forehead pressed to the skin he used to dream about.
You heard his breath first.
Hot. Shaky. Desperate.
Then his hands.
One on each thigh, palms sliding up, thumbs grazing the hem of your garters, fingertips digging in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. And when he reached the top of your stockings — right where lace met skin — he groaned.
Low and thick, from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I missed this. I missed you.”
He hooked his fingers under your panties — black, sheer, soaked through — and dragged them down.
Slow. Worshipful. Watching every inch of exposed skin like it was divine scripture.
You heard the fabric stretch, then fall. And then he flipped your skirt up. Fisted it in one hand to keep it out of the way as he stared.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “Look at this fucking ass.”
And then he was kissing it.
Not gently. Not sweetly. Mouth open, tongue hot, lips moving from one cheek to the other like he was tasting fruit from the garden of Eden.
He bit you. Hard. Right at the curve.
You gasped, hand flying to the edge of the cabinet for balance.
“Mr. Barnes—”
His groan vibrated against your skin. You felt his nose nudge between your cheeks, burrowing deep, inhaling like a man who’d spent years starved.
“Say it again,” he begged. “Say it while I eat your fucking pussy.”
You bit your lip.
But your smile was soft. Wicked. Satisfied. Triumphant.
He didn’t wait for a cue. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even ask.
The moment his nose brushed between your cheeks and caught the heady, slick scent of your pussy, something inside him just snapped.
His hands gripped your thighs, fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he buried his face between your legs.
Tongue first.
Hot. Wet. Greedy.
He licked up your slit — slow and shaking — from your dripping entrance to your clit, like he was trying to get his first taste all over again.
You whimpered, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, hips shifting forward as your body jolted at the contact.
And god, he moaned.
A deep, guttural sound, like your pussy had just punched the air out of his lungs.
“Fuck,” he whispered, nose nudging your clit, “you taste better than I remember…”
You smirked down at him, still bracing yourself on the cabinet.
“You haven't tasted me in years, James.”
He groaned. The name made his cock jump.
“Then I’m going to make up for lost time.”
And he did.
He groaned again, hips grinding into nothing, like he needed the friction just from the taste of you.
His mouth moved in slow, obscene circles.
His tongue flattened and dragged over your clit, then flicked at it, fast and precise like he’d studied how to ruin you. Like he wanted to undo you with his mouth alone.
“Fucking soaked,” he muttered between licks. “You’re fucking soaked for me.”
Your fingers reached back, fisting in his hair, nails grazing his scalp.
“Always for you, James,” you breathed, voice syrup-thick with pleasure. “Even when you were just a boy sneaking glances at me from the study.”
He whimpered.
Whimpered.
And started eating you harder.
Lips sealed around your clit now, tongue moving in tight, punishing motions. He was groaning into your pussy, hungry, sloppy, like he was trying to drown in it.
You rocked against his face, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled, eyes fluttering shut as his nose bumped just right—
“Fuck, James—”
He grunted. Pulled you closer. Pressed his face deeper between your thighs.
He didn’t slow down.
Didn’t hold back. Didn’t give a single fuck that he was on his knees, face buried in your pussy, drool dripping down his chin like a man who’d gone rabid.
His moans were getting louder.
Obscene.
Lips slick, nose pressed to your clit as he lapped at you with messy, wild strokes. No rhythm. No elegance. Just pure, desperate need.
You gasped as he buried his tongue inside you, sloppy and deep, curling it up like he was trying to fuck you with his mouth. His nose bumped your clit again and again, and your thighs twitched around his head as you tried to hold still.
But he wouldn’t let you.
His grip tightened on your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he needed bruises there to prove this happened. Like he wanted you to feel it tomorrow.
“You’re shaking,” he groaned, eyes fluttering open to look up at you. “You gonna cum on my face, sweetheart?”
You didn’t answer. So he gave your clit one long, deliberate suck. Your knees buckled.
And he grinned. “Yeah. You are.”
He doubled down.
Slurping. Flicking. Tongue dragging, nose bumping, hips fucking into the floor now as he tried to relieve the pressure in his own pants.
He was literally rubbing his cock against the goddamn wood, panting like an animal, soaked from your wetness and his own spit.
“Been dreaming of this,” he mumbled, mouth still full. “Fucking dreaming—every night—couldn’t touch anyone without thinking of this pussy—”
You moaned loud, fingers twisting in his hair.
He sucked harder, sloppier, the sounds now wet and filthy and shameless.
Slurp. Moan. Flick. Kiss. Gasp.
He didn’t care anymore.
“Cum for me,” he begged, eyes wide and shining, lips raw from use. “Please, baby—please, fuck, let me taste it—need it so bad.”
You felt it before you heard it. The shift in the air. The stillness.
And then—
A gasp.
Soft. Feminine. Shocked.
Bucky didn’t notice. He was still groaning into your pussy like he was possessed, tongue flicking furiously, nose pressed deep, muttering curses into your folds between slurps.
But your eyes flicked up.
The mirror in front of you told the whole story.
There she was.
Bonnie Sinclair.
Frozen in the doorway of the hallway, one hand still holding the edge of the gilded frame, lips parted in disbelief.
It must’ve been a hell of a sight.
The golden boy of the Barnes family — the man she was being courted to entertain — on his knees, half-dressed, face soaked in the maid’s cunt, hips grinding into the hardwood like a desperate animal.
Your hands were braced on the cabinet. Skirt flipped up. Thighs glistening.
Your eyes met hers in the mirror.
Her face twisted — horror, confusion, betrayal — and her gaze flicked down, like maybe, just maybe, she’d misunderstood.
But no.
There was no mistaking the wet, obscene sucking sounds filling the corridor. No mistaking the man moaning your name into your cunt like it was his last prayer.
And what did you do? You fucking smiled.
Not a polite one. Not a guilty one. No, this was something slow. Sinful. Salacious.
The kind of smile that said,
Her jaw clenched. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Yes, sweetheart. He’s mine.
You’ll never make him moan like this.
And he wouldn’t want you even if you tried.
But she didn’t scream. Didn’t call out. She just turned — face red, almost trembling — and walked away.
Fast. Almost stumbling.
You glanced behind, down at Bucky, still mindless between your thighs, sucking like a man starved, eyes shut tight, oblivious.
You bit your lip.
And grinned.
“Good boy, James,” you purred, hand in his hair. “You just made me so very proud.”
Your thighs were trembling now.
You’d kept yourself together—barely—when Bonnie stood frozen in that doorway, eyes wide, jaw slack, the betrayal and disbelief dripping off her like perfume.
And now you were losing it.
Because James—your James—was eating you out like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His face was slick, lips raw, tongue moving in tight, focused flicks over your clit like he knew your body better than you did.
And he still didn’t know.
Still hadn’t heard her.
Still hadn’t noticed that another woman had just witnessed him on all fours, worshipping you, grinding against the fucking floor while you held him by the hair and cooed praise into the air like he was your good little pet.
It made it hotter. Darker. More depraved.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, breath catching. “Don’t you fucking stop, James.”
He moaned in response—high-pitched, shameless—and pulled your thighs tighter around his face.
His tongue flattened, then circled, lips sucking at your clit until your knees buckled and your vision blurred at the edges.
You looked down.
Saw him panting into your cunt, nose buried, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours—and fuck, he looked wrecked. Like if you pulled away now, he’d chase you across the house on all fours until you let him finish the job.
Your hands gripped the cabinet tighter.
Your hips rolled against his mouth, rhythm messy, hungry, and he matched it, moaning louder, licking faster, tongue dragging up and down your slit with a messy, wet rhythm that made you shake.
The orgasm hit you like a fucking tidal wave.
It built slow—coiling tight in your gut—until it snapped, crashing over you with a force that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry before a moan tore from your throat so loud it echoed down the hall.
“Oh, fuck—James—yes—don’t stop—”
He didn’t.
He kept sucking, licking, groaning as you came on his tongue, legs trembling, pussy throbbing against his mouth while he drank it all in like nectar.
He moaned into you. Like he was the one cumming.
Your body was shaking. Your thighs clenched around his head. Your hands braced on the wood, knuckles white, as the aftershocks dragged out with every little flick of his tongue.
He was up before you even caught your breath.
You felt the shift in the air first—his mouth leaving your cunt with one last wet kiss, then the sudden heat of him rising, body crowding behind yours again.
Then—his hands.
Big, strong, trembling.
One came to your hip, yanking you backward like he was claiming his prize. The other? Flat on the small of your back, pushing you forward until your stomach met the edge of the cabinet.
You gasped, still dazed, and then—his mouth.
Wet. Open. Hungry.
He pressed it to the back of your neck, dragging sloppy kisses along your skin, leaving a trail of your slick and his spit across your throat.
“Couldn’t stop,” he groaned against your neck. “Couldn’t fucking stop—need you—need to fuck you—please—”
And then he started grinding.
Hard.
Hips snapping forward in frantic, filthy thrusts, cock still trapped in his pants, but pressed thick and throbbing against your ass through the fabric.
Rutting.
Like a dog in heat.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’ve been thinking about this for years—”
You felt the wet patch on his slacks where he’d been grinding the floor. Now he was grinding you just the same—harder, rougher, like the orgasm you gave him with your cunt on his mouth only made him worse.
His voice was broken, panting against your skin.
He pressed his face into your shoulder like he was ashamed of how badly he needed this—and did it anyway.
“You smell so good—feels so good—need to feel you around me—inside you—fuck, I’ll beg, please—”
Each thrust dragged a low, pitiful sound out of his throat, hips rutting faster, hands gripping your waist like he didn’t trust himself to stay upright.
Your breath hitched as you felt him reach down between you—quick, urgent hands yanking his waistband low enough for his cock to spring free.
You didn’t even look.
You felt it.
Hot. Heavy. Slapping against your ass as he adjusted his grip and angled himself lower.
No words. No hesitation.
And then—
He slammed into you.
One brutal, blinding thrust. Your body jolted forward with the force of it, chest slamming into the edge of the cabinet as your mouth fell open in a stunned gasp.
“Fuck—James—”
But he didn’t slow.
Didn’t say a word.
Just grabbed your hips tighter, pulled you back into him, and kept fucking.
Fast. Rough. Unforgiving.
He was everywhere—grunting behind you, cock pistoning inside you with a rhythm that was animalistic, primal, like he was trying to fuck the memory of every other man out of you.
“You think I came back the same?” he growled against your neck, voice sharp and ragged. “You think I’m still that dumb fucking kid? That little boy you teased and left aching?”
You cried out as he slammed into you again, cock dragging along your walls so deep it made your stomach twist.
“No,” he snarled. “Not anymore.”
His hand wrapped in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet your own reflection in the mirror as he kept pounding into you like a man unhinged.
“Look at you,” he hissed. “Bent over for me. Taking me. Letting me fuck you like this.”
He gave you a particularly rough thrust that made you choke on a moan.
“You’re mine. You hear me? Fucking mine.”
Your moans turned guttural, needy, echoing off the cabinet and glass. He was everywhere—his hands, his cock, his mouth, his heat—slamming into you like he was trying to brand his name on your spine.
The room was filled with the sound of it.
Skin on skin. Wet, filthy slaps. His breath in your ear. Your moans. Your pussy soaking him, clenching around him with every thrust, dragging him deeper, harder.
And Bucky was lost.
Fucking you like he’d never stop. Like this was what he was born to do. What he’d been made for.
You barely had time to moan before he pulled out—sudden, fast, leaving your cunt pulsing around the absence of him.
You gasped, still dizzy from the pounding, but he wasn’t done.
“Up,” he growled.
And in the next breath, he had you.
Flipped. Lifted.
Your back hit the polished cabinet top with a dull thud, legs spread, heels still dangling off your ankles as Bucky hoisted you up like you weighed nothing.
You opened your mouth to speak—
But he slammed back into you.
Deep. Hard. Unrelenting.
The breath was ripped from your lungs, your body arching as he planted both hands on the wood behind you and drove himself home.
Now you were face to face. Now you could see it—his eyes.
Dark. Dilated. Fucking unhinged.
Sweat clung to his jawline, his chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead as he rammed into you like he couldn’t get deep enough.
“Mine,” he panted. “Say it.”
Your head tipped back, a moan clawing out of your throat.
“Fucking say it.”
You grabbed his face. Hard. Pulled him in and kissed him like you were trying to suck the soul out of him.
Tongue tangling, mouths open, teeth scraping—filthy, desperate, uncoordinated. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned like it physically hurt him to feel you kiss him like that.
His hips didn’t stop. They kept pounding, slamming into you with enough force to rattle the cabinet beneath you.
You sucked on his tongue, hand gripping the back of his neck, legs wrapping around his waist like you were trying to trap him there.
“Yours,” you hissed against his mouth. “Yours, James.”
He whimpered.
You felt it—the stutter in his hips. The little break in his rhythm.
He was close.
“Again,” he begged, voice cracked.
“I’m yours,” you said again, slower, dirtier, nipping at his bottom lip. “You waited for me. Grew up for me. All this time, you’ve just wanted to fuck your maid—”
He snarled, slamming into you again so hard the cabinet creaked.
You bit his lip. He moaned into your mouth.
The kiss was so deep, so dirty, you felt like you were breathing through each other.
But then. He broke it.
Abrupt, messy, like he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fuck—can’t—need to see you—now—”
And then… rip.
Your eyes widened as he grabbed the front of your uniform, fingers curling into the fabric, and yanked.
The sound of buttons flying off echoed down the empty hall, bouncing across the marble like little beads of surrender.
Your uniform fell open.
Exposed. Raw. Offered.
Your bra barely held you, straps sliding off your shoulders, lace thin and damp from sweat.
Bucky didn’t waste a second.
He shoved the cups down roughly, hands shaking as he dragged them under your tits, eyes locked like he was seeing them for the first time.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed.
And then—his mouth.
Hot and open, tongue dragging across your nipple before he sucked it in, lips sealing around it with a deep, desperate moan.
You arched into him, head falling back with a gasp.
“James—”
His other hand wasn’t idle—it came up to your other breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple until you were squirming on the cabinet, cunt clenching around him with every wet, messy pull of his mouth.
He groaned into your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before flicking it with his tongue, suckling, pulling it deeper like he was trying to drink from you.
“These tits,” he growled, mouth moving to the other one, tongue swirling. “These fucking tits—used to jerk off just thinking about them—”
You whimpered, thighs tightening around his waist.
He was still fucking into you, deep and slow now, like he wanted to feel everything. His cock dragged along your walls, thick and pulsing, as he suckled greedily at your breast, spit and sweat slicking your skin.
“So full for me,” he whispered, looking up through his lashes, eyes wild. “You ever let anyone else suck ’em like this?”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Because he already knew.
He was still sucking on your tit when your nails raked down his covered back. You were so close it hurt.
Your pussy was a dripping mess around him, slick clinging to his cock with every brutal thrust. The cabinet rocked beneath you. The sound of your skin slapping together echoed down the marble hallway like something animalistic.
“James—fuck—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”
His mouth left your nipple with a lewd pop, breath hot and frantic as he looked at you. Eyes dark. Hair soaked. Jaw tight.
“Not gonna—fuck—not gonna stop—you feel too good—”
His hips snapped forward harder now, the slap of him against your thighs violent, punishing.
And then his hand found your throat.
Not choking. Just holding. Fingers pressing lightly against the sides, tilting your chin up to make you look at him.
“You’re gonna cum on my cock,” he panted, voice raw. “And then I’m gonna fill you up. You fucking hear me?”
You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders.
“You gonna take it like a good girl?” he growled. “Gonna let me fuck you full?”
That was it.
Your body went rigid— Toes curling. Eyes rolling back.
Your orgasm hit like a fucking explosion.
“James—oh fuck—I’m cumming—”
Your cunt clenched down on him so tight he almost collapsed.
“Shit—shit—fuck—” he choked, thrusts stuttering.
You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. You wrapped your arms around his neck, held him tight, and rode it out as he fucked you through it.
And then—
He followed you.
With a snarl, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt it—
Hot. Flooding.
Spurt after spurt of cum, thick and heavy, filling you so deep it was leaking out before he even pulled back.
“Fuck—baby—fuck—I’m cumming—”
His forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing, his body twitching through the aftershocks as he spilled every last drop inside you.
His breath was still ragged.
But his thrusts had slowed, reduced to slow, shallow rocks—almost like he didn’t want to leave you. Didn’t want that connection to break.
And then he nuzzled. Right into the crook of your neck. Like a cat. Like a boy.
“James,” you teased, your voice soft, breathless. “You gonna fall asleep in my cunt?”
He hummed, lips pressed to your throat.
“Wouldn’t be a bad way to fall asleep.”
You laughed, hand lazily stroking the back of his head as his mouth pressed sweet, worshipful kisses to your neck, then your collarbone, then the tops of your breasts—each one slower than the last.
Soft. Clingy. Desperate.
He sighed again, breath hot against your skin.
“Fuck… missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you. Missed this body. This mouth. This pussy—”
“Careful, James,” you said with a smirk, brushing hair from his sweaty forehead. “You sound in love.”
His head lifted. His lips, still wet, curled.
“Maybe I am.”
And then he dipped back down, tongue teasing over your nipple before placing a slow, warm kiss right between your breasts.
He sighed against your chest again, nose brushing the skin above your heart.
“Two fucking days,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. “Been home for two days and you didn’t even look at me.”
His tone was too casual. Too careful.
“Why were you hiding from me?”
You turned your head—just slightly.
Just enough to avoid his kiss.
And your voice, when it came, was silken and sharp, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Didn’t want to interrupt,” you muttered. “You seemed busy… with Miss Sinclair.”
He stilled.
Just for a moment.
That petty venom sat heavy in the air. And you knew it would hit him.
It did.
He huffed—a soft, frustrated exhale against your chest—and his hands tightened on your waist as he shifted up, dragging his mouth over your skin like he could wipe the accusation away.
He kissed your breast again. Then your collarbone. Then the curve of your throat.
Your jaw. And finally—your mouth.
It was messy.
Open.
Tongue slow and insistent, tasting the remnants of your slick still on his lips, the warmth of your body still wrapped around him.
“Don’t,” he whispered into your mouth.
He kissed you again. “Don’t do that.”
His hands cupped your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
“You think a girl like her could take me from you?”
His voice was so sure.
So firm.
And when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searched yours like they needed to prove it.
He nudged his nose against yours.
A soft breath fell between you.
“There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else.”
You let him kiss you.
Let him pour every ounce of devotion, desperation, and utter obsession into that slow, lingering press of his lips.
But when he pulled back — breathless, eyes glazed over, lips swollen — your smirk had already returned.
That slow, seductive little curve.
The one that made his heart race and his cock twitch, even now, when he was still buried inside you—thick and twitching, your bodies sticking together with sweat and cum.
You leaned up, fingers curling in the back of his hair again, and kissed him.
Not soft. Not sweet. Teasing.
You nipped his bottom lip just enough to make him groan, then pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.
“Always so sentimental,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Still such a romantic underneath that rich boy act.”
He blinked, still breathless, dazed—like he didn’t know whether to be offended or turned on.
“You know I fucking hate when you do that,” he muttered, lips brushing yours.
“Do what?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Say the truth?”
You laughed softly, licking into another kiss — this one dirtier, wetter, your tongue teasing his, pulling him back in just long enough to leave him dizzy.
“You love it.”
He just looked at you—flushed, panting, completely ruined—and whispered, “You know I do.”
His hips twitched. Still buried in your cunt. Still pulsing.
And hardening again.
Headcanons 🖤🤍
— pre fic: he met you when he came home for summer break from boarding school. a nerdy loser at a rich private school. he was eighteen, you were twenty-two
— you were the first woman to ever make him ache. and every glance, every moan in the dark, every moment his cock twitched at the sound of your heels? it was just another thread tying him to you.
— when you took his virginity, he wasn't confident, he wasn't experienced. but he was completely yours.
— he was overwhelmed. whimpering. he came too fast, and looked devastated about it — until you cupped his jaw and reassured him
— post fic: you don’t trap him because you’re desperate. you trap him because you’re bored.
— you’ve had his money. his tongue. his obsession. now? you want his name, his babies, his entire goddamn future.
— and the wildest part? he wants it too. he thinks the idea of you carrying his child is sacred. Like he’s being chosen.
— he proposes with some ridiculous 5-carat heirloom ring from the family vault. then throws a tantrum when you call it “a bit much.”
— his parents stop fighting after the third grandchild.
— by the fifth, they just send you jewelry and call you “darling.”
Maid!reader inspired by my queen who deserved better: moira o’hara
HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"N—!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him flirting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other hookup he's had in the past month to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
diver
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.
He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.
But why’d Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just… breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”
Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”
The stammering is immediate.
“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“
“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—
God, you can't even say it. Falling for—
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Agh—"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
“Oh?”
“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now it’s your turn to curse.
“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man.
“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”
“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”
“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“
“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”
You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.
That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
“Argh— What the fuck!”
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”
Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”
You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”
“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”
His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's not—"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”
But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Yup.” Prick.
“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”
“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”
You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Bucky.”
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”
With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”
Your face flushes. “Bucky.”
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.
He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”
“Shut up.”
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“
You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”
“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”
“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”
“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.
“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.
Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”
You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”
“Gonna come from just the tip?”
“Shit. Maybe.”
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
“Breathe,” he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”
You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”
“Do you want me to come immediately?”
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, blink with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”
“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?
“You—You’re not.”
“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“
“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“
“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
“Thank you.”
Did he just—
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”
“For sleeping with you?”
“No. For letting me sleep with you.”
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—
“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.
“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”
“I’m literally inside you right now.”
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”
“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”
You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”
“Sweet girl, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”
You freeze. “Huh?”
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”
Your left cheek.
“How come I live to rile you up?”
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”
“Took you long enough.”
Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”
Bucky snorts. “As of three years ago, more like.”
“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. Three— Okay.”
“Take your time.”
“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”
Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”
Your heart skips. “I think I…”
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”
“You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Obviously.”
You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.
“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”
It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as your head hits the pillow. Bucky kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.
“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”
“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.
“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”
A pause.
Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”
You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.
And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”
“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.
"god, these perfect fuckin’ things,” he groans, muffling his voice against your skin.
his metal arm is around your waist, holding you against him on the couch while his mouth works desperately at your nipples. “can’t get enough. never get enough.”
you run your fingers through his hair, tugging gently at them. “you’re obsessed.”
“yeah,” he breathes, pulling off with a wet pop just to latch onto the other one, tongue swirling around it. “i am. got a fuckin’ problem with that?” he nips lightly, making you gasp. “so soft an' they fit in my mouth just right.”
“bucky,” you sigh, arching your back, pressing yourself deeper into his mouth.
“shhh, doll, just gimme a minute,” he switches back to the first one, sucking hard, worshipping you with his lips and tongue.
“just need this, my girl, 'kay? need you. right here.” he looks up at you with want. “my girl. with her perfect tits. all mine.”
pairing: johnny storm x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.6k
summary: johnny storm loves to talk—that’s no secret. but when he talks about space, something changes. it’s softer. quieter. and that shift? that's exactly what pulls you in even more.
warnings: established relationship, soft!johnny, kissing, emotional intimacy.
a/n: i tried to refrain from adding another character to the roster. i did. but i love him 😭 (saw the movie friday morning. so what, i made it all of 4 days? lmao.) i hope you enjoy ♡
Johnny’s passionate about a lot of things—fast cars, bad decisions, even worse jokes, and, surprisingly, Lucky Charms. (That one caught you off guard at first, but you’ve learned to accept it.)
It doesn’t matter what he’s talking about. He brings all of himself to it—hands moving, voice rising with excitement, laughter breaking through like sparks.
He’s loud, expressive, impossible not to watch.
Space, however, is the exception.
When it comes up, something in him shifts. His words come softer, lower. Like they’re too heavy to throw around the way he usually does. There’s still fire behind them, burning with that same intensity… just quieter.
You never interrupt. You just watch him. The way his fingers twitch like he’s tracing constellations midair. There’s a look in his eyes—part wonder, part ache—and it hits you in the chest every time.
You’ve always loved the way he talks.
But this?
This is something else entirely.
It’s become a quiet kind of routine: your body stretched across his, cheek resting on his shoulder, one hand tucked beneath your chin, the other pressed gently against his side. Just close enough to feel the steady heat of him.
And he keeps talking.
Not like he’s performing—just thinking out loud, letting his mind wander from launch mechanics to how weightlessness felt, then to the way sound works differently in space. His voice never falters. It’s smooth, measured, a gentle sort of reverence threaded through every word.
You lose track of the actual facts after a while. Something about pressure suits and magnetic boots. But you don’t stop listening. Not really.
You’re too caught up in the way his mouth moves, the way his lips curve around words like “orbital decay” and “solar flare.” Most of all, it’s the way his eyes soften when he talks about stars like he’s still floating among them.
The way he strings it all together shouldn’t work—a burned glove, solar winds, the way Earth looked from orbit. But with him it does. It always does.
And he notices. The way your gaze lingers. The quiet focus. The subtle tilt of your head, like you’re trying to memorize every part of him in this exact moment.
Normally, he lets you be. Just soaks it in.
But not this time.
Johnny's voice dips, low and teasing as his eyes flick to yours. “What?”
You blink slowly, lips curling as you play it off. “Nothing.”
His grin curves up, cocky as hell. “You’ve got that look again.”
You arch a brow. “What look?”
“Like I’m saying something brilliant.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping even lower. “Or like you’re about to kiss me.”
You hum, fingertips brushing his ribs. “I just like hearing you talk.”
“Yeah?” he asks, lips already edging toward a smirk.
Your mouth finds that warm spot just below his jaw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”
Then you shift, just slightly lifting from where you’d been resting on his shoulder. It’s subtle, easy, but enough for your face to tilt up toward his. Enough to kiss him properly.
You start soft, your lips grazing the smile he hasn’t bothered to hide.
He kisses you back like he means it—slow burn, no rush—then murmurs against your mouth.
“Oh, I get it. You like it like it.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Shut up.”
And he does—but only because you kiss him again. And again.
This time, he deepens it, no warning, no hesitation. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him. Whatever comeback he had dies on his tongue, lost in the way you kiss him—deep and certain, like you already know he’ll chase it.
He exhales through his nose, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. And then he kisses you even harder.
Turns out, that’s something Johnny’s passionate about too—
You.
please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.
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Johnny Storm is a touchy person by default. He loves giving handshakes, high-fives, pats on the back, hugs-All very common from being around him. But dating him? Oh it's all focused on you now. Every single touch was now reserved for just and only you to receive.
Maybe it's just innocent clinginess, maybe it's him being possessive and wanting to show off that he's dating you and gets the honor of calling you his to everybody..Even if it meant you had to deal with him following you everywhere like a stray dog..even if you're in the same house together.
"I'm addicted to you," he would always claim if you were to complain about wherever his hands found themselves on your body, and his hands-along with his eyes- were always on you, truly like an addiction. "You can't ask me to not be touchy, it's like asking me to not be me!"
The best part about all of it had to be how warm his hands stayed-Human Torch powers had that advantage of excessive body heat. You could never go cold as long as he was around, he physically wouldn't allow it. His fingers entwined with yours in a crowded space so neither of you get separated from him wandering. His arm either draped over your shoulder or across your lower back and lazily holding your hip to keep you close on an afternoon walk. Both arms wrapped around your middle at night which, yes it overheats you a bit, but it became comfortable in a way.
Same with kisses and hugging. A kiss on the cheek whilst you order a coffee and snack he’s paying for, hugging you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth..following you into the shower just so he can hold you.
And with all that constant clinginess, how could you ever expect him to keep his hands off of you in bed? It's like asking the world to stop turning!!!
"God, baby!" he lets out a breathy laugh into your mouth, his hands moving down from holding the sides of your face down to your chest as he sits up on his knees. He gives your boobs a firm squeeze before his uncomfortably warm hands move down to your legs, lifting them, kissing both of your ankles before tossing them over one shoulder. "Oh fuck, baby—God! You feel so good! Baby, you have no idea how hard it is to be away from you" he continues to ramble on and on as he moved in and out of you at such a slow pace you could swear he was trying to torture for being away
"Y-you were only gone f-for an hour to fight.." you whine at him, weakly gripping at and tugging at his bed sheets. "Mhm! An hour too long!" he moaned right back, quickening the pace of his thrusts, trying to fuck deeper into you. It was so sudden you couldn't help but gasp and whine as the bed began to creak-so focused on his pace that your body suddenly jolted and began to tremble when his thumb found your clit. "Shhh....I know, I know, honey, you missed me soo much too! I can fucking feel it-But don't worry! 'M gonna make you feel so much better all night!”
burned out — johnny storm x fem!reader
Johnny is experiencing what every adult has probably gone through in their lives… he’s burning out. In his mission to fix this, he finds you.
warnings: burn-outs, mostly fluff, not 1960s themed in my head, reader owns a cafe trope, no use of y/n
masterlist
Johnny’s never experienced this before.
As smoke expands and the temperature gets warmer from the burning building, Reed shouts instructions over the comms. Sue’s forcefields preventing debris from falling. Ben pulling trapped civillians from the building, and Johnny— Johnny can’t flame on.
He stands just behind Reed, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw tight as he desperately tries to fly in there and absorb the fire, but he can’t. There’s a flicker of heat across his skin, but then nothing.
Something’s not right.
“Johnny, focus!” Reed calls, too busy to notice the panic twisting Johnny’s face. “We need to contain the fire, now!”
“I’m trying!” His voice cracks sharper than he intends. He throws his arm out, willing the fire to catch, to spark, to roar to life. But it only flickers again, like a match dying in the wind.
Ben glances up from the rubble. “C’mon, Matchstick, any day now.” It’s meant as a joke, but even Ben’s brow furrows when he sees Johnny’s pale face.
Sue cuts in quickly, her voice steady but soft. “Reed, I’ll expand the field—Johnny, just… stay back.”
It’s those last two words that gut him. Stay back.
In the end, Sue traps the fire until it dies down and the smoke clears. Reed gives Johnny a reassuring pat on the shoulder, muttering something about stress and overexertion. Ben doesn’t tease. And Sue’s smile is tight, worried for her little brother.
For the first time, he feels like a ghost among them.
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚
Back in the Baxter building, Reed wastes no time running tests on Johnny. Everyone is surrounding him, worried that something might be wrong, but all of Reed’s tests indicate that his physique is perfectly normal.
“What do you mean?” Johnny asks even though he has a sense of what Reed is saying.
Reed sighs. “It means, if something is wrong, it’s not physical. It might be your mental state.”
Johnny’s eyes widen, “Are you saying I’m going crazy?”
“You just need some rest,” Reed insists.
“It happens, Johnny,” Sue says. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
Ben folds his arms. “Yeah, maybe you should take a breather before you go up in smoke for good.”
Johnny sits quietly, slumped in the lab. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t do anything but stare at his useless hands, palms open because they should be on fire.
Because if he can’t flame on, then he’s not the Human Torch. And if he’s not the Human Torch… then who the hell is he?
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚
Johnny stares at himself in the mirror.
He’s wearing his blue jacket, a fitted white tee, jeans, a cap, and sunglasses to hide his identity. He looks like some washed-up pop star trying not to get recognized after a scandal. But Reed insisted he take a break, and Sue ushered him to get out of the house normally like Ben does, so he’s trying. Because he can’t stay cooped up in his room forever, and because seeing his family with their powers working normally, treating him like he’s made of glass, is worse.
H.E.R.B.I.E approaches him as he struggles to leave the building, and with one last glance at the robot and a deep breath, he braves himself to go out there and… blend in.
The goal, Sue said, is to find something he likes. Something new. He argued that he liked flying, space, fire—but that clearly isn’t working. So now he has to find something else. Something that’s not related to work. Something like—
Coffee. Johnny stops in his tracks, spotting a quaint coffee shop in the corner, empty enough for him to not be recognized. He doesn’t even like coffee. He thinks the taste is bitter, and God knows he doesn’t need caffeine, but something about this cafe pulls him in. The thought of slipping inside and away from the city too tempting.
Before he can second-guess himself, he takes his sunglasses off and goes in.
The place is almost empty, there are only a few older gentlemen in the corner, a mom and her kid sitting in the couch area, and then there’s you, the barista, whose eyes light up when the bell over the door jingles. You brighten at the sight of a new customer.
“Good morning,” You greet Johnny with a smile, “What can I get you today?”
Johnny glances between you and the menu, “Um… I don’t… normally drink coffee, this is kind of new to me…”
“That’s okay, I’m happy to help out,” You beam, “Do you want to go classic with an Americano, or something sweet with caramel and milk?”
“Definitely something sweet,” Johnny answers immediately.
“Great, one caramel latte it is,” You write his order on a cup, “That’ll be $4.25, and I’ll have your drink ready soon.”
“Thanks.” Johnny hands over the cash and smiles politely before sitting by the bar area, a clear view of you making his drink.
He wonders if the cafe is yours, or if maybe you’ve worked here forever. The way you move behind the counter, knowing exactly what to do, fascinates him. You make it look effortless. Effortless in a way he hasn’t felt in weeks.
It doesn’t help that you’re gorgeous. And for once, Johnny doesn’t feel like flirting. He just… watches, unable to take his eyes off you.
“Hey kiddo!” One of the elderly men, Jack, tries to get your attention, “Two more espressos for me and Robby. And a slice of that lemon cheesecake in his bill. I’m about to checkmate his ass.”
Robby only grumbles without looking up from the chessboard.
You laugh under your breath and nod. “Coming right up.”
Johnny watches the exchange, oddly charmed by the warmth of it, before the flicker of a TV mounted in the corner pulls his attention; JOHNNY STORM: FLAME OFF?
“Folks it’s no secret that the Human Torch has been struggling with his powers lately. We saw him last week unable to extinguish fires from a burning home, when usually it would be a piece of cake. What has happened to the Storm brother? Is he losing his powers—”
Johnny groans under his breath and drags his cap lower over his face. He can practically feel his stomach sink, until a glass is set gently in front of him.
“Hope you like it,” You smile, “And let me know if you’d like some more caramel.”
Johnny straightens at once, caught off guard by the brightness in your voice. He looks at the drink; a tall glass of latte, crowned with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. For the first time all week, his chest eases just a little.
He takes a sip of the latte, and blinks in surprise. It’s smooth, rich, and sweet, completely different from how Ben makes his coffee. He’s only tried it once, but he was so horrified by it he doesn’t dare touch it again.
When he glances back up, you’re watching him with that hopeful look in your eyes.
“So, is it to your liking?” You ask.
“Best coffee I’ve ever had.” Johnny says honestly. And when your smile widens, bright enough to make the room feel warmer, he swears his heart skips a beat.
“Well I’m glad you like it.” You smile bashfully and move to prepare the older men’s order, and Johnny stares after you longer than he should.
Johnny also doesn’t fail to notice that the TV is now miraculously off.
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚
Johnny never thought he’d be the kind of guy who frequents a coffee shop. But somehow, here he is again. And again. And again.
At first, it was just curiosity. Then it became a distraction. Now, a week later, it’s a habit. Every morning, without fail, Johnny finds himself pushing open the glass door, the bell chiming as if announcing his arrival just for you, and you always beam at him from behind the counter. And every damn time, it makes something in his chest feel lighter.
“Morning,” Johnny greets first.
“Good morning,” You nod at him, “Caramel latte again today?”
He hums, “I’m thinking about changing it up. What do you think I’d like?”
You raise a brow, “Adventurous, are we?”
Johnny chuckles. “Sue says I need to try different stuff, so…”
You nod in understanding, “Well, how about I make you one as a surprise?”
Now it’s Johnny’s turn to raise a brow. “Alright, I look forward to it.”
Johnny sits by the bar as he usually does, his cap now sitting on the side, and nods his head at Lance and Marv, who nods back before resuming their chess. Johnny goes back to staring at you as you make his coffee.
He’s learned quite a lot about you in the week he’s been coming over. He now knows you own the cafe, and in the early mornings, it’s usually just the two elderly men, Jack and Robby, and sometimes the mom and her kid. It gets busier throughout the day, so Johnny always makes sure to leave before office break time starts, so that no one would see him.
He also knows how you like your coffee, though he has no idea how to make it. He knows you like cheesecake and loves making them. That you love pets but have yet to own one. And that you’ve been making coffee for over five years.
Johnny feels a smile tug on his lips as you bring him his coffee. It’s a shorter glass, with milk on the bottom and what looks to be frothy coffee on top.
“So what is your masterpiece this time?” Johnny asks, “Wait, do I stir the drink—I stir it, right?”
You chuckle, “Yes, Johnny, you stir it. It’s Dalgona coffee. It’s milk with whipped coffee. Kind of like a reversed latte.”
Johnny only nods, having no understanding of what you just said, but after stirring, he drinks it, and nods in acknowlegment.
“Yeah?” You question.
He hums, “Yeah. This is delicious.”
“Better than a caramel latte?”
Johnny hesitates, “…I’ll get back to you on that.”
You laugh again, and the sound makes his grin tug wider.
“You’re really good at this,” Johnny says after a while. “Was this always the dream? Running your own café?”
You shrug, nose scrunched, stuck between pride and nostalgia, “Not exactly. I wanted to be a singer once.”
“A singer?” Johnny’s eyebrow raises. “You sing?”
“…I used to.” You smile, “I’d sing in weddings, bars, any gig I could find. But it just didn’t happen for me. And so I went for the next best thing. It’s not what I thought my life would look like, but… I don’t hate it.”
His jaw twitches. “You ever think it’ll come back? That feeling?”
You keep your gaze on him, a longing smile across your lips as the memories come flashing back in pieces. “It never really goes away.”
Johnny has a feeling you’re not just talking about yourself there.
“And you?” You ask, “You always wanted to be a superhero?”
“I just really wanted to be an astronaut. The hero stuff is pure chance… and well, now, a full-time job I’m struggling with.” He continues, voice low, almost ashamed, “Without the fire… I don’t know who I am. I mean, yeah, I’m still me, but… I guess I just realized I’m nothing without it. And if I can’t do it anymore, I don’t know if people even want me around.”
“What about the Johnny before the fire?” You ask, “What’s he like?”
“Pretty much the same,” Johnny sighs, staring at his hands, hoping that they’ll light up—but they don’t. “Loved space, loved adrenaline… I still do, it’s just that they’re reminding me of what I’ve—what I’m struggling with.”
You hum in acknowledgment, “I see where the whole ‘I need to find something new I like’ is coming from now.”
“Yeah,” Johnny chuckles.
“Well…” You ponder, “What have you tried?”
The corners of his lips frowns a bit while he shrugs, “Not much, just… running, swimming… tried reading but I hate it… and your coffee. Which is by far, my favorite thing.”
That earns him a genuine smile from you. You fidget with your fingers. “Wanna try making it?”
Johnny’s eyes widen, “Me? Make coffee?”
“It’s not that hard.” You shrug and you beckon him over to behind the counter, “come on.”
He hesitates, but also can’t hide the excitement in his eyes.
Johnny circles around the counter like he’s stepping into some sacred space. He watches you carefully as you pull out the portafilter, his brow furrowed like you’ve just handed him alien technology.
“Okay,” you say, gesturing to the machine, “step one: coffee grounds. Try not to spill them everywhere.”
“Step one: don’t screw up,” Johnny mutters under his breath, but his grin betrays him.
You guide his hand as he tamps the coffee down, and he glances sideways at you, unable to hide the blush creeping up to his cheeks when he feels your hand on his.
He then clears his throat to lighten the mood. “You know, I’ve flown a jet into orbit, but this feels way more high pressure.”
“Mm-hm, sure,” you tease. “Astronaut, superhero, and now—barista in training. Quite the résumé.”
He laughs, and the sound is freer than you’ve heard it in weeks. When the espresso finally drips into the cup, it’s uneven, watery, and Johnny beams like he’s just conquered Everest.
“Not bad, right?” he asks, holding it up proudly.
You wrinkle your nose. “Why don’t you taste it first?”
Johnny takes a sip of the espresso and immediately winces, both because he hates the taste and it is probably bad coffee. “Delicious! Best coffee I’ve ever had.” He says as the coffee burns his throat.
You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet shop, and for a moment Johnny just watches you, unable to hide his grin.
When the sound fades, you catch him staring and suddenly feel your cheeks warm.
“What?” you ask softly.
He shrugs, setting the cup down. “Nothing. Just… feels good. Being here. With you.”
And you don’t know how to answer, not without giving yourself away, so instead you nudge the cup back toward him with a small smile.
“Congratulations, Johnny. You’ve officially made the worst coffee in the shop.”
His grin spreads wider, unbothered. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep practicing.”
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚
Johnny keeps coming back every day for lessons ever since then. It’s nothing serious, he’s only doing it for fun, and because he gets to spend time with you. And he doesn’t just learn how to make coffee, sometimes you teach him how to bake, particularly cheesecakes.
And now, heading off into the night, after 3 cheesecake attempts later, Johnny finally nails it.
“Johnny, this is it,” You say as you taste the cheesecake he made.
He chuckles with a roll of his eyes, “Yeah, sure,”
“No, really,” You cut a piece with your fork and feed him.
Johnny takes a bite of the cheesecake and a smile slowly spreads across his face. “That’s pretty damn good.”
“Right??” You grin, put the fork down, and give him a hug, “You did amazing! Good job, Johnny.”
You don’t realize you’re hugging him until he physically tenses, and you push yourself off him.
“Sorry, I didn’t—I got so excited I—” You lose your words, warmth creeps up your cheeks as you stammer and try to look anywhere else but at him.
Before you can retreat any further, Johnny reaches out and tugs you back into a proper hug. Warmth floods through you at the unexpected closeness, your cheek brushing against his collarbone. For a moment, neither of you move, just breathing in sync.
You tip your head back nervously, and that’s when you notice how close his face is to yours. His usual spark of mischief flickers there, but beneath it is something more vulnerable. The world seems to hold its breath as his gaze drops to your lips.
You don’t know who leans in first, but the kiss is soft, sweet, unhurried, and impossibly gentle. You can practically feel your heartbeat in your ears.
When you part, Johnny keeps his forehead pressed to yours, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Best damn cheesecake reward I’ve ever had.”
You laugh softly, flustered but unable to hide your own smile. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he murmurs, pulling you close again.
Your arms raise to loop around his neck, when a sudden cry makes you both break apart, wondering where the noise is coming from.
More cries echo from outside, and your heart sinks, but Johnny’s instincts take over.
“Stay here,” he tells you quickly, already moving toward the door.
“Johnny—” You start, but he’s gone, pushing outside into the cool night air. You follow him to the sidewalk, just close enough to see the commotion: a man shouting for help beside a smoking car that’s clearly just been in a wreck, and the driver stuck in his seat. The hood hisses, sparks catching, a high chance of things going south quick.
For a beat, Johnny freezes. You see the hesitation, the memory of his failure. But then his jaw sets, and something shifts inside him.
“C’mon, c’mon…” he mutters, staring at his hands. And then fire bursts to life through his skin, rolling up his arms, dancing like it never left him.
Your chest swells with relief as Johnny rushes forward, searing through the metal that was trapping the man, and shields him with his body as he brings him to safety.
The man stares at him in shock, breathless. “T-thank you. Thank you so much.”
Johnny’s grin is small, a little shaky. “No problem.”
From where you stand, you can’t look away. Not from the fire blazing in his hands, not from the way his eyes shine brighter than his flames. He looks whole.
You stay on to the sidewalk, your hands gripping your apron as tight as a lifeline. Neighbors rush in, clapping Johnny on the back, thanking him. The man he saved can’t stop praising him, eyes wide with gratitude. Johnny just laughs it off, rubbing the back of his neck, but you can see him glowing. Not just because he got his powers back, but from the validation, the reminder that he still is a hero.
Before you can move closer, before you can even think of calling his name, the rest of the Fantastic Four swoops in. His family. They give him pats on the back, hugs that relieve him, and Johnny grins, glad that he’s back.
The paparazzis arrive next. It gets crowded too fast, and Johnny barely gets a chance to look around, to maybe find you in the crowd, before Sue’s hand lands on his arm. “We need to go, Johnny.”
Johnny hesitates, his eyes scanning the street—but the flashes are too blinding, and he has no choice but to leave.
You stand there long after they’re gone, his flames still burning in your memory, the warmth of his lips still fresh on yours. And you smile, maybe bitterly, because that might’ve been the last time you ever see him.
⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚
It’s been four days.
You tell yourself you’re not counting. You’re happy for him—of course you are. The city needs the Human Torch, and now that his powers are back, Johnny has stepped into the spotlight again like he never left. He’s on every channel, every newspaper headline. You don’t even have to look for his name; it finds you on the mounted TV, or in the whispers of your customers.
And every time you see him grinning into the cameras, cracking jokes, flying through the sky… there’s this little pang in your chest you can’t quite brush off.
You’re wiping down a table when Robby finally breaks the silence.
“You’re awful quiet today,” he says, peering at you over the rim of his mug.
“Oh it’s just one of those days,” You sigh.
“No, no,” Jack chimes, “I know that look.”
He taps the morning paper with one finger. Johnny’s face blazing on the front page, hands lifted mid-flight. “You miss him.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, dropping your gaze. “Yeah… I think I like him more than I should. It’s stupid.”
“Kid, in all my years of knowing you,” Robby starts, “You are not one to talk down about yourself. You’re not stupid for liking him. Or missing him.”
You sigh, continue cleaning in hopes that it would distract you. “Everyone likes him.”
“Yeah, but you don’t see him going to all the other cafes in town every day,” Jack argues, “He comes back to your cafe every day. Now what does that tell you?”
Your mind replays to the night you kissed. To where he had his hands on your waist, his soft lips— You shake your head to snap out of it. You know they’re right. You’re just a little disappointed because you haven’t heard from him in days.
He’s busy, probably has a ton of work to do for all the time he’s missed. So you understand. You just—
Your head snaps up when you hear the jingle from the entrance of your cafe. You’ve done this a hundred times in the past four days, looked up too fast you might’ve given yourself whiplash, only to be disappointed when it’s not Johnny.
But this time… this time it’s a familiar head of blonde hair, a pair of blue eyes, and a nervous smile that shakes you to your core.
It’s Johnny.
“Hey,” he says softly, like it’s just the two of you in the whole café.
Your lips part, and you can only manage a; “Hey.”
Johnny takes a step towards you, hands behind his back. “I’m sorry I disappeared. Things got busy and I—”
You shake your head quickly. “Don’t apologize. I get it. You’re—” your eyes flick toward the TV mounted in the corner, his name splashed across the news ticker even now, “—you’re busy saving the world again.”
He smiles, reaching for your hand. “Yeah, but I missed this. I… I missed you.”
You laugh under your breath, the sound shaky. “Well, I’m always here, Johnny. Whenever you need me.”
Johnny’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, “You made me feel normal. Made me feel like I’m me again… even without the fire. With you, I don’t have to be that guy—” he motions to the TV, “—always on fire, always running around… I can just be Johnny. You accept me. All of me.”
You grasp his hand, eyes wide and hopeful, and Johnny is smiling because he misses that look so much. The way you look at him like he’s your world, and the way he mirrors that look perfectly.
“I kept hoping,” You admit, voice small, “Every time that bell rang, I wanted it to be you. I missed you too, Johnny.”
He leans just a little closer, his breath catching.
“Can I—” he starts, but doesn’t finish the question.
You answer it anyway by tilting forward, closing the space between you. His lips are warm, and then more sure when he feels you melt into it. His hand cups your jaw gently, while the other circles around your waist.
“Fucking finally…” You hear Jack mutter and you break the kiss, realizing that it’s not just the two of you in the cafe.
“Way to ruin the mood, guys.” Johnny says jokingly.
“Kids these days,” Robby laughs. “Get a room before this old man gets a heart attack.”
Johnny shakes his head and turns back to you, kissing your hand. “Will you go out with me?”
You laugh. “We’ve made out twice now, Johnny. You better take me out.”
He smiles, forehead touching yours, when suddenly the door behind him opens, pushing him forward.
“Whoops, sorry there, Sparkles.” Ben enters your cafe.
You cover your mouth at the nickname, trying not to laugh.
Johnny glances at you with a ‘how dare you’ look. “What are you doing here, Ben?”
“Oh, we just wanted to know where you’ve been running off too for the past weeks.” Sue’s familiar voice booms behind Ben.
“This is a nice place. Cozy.” Reed follows not long after.
You blink in surprise, your cafe suddenly livelier than it’s ever been. Your grip on Johnny’s arm tightens.
“Guys, you’re freaking her out, okay? One at a time, please.” Johnny says, almost hiding you behind him.
Sue pushes past him and goes to hug you. “I cannot thank you enough for being there for Johnny.”
“I—It’s nothing, really.” Your shaky hands try to hug her back. “He keeps me company.”
Sue lets you go momentarily. “I also heard that you make amazing cheesecake. I’d love to try some.”
Sue smiles knowingly as you stammer out options for the cheesecake flavors. Reed is already halfway lost in asking you about your espresso machine, Ben is making himself comfortable like he owns the place, and Robby and Jack are chuckling in the corner, entertained by the whole spectacle.
It’s loud, and overwhelming, and yet, Johnny always finds you. His hand lingers against yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a silent reassurance.
You glance up at him, the noise fading to the background as you smile at each other, knowing your lives would be very different from here on out.
summ: for three years you and johnny have been together. no one else knows– but tonight makes it four, and johnny just can't help himself when he sees you.
wc: 2.4k
tags: hidden relationship; h.e.r.b.i.e. is in on the secret, reader and johnny are trolling each other, bit of jealous reader, bit of sulky johnny, pretty time period accurate, lovesick johnny.
an: lets just pretend that johnny can keep a secret, sue doesn't have her older sis senses on, and that in the 50s there were flip phones. ok? ok. anyways, ill edit this a little later. enjoy <3.
Ben keeps telling Johnny to ask you out.
Sue tells you he stares at you all day.
Reed makes little quips about his seemingly endless amounts of compliments for you.
You and Johnny are set to be the next couple in everyone's minds.
There's way too many half-lidded gazes and whispered confessions for it to not be. Too much video footage to deny it.
But honestly? You're just kinda lucky no one's figured it out that you two actually are a couple yet and have been for the past three years. It's a pretty big accomplishment– especially for Mr. Obvious– he talks about it all the time.
It could be because everyone portrays Johnny as a woman-killer, but hey, who knows?
So yeah, you and Johnny are a secret. A well-kept one, laced in odd meetings and terrible places to sneak in good-bye kisses.
And it's to the point that, only H.E.R.B.I.E. knows of what lies beneath all the tension between you two; beeping happily at any affection you scrape by. After all, he was the one who got you guys together.
And well, you may be the best secret he's ever kept.
✧˖ ° 🔭 ☾ ⋆ ｡
You're making a late night snack for Sue. Johnny's up against you, his hands rubbing over your love handles.
It's only 4 in the morning and he's sulking into your shoulder in this way that you can't ignore. Y'know, the softness that can only be conjured in love-sick dreams. And you love it too much to hate it.
But still, he's sulking. Why? Because he wanted to be the one handing his sister some hand-heated toaster strudels for the fourth time this week. But– you offered first and stumbled to the kitchen before he could.
Sue told you you're a blessing. So now he's sulking. He could've told you that a thousand times over if it made you like you won woman of the year.
“Johnny. You're being distracting.”
“M'not.” Johnny scoots closer, somehow buries his nose deeper in the nape of your neck. “I'm being very encouraging.”
You snort. “Uh-huh. Sure.” You preheat the oven for Sue's snacks.
His hands roam a little higher than they should. You roll your eyes. “You know I can just warm the strudel up with my hands right?”
“Yeah, well, not everyone knows where your hand’s been Johnny.”
He inches away from you, lets out a little fake gasp as he dives into dramatic strides.
You both look a bit more casual now, Johnny towards the fridge while you still lingered at the island.
“Hey! Just because I smell a bit like ash doesn't mean I stink.”Johnny's being Johnny. His tone is dramatic, his stance clearly trying to get a laugh outta you. “I'll happen to let you know that this smell happens to attract the ladies.”
You raise a brow.. then you smirk. “Oh really?”
Johnny blushes as you remind him of the day that smell happened to attract you. “Uh, really.”
Young, dumb you. The you who'd do anything to work in the Baxter Building just to see Johnny again; your long-time friend, part-time crush. So you sent a letter, he sent an invitation, and you happened to catch a whiff of ash as he flew down the stairs. What was doing there? You'll never know– but you do know you fell in love.
He knows it well. He knows how worked up his scent makes you somedays, so he smiles seeing the gears turning in your head.
That day is how he got you a job as Reed's assistant, and how he helped form ‘The Beautiful Story of Us’ (as he likes to call it.)
“You mean it tells them that you need more than just cologne to cover that stench.” And Johnny chokes on his spit while you laugh.
Because– yeah. You remember to be casual, just friends.
✧˖ ° 🔭 ☾ ⋆ ｡
Johnny forgives you. Well, once you let him take credit for all the work you did. You just wait for him to sneak into the guest bedroom Reed let you have.
It takes him a couple minutes, before he comes slipping in with a bowl of cereal in hand.
You shoot a glare at him. He just shrugs back.
“Seriously?” You scoff as he crawls to his side of the bed. “It's barely 5.”
“Hey, as long as you know.” He whispers back, kissing your cheek after he eats a spoonful. You roll your eyes for the second time.
You reach for the nightstand, grab the remote just to flick through channels. “As long as you know to be outta here by the time you finish that bowl.”
Then he pauses. For once he stops eating his cereal and looks dead at you.
Johnny barely swallows as he starts looking at you like you grew a second head. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, I'm kicking you out, now hurry and eat.”
“Oh I'm so getting payback.” He grumbles, chewing like his life depended on it; because, in truth, it does.
He finds you more scary than any life-threatening misssion– more scarier than Sue– because your anger is a mere death wish to anybody around. He's seen it firsthand.
It's almost cute how scared he looks.
“Uh-huh, sure.”
✧˖° 🔭 ☾⋆｡
Once the sun rises, it's back to being friends.
Johnny'll slip outta your bed early, and you leave to start working in Reed's lab. Quick, inconspicuous. Not even a kiss while you both are in the hallway. Just you and equations and Johnny and his beauty sleep.
The next time you'll see each other is at 7:30 for breakfast, where you'll only stay to swipe a plate from him and leave. Usually.
Today however, Sue insists you stay at the table so she can make breakfast for you. And well– you find it hard to resist Sue.
So you sit at the table, a little awkward as you watch the morning routine unfold. Ben collecting the mail from H.E.R.B.I.E., Sue cooking with Ray Charles carrying her, and Reed sat anxiously next to you. But, no Johnny.
Reed looks at you, “She made you stay too?” You nod. Something tells you that you'd both rather be writing trajectories right now and that makes you both chuckle.
Everything's calm. Maybe it's Ray Charles but everyone's relaxing in a way the four of you are unfamiliar with. In the moment, you all accept the silence and the minimal intrusions.
Until.. you hear it– or, Johnny– bouncing around in his room to get ready. A crash here, a thud there. Everyone stops looks around to the source of the noise while Johnny comes crashing through. You and Reed sigh already knowing what's gonna happen.
“SorrySueIhaveaninterviewateightokI'llseeyousoonloveyoubye!” And he's out and down the stairs.
…
Ben facepalms. H.E.R.B.I.E. beeps sadly.
✧˖ ° 🔭 ☾ ⋆ ｡
Johnny told you to watch the interview and that you needed to call at the right time. It makes a little more sense now actually making that call what he means.
“So, any potential love interests? Or.. any lovers?” The girl– or this annoyingly charming interviewer– has been asking risqué questions to Johnny the whole morning. And you're not the jealous type but if you've been counting correctly she's at four compliments, two sneak glances, and one depraved sigh. But to add insult to injury– Johnny is feeding into it.
Like he's actually laughing at her all her little quips and scripted jokes and holding eye contact with the girl like he cares. Which, is the reason why you've been gripping the remote like it owes you.
If this is Johnny's idea of payback; it’s working.
He's looking at the camera like he can see you on the other side with a look only you understand. It's almost like he enjoys this.
Almost.
Too close to actually.
So once Johnny starts stuttering about how ‘many girls never interest him’ you call his line.
✧˖ ° 🔭 ☾ ⋆ ｡
“Sorry– hold on, hold on.” He answers his phone and luckily, the volume is loud enough for the audience to hear the other side.
“Hey, Sue told me to call you and say that she's really upset you left breakfast and now you're on dish duty for the rest of the week.”
“What?? Aw c'mon– dish duty? You know I hate doing the dishes..”
“Well, it's what she told me to tell you. Also, you flamed the carpet again and Reed's gonna have you pay for it.”
Did Johnny burn the carpet? Yes. It's charred in some places.
Did Sue and Reed actually say those things? No, but it wasn't something they haven't dangled in front of his face before. If you convince them, they'd do it just for kicks.
He grumbles something truly incoherent before he asks, “Great, anymore bad news?”
“No, except you're forgetting something.”
A beat of silence. “Uhh.. my birthday was a couple months ago.”
You can't even pretend to laugh at that. “No idiot. That you can't be late for dinner either. Remember, we're having lasagna tonight.”
Dinner. Lasagna.
You could practically hear the gears churning in his head trying to connect the dots.
He knows Ben isn't actually gonna make lasagna.. it's Sunday– and he knows lasagna is your codeword for something special. So what's the special something you're referring to?
It takes a second, a moment of silence before it dawns on him. You can practically see the moment the words flash in his head; anniversary.
August 24th.
Today's the day of your anniversary and Johnny almost forgot.
“Oh, okay, right. Yeah, I'll be there.” His words are clipped. You got him.
“Alright Johnny, we need to work on your memory– see you later, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Bye.”
The line rings.
Johnny slowly closes the phone.
“Sorry.. uh.. what were we talking about?”
✧˖ ° 🔭 ☾ ⋆ ｡
Dinner's at 7:30; same time as breakfast, and it's crucial to be there. Especially for Johnny. Who, probably would've been late if he took that twenty minute detour to the flower shop.
He did get you something though. Something nice, and something he totally didn't get an idea from you earlier.
Slowly, he lit his hand on fire– burned some things that he didn't want anymore. Old fan mail, cringe shirts, you get the deal. Anything that'll produce the ash you like the smell of. Then, he places it in a vial. Closes it, puts a cork in it, pokes the tiniest hole in the cork– just enough to pull a thread of leather through, and ties it all together with a smile.
He raises his prize, watches how it glimmers in the sun's rays. “Perfect, yeah, this looks romantic.”
His clock ticks.
It's dinner time.
He walks down the hall just in time for it.
Ben greets him first, sends a small fist bump his way. “Hey, look who it is! You've been gone all day.”
Johnny responds, with a raised brow. This has to be a doppelganger. “You're oddly welcoming.”
“Aye, don't get used to it.”
“A shame. You're actually a lot cooler when you're nice.”
Ben scoffs. “Shut up.”
“Boys, handle yourselves now would you?” You popped outta the fridge with a tray in your hand. “This is the one crime free night we've had in ages, relax a little.”
And when Johnny gets a look at you, you look good. Well– you look good everyday– but tonight it's like you purposely put on the clothes that gets him riled up. Black flannel slacks and a yellow flowery blouse. The pair that both hug you in all the right places and leave almost nothing to the imagination.
Is this your payback? ‘Cause it's working. You look great right about now.
“Wow, you sound like Sue.” Johnny huffs, you set down the tray.
You're plucking off the foil, Ben's talking to Reed at the table. He looks around again– H.E.R.B.I.E. taking out the trash and Sue's helping.
“Glad you came.” You whisper with that cute smile of yours.
You look at him like he has stars in his eyes.
He looks at you like you hung those stars.
He hands you your gift; tells you the rest is after dinner and watches your smile deepen. He planned a dinner, wrote you a letter, told you the whole spiel.
“So you did remember.” You sounded relieved, look rejuvenated.
“I did. And I overprepared. So don't eat too much for dinner tonight.”
Your laugh breaks everyone away from their conversation; Johnny doesn't notice. You don't either.
He stares at you– unapologetically smitten– while he hands you your necklace.
Because in his mind, no matter how annoying you are, no matter how annoying he can be, you're the only girl he'll ever want. No matter what. Even if you died tomorrow, he wouldn't ever choose anybody else.
Then, he pulls you in– kisses you like it'll hurt him not to– and mutters, “Happy four years baby.”
Watches you with a beat of silence as you stare at each other in amazement.
Yeah, he doesn't want anyone else.
…
H.E.R.B.I.E beeps are high-pitched swoons. He's congratulating you two. Everyone else's jaws are slack on the floor.
A scoff comes from Ben. “Wait– you guys were actually dating this whole time? And neither of you said a single thing?” He can't believe it. No one can.
Reed (ever so clever) points out. “And here I though you couldn't keep a secret.. I have to admit Johnny, you surprised me. To know you've been with my assistant is–”
“Oh that's where you're wrong, I'm crazy for her.” And he kisses you again.
