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I don’t know about y’all but my first draft is literally always my final draft and this has been the case since I started writing fics almost a decade ago. I proofread my works for typos, plot holes or grammatical errors but that’s it 😭
LESSONS IN LOVE — chapter 2
PLEASE ME
BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)
SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.
WORD COUNT. 11.7K WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, smut, tit play, handjob, dick pronouns, pussy inspection, pussy pronouns, oral (f and m receiving), an attempt at teabagging, cum swallowing, vaginal fingering, dry humping, bucky cums in his pants. No use of Y/N. NOTES. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. One might argue this part is just porn without plot. One would be partially right.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3
READ ON AO3
A week goes by, and you kiss him twice more.
Once on his couch on Wednesday, which starts because you sit down close enough that the intent is pretty clear. The second time is Thursday, at his door when you’re leaving, which starts because you turn around and he’s right there.
You’re getting better at it. More confident, less in your own head, less managing the moment and more just in it.
Tonight is Friday, and you’re back on his couch.
“Can I try something?”
There's no version of him that would say no to your question. “Yeah.”
“I want to — I want to start it this time.”
He doesn’t ask what, because he already knows. He settles back slightly, like he’s making room. “Alright.”
So you close the gap and kiss him. The kiss in itself isn’t any different. But it feels different when it’s yours to start. You bring one hand up to his jaw the way he always does to you, and you feel him still like the contact surprised him. That small victory does wonders for your nerves.
He kisses you back slowly, letting you lead, his hand coming to rest at your waist with a patience that you are choosing not to read too much into. You shift closer and his grip tightens, fractionally, like some reflex he’s only barely managing.
When you finally pull back, his eyes open. His thumb makes one slow pass over your hip. “That was good.”
“You could be more specific.”
“You didn’t hesitate.” His thumb again, same slow drag. “That’s the main thing.”
You’re close enough that you can see the detail of him. The line where his jaw meets his throat, the soft stubble that’s absolutely not helping right now. The lamp behind him is the only light and it’s warm and doing nothing to help you think straight.
“What’s next?”
He looks at you for a moment, like he’s reading something. Then he stands up. Before you’ve quite registered what’s happening, his hands are at your waist and you’re being lifted. Foot-off-the-ground-lifted. He’s walking toward the bedroom with your face against his jaw, his mouth pressed to your temple.
You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you could.
Thing is, you've been in his bedroom before. But this is entirely different. You’ve been there to to grab something, just passing through. You know the where the bookshelf is, you know he has a photo of you and Steve, you know he has a lamp that sits in the corner.
But one of that prepared you for being carried into it. The fact that it's Bucky carrying you.
He lays you down on his bed and looks at you. There’s something in how he does it, that makes your whole chest tighten up.
“I’m going to take your shirt off.” You realise he’s telling you so you know what’s coming, giving you time to say no before he does anything. “Along with the rest of your clothes. And then I’m going to put my mouth on you.” He watches your face process this. “Questions?”
“That’s — that’s a lot of steps.”
“It’s really not.” He reaches down and gets the hem of your shirt in both hands. You sit up to let him pull it over your head. When you’re back down, his eyes move over you in a way that makes you want to simultaneously stay very still and also disappear.
His mouth finds your collarbone and works down slowly, hands mapping out the territory of your ribs, your waist, learning you, inch by inch.
He moves like he has a plan and also like the plan isn't the point. Like the point is every single inch of the way there.
But he doesn’t rush past your breasts. He cups one fully in his palm, thumb brushing slow circles over the nipple until it’s tight and aching under his touch. “These are sensitive,” his breath is warm against your skin. “We’re gonna take our time right here so you figure out exactly what you like. Tell me if it’s too much or if you want it harder.”
His lips close over your nipple and he sucks. Slow at first, then deeper, pulling the peak into his mouth that makes your toes curl. It’s nothing like the quick graze you expected.
This is hungry, his tongue swirling around it while he holds the suction. You arch hard, a shaky sound ripping out of you with his name. He switches to the other breast without breaking contact, sucking just as thoroughly, letting you feel every pull, every flick, until both nipples are swollen and slick and throbbing in the cool air.
You hadn't known it would feel like this. You'd thought that it would feel good, fine, whatever. You hadn't accounted for the quality of his attention. The way he's watching your face while he does it, checking, adjusting, reading you. It’s with the same focus he brought to explaining what made a good first date. It's the same focus and it's directed entirely at you. And you don't know what to do with that so you just make the sound his mouth is pulling out of you and try not to think.
When he finally releases them with a soft pop, he murmurs “you like that?” His dark eyes go over your face and decides it himself. “Yeah, you do. What about this?” He grazes his teeth over one sensitive bud, then bites down lightly, just enough pressure to sting in the best way. Your hips jerk and you moan outright, louder than you’ve ever let yourself be. He soothes the bite instantly with his tongue, then sucks again, harder this time, alternating between both breasts like he’s memorizing every reaction.
It feels like he's building a map of you for himself. For some purpose you haven't named yet. And won't name right now, because you can't think right now. Also because naming it would be a problem. His mouth stays on you longer than you thought it would, sucking and licking and testing until your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling around nothing.When you press them close together, he says against your chest, “don’t do that.”
“Do what—”
“Squeeze your thighs.” His hand slides between your knees and parts them easily. “Keep them open.”
Something about being told that with his mouth still on your breast rearranges your brain chemistry entirely.
He makes his way down your stomach, mouth and hands both, leaving heat everywhere they go. His stubble drags across your ribs, raising goosebumps. It's a small thing, the scrap of his beard on skin.
It shouldn't be a significant thing.
It is, though.
His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and tug them down your legs and off.
Then he just looks. Both hands on your inner thighs, spreading you open under the warm light of his bedroom, studying your pussy with an attention that makes your face go absolutely warm, sweat beading at your temples.
“Bucky—”
“Give me a second.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re so wet.” He runs his thumb, a sliver of a touch, through your folds, and your hips jerk. His words aren’t quite to you, more like something he’s noting down for personal records.
“I know." You're mortified that he's seeing this. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s—”
“Why are you apologising?” He looks offended almost.
“Because it’s — it’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at you, the blue of his eyes now only a ring. “It is. That’s good.” His thumb again, the same barely-there stroke, and you make a sound you weren’t planning on making. “That’s very good, actually.”
It’s the voice he uses when something matters to him. You've heard that voice applied to other things over the years. An arguement with Steve, the conversation with Jaxon before it got physical. It’s the serious kind of voice, the one that inevitably says ‘this matters to me.’
The fact that it's being applied to this, to you, like this, makes it harder to breathe.
He keeps your thighs spread open with his hands, and his voice is warm like he’s walking you through something just for the two of you. “That’s just your body showing me exactly what it wants. Nothing to be sorry about. I’m gonna touch you right here so you can feel what feels best for you. Just let me hear whatever comes out, okay? I want to know.”
His thumb strokes slowly through your folds, spreading the slick. He hums softly, when your breath hitches. “Breathe for me.” Then his thumb finds your clit and circles it once. It's soft, light and careful and your whole body jerks.
“Bucky—”
Eyes move to look at your face now. “Feels good?”
You make a sound that's both a gasp and a hum. He keeps the slow circles, then brushes over it with the lightest flick of his thumb. You gasp again, softer this time.
Bucky pulls the hood back just enough with one finger, gentle as anything, then circles again with a touch more pressure. Your thighs tremble under his palms and another soft moan slips out.
“Good girl. See how much wetter you’re getting?”
Does he realise you're not in any position to answer him…
His forefinger circles your entrance, for one small moment, you wonder if he's going inside. But he just collects the slick and brings it back to your clit in slow, patient strokes.
Just when you think you're used to what he's doing, he shifts down between your thighs and you feel his breath against your skin. That’s when you understand. When he'd said he's gonna put his mouth on you, he didn't only mean your tits.
“Wait — Are you — are you going to—”
“Yes.”
“With your — your mouth.”
“That’s generally how it works.”
“I know how it works, I’ve watched porn, I just —” You try to think of useful words, the verge of failing. “I didn’t think you’d actually —”
He looks up at you from between your thighs with the patient expression of a man who has all night. “You didn’t think I’d what?”
“I mean. It’s not — you don’t have to. Like it can’t be that enjoyable for you, it’s—”
“I want to.”
“But—”
“I want to.” He says it the second time like the first time didn’t register, which it didn’t, which he can tell. The second want is more enunciated, letting you know its value. “That’s not a polite offer. I want to put my mouth on your pussy. Are you gonna let me?”
The framing of that sentence evaporates any ability to construct a counter-argument. “Okay… yeah. Okay.”
“Now, relax.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your inner thigh.
“Why’d you start with your mouth?” You question, mostly just to be saying something, because silence right now seems like more than you can manage. “I thought — I figured you’d use your fingers first. Mouth seems more—”
“More what?”
“Intimate? I don’t know. I thought fingers came first.”
He looks up at you again. “Before I put anything inside you, I want your body to know what pleasure feels like. I want you to know what it feels like to want more before I give you more.” He holds your gaze. “Does that make sense?”
Your mouth is very dry. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” And with that, his mouth meets your cunt. He exhales into you like he didn't mean to, this warm, involuntary breath, and it hits you that he wants this. He wants this specifically, not as the next step in the curriculum.
Because the sound he made when his mouth first touched you is not a teaching sound.
If you’d thought kissing him was breathtaking, this was on a whole another level. You decide to constantly remind yourself to breathe, because he sure as hell isn’t helping.
The first sensation your register is heat of it. Just that, just warmth and the soft press of his lips against your core. His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your hand shoots to his hair of its own accord.
He licks into you like he’s learning you, cataloguing every place that makes you twitch and keeps coming back to it.
You've watched enough of him to know the difference between him going through motions and him when he’s actually into what he’s doing.
Now, he’s into what he’s doing. The sounds coming from him are laced with want. They aren’t even pointed at you. It seems to escape him rather than come from him. Like he forgot he was supposed to be in control of this. Like you're the one doing something to him.
When his lips close around your clit, you make a noise that could only be described as a cry. Only reassurance after that mortifying ordeal is that he makes a sound back.
His lips close around your clit again, and you have to consciously bite down to not let another noise out.
Like he’s sensed your dilemma, he says against you. “You can be loud. No one’s going to hear you.”
“I’m not—” you start to object, but then he sucks and the rest of that sentence ceases to exist.
Your hand tightens in his hair without you deciding to. He actually groans at that, a vibration against your clit that shoots straight through you, and you loosen your grip immediately.
“Sorry—”
He comes off you just enough to speak. “Don’t apologise.” He looks up the length of your body at you. “You can pull it. You can do whatever you want with my hair. Grip it, pull it, push me where you want — however feels good. It’s for you.” A pause. “Yeah?”
He says it's for you. Like he wants to make sure you understand that. Like it matters to him that you understand that.
Only when you nod, and say yeah, does he go down.
He eats you with with an attention, learning what you respond to and using it, building pressure with his tongue against your clit while his hands hold your hips steady when they try to roll up into him.
At some point one hand leaves your hip and slides up your stomach to your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the moan that comes out of you at the combination is loud enough that you’re briefly grateful for thick walls.
“Bucky—”
A hum against your clit but he keeps going.
He hums like he's satisfied. Like that sound you just made is something he wanted.
Your hand is in his hair and you can feel him, how present he is in this, how little of him is elsewhere.
Nobody has ever been this entirely here with you before. Not that anyone has been with you before.
But even in the small ways like conversations, attention, the general experience of being in a room with people, you've always felt the slight elsewhere quality of other people's focus.
He doesn't have that. He's completely, entirely here. And not just now.
You know it isn’t something you should be analysing right this moment, but what he’s doing to you isn’t just physical.
Finally, your hand fists in his hair, the way he said you could. The sound he makes is something you’re going to be thinking about for a while. You know he’d said it was for you, but the way he’s responding, it’s hard not to think there’s a little something in it for him too.
You feel the tension building, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, your thighs shaking either side of his head.
“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please—”
He doesn’t stop. His tongue works your clit in tight circles, his hand flexing into your hip. Everything tightens to a single unbearable point and then snaps. A sound tears out of your throat that you’ve never heard yourself make, your pussy clenching around nothing while he works you through every shuddering wave of it, slower now, softer. He draws it out until your legs are trembling and your hand in his hair has gone slack.
A kiss is pressed to your inner thigh. Then your hip. He’s moving back up your body and settling beside you. You try to remember what your name is.
“That was— I need a minute.”
“Take your time.”
You turn your head to look at him. His mouth is wet, his hair is a disaster from your hands, and he looks… he looks like someone who thoroughly enjoyed himself. There's something open in his expression, something that isn't quite contained, and you look at it for a second before he notices you looking and rearranges slightly.
You saw it. You aren’t in any condition to process it though.
“In porn,” you start and pause to catch your breath.
“Mm.”
“They make it look sort of — performative. Like they’re doing it but they’re also sort of doing it at the camera. That was nothing like that.”
“No.”
“That was—” You don’t have the word. “Better.”
He looks at you for a second with something in his face that he keeps mostly to himself. “I’m glad it was.”
He disappears for a minute and comes back with a glass of water and a washcloth warm from the tap. Sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, he hands you the water first. His hand stays on your knee while you drink.
When you’re done, he’s gentle with the washcloth, so careful, taking care of you like it’s just the next thing he wants to do and not a task he’s ticking off. Your face is warm and you try not to feel too much about the fact that someone is doing this, that he’s doing this, without being asked.
You wonder if this is part of the curriculum or entirely something else.
When he’s done he sets everything aside and looks at you. “You need anything else? Hungry, or—”
“No. Can — Can we just lie down for a bit?”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
He moves up the bed, and you roll toward him. That’s when you realise that he’s still in his sweats and his t-shirt. Entirely, fully dressed. And you are wearing nothing at all, which strikes you as a profound injustice.
“You’re still dressed.” Before he can say anything, you’re talking again. “That’s not fair.”
His eyes slowly drag over your body, which feels like a touch in itself. During the thorough once-over, he also appears to be giving this the serious consideration it deserves.
Without another word, he reaches back and pulls his t-shirt over his head in that one-handed way that shouldn’t be as effortless as it is. “Lift up.”
As you straighten up, he puts it on you himself, guides your arms through, smooths it down over you.
His face tips forward to press a kiss to your temple, just his mouth at your hairline for a moment. Your whole chest does something you’re going to deal with later.
He pulls the comforter up over you both. “Better?”
You hum. Find the space against his side that your body has apparently already decided belongs to you, your cheek against his shoulder, his arm settling around you.
He’s warm, too warm almost. It’s way too comfortable not to fall asleep.
You’re not going to fall asleep though. You’re just lying here, that’s all, with his t-shirt pooled around your thighs and the smell of him close enough to be a problem and his heartbeat doing something steady under your cheek.
There’s nothing to do and nowhere to be and his hand keeps moving, up and down, up and down.
This is nice.
He’s nice.
You close your eyes.
It's morning.
You can tell Bucky's awake because the arm around you is too still. Sleeping people don't hold that kind of stillness, it's a different quality entirely. He's doing a very convincing impression of someone unconscious and you're doing a very convincing impression of someone who isn't lying here thinking about his mouth.
Neither of you are particularly committed to either bit.
"You awake?" he asks after a while.
"No."
The sound he makes is almost a laugh. His thumb moves once over your shoulder. "How do you feel?"
You turn your head and he's already looking at you. The blueness of his eyes startle you in this grey light sweeping through the windows.
There's something underneath the casual delivery of his question that is very much not casual.
"I'm fine, Buck."
"First time's a lot. Even when it goes well."
The fact that he says 'even when it goes well' like he's genuinely leaving the door open. Like he'd sit there and hear it if you say, ‘actually, I have a few notes.’ You don’t say that. You have no notes.
"It went well. Quite well, actually. I'd go as far as really well."
"Yeah?"
"You were there."
"I was. Wanted to hear you say it."
That thing that's been quietly building since last night stirs again and you decide not to look at it directly. The part of your brain that is always oriented toward the next thing clears its throat. "I want to learn the other part."
He doesn't answer immediately. You fill the gap yourself. "How to touch someone. A guy. I want to know how to do it properly."
A breath. "Yeah. Okay."
"Should I … start with my mouth? Like you did?"
"No." He shakes his head once. "That's different."
"How?"
He's quiet for a second. You can tell he's actually thinking about how to say it rather than just saying something. "When I did that with you, it was because it was your first time. Even fingers can be a lot the first time. Guys don't need that. It's not the equivalent."
You think about it. It makes sense. The way he explains things always makes sense.
"Also, hands is easier to start. You'll know what you're doing before you're, you know. Down there."
"Right. And you don't need—"
Unlike you, it's not his first time. Any of this. You knew that going in, it was the entire point of coming to him, it was why you knocked on his door almost two weeks ago. And still there's a small stupid pang, that you are absolutely not going to mention.
He doesn't seem to notice. "So. Hands."
"Hands."
The covers shift to reveal his torso. There’s an intense urge to reach out and touch the plane of muscle. You don’t.
"Whenever you're ready."
You shuffle forward on your knees across the mattress until you're close enough that your body is almost touching his. He watches you with his hands loose at his sides, giving you the room.
He's still in his sweatpants. You get your hands to the waistband and he lifts his hips slightly to help, cooperating without making it a whole thing.
You look.
For a full second, maybe two.
Because your brain is constitutionally incapable of silence, you say, "hi."
Bucky closes his eyes briefly, the expression of a man asking for patience from a higher power. "You don't have to greet it."
"I wasn't greeting, I was — it was a general hi." You look up at him. He looks back down at you. "He's really pretty."
Something happens to Bucky's face that he was not prepared for. His mouth does a thing, not quite a laugh, but also not not one. "He’s — That's not — people don't usually—"
"I’m just being honest." You look up at him and then back down. "He's also big."
"Okay."
"No, I mean significantly." You're doing the math and the math is concerning. He's not even fully hard yet. "How is he going to fit?"
"It'll fit."
"That's not an explanation."
"You don’t have to worry about that now. I'll make it fit.” There's a pull at the corner of his mouth, the effort of keeping his expression neutral while you sit there conducting what is essentially a full appraisal. "Are you going to touch it, or..."
The first contact is just your fingertips. Light, just along the length of him. He pulls in a breath and his hips shift, barely.
"You're so soft." You mean it genuinely. The skin of him is warm and smooth, absolutely not what you'd expected at all. "Like the skin. I didn't think it'd feel like that."
"Yeah." His voice has gone slightly strained.
You wrap your hand around him loosely. More curious than purposeful. He goes very still, the kind of still that takes effort.
Your thumb drifts up to the tip. There's a bead of precum there, you touch it. The sound Bucky makes is quiet and completely wrecked, his head dropping back for one unguarded moment before he pulls it back together.
You did that. Your thumb did that.
You swipe your thumb over the head again and he hisses through his teeth. "Keep doing that. And this is going to be a very short lesson."
So naturally, you do that again.
"Fuck — okay. I — I'm gonna move your hand."
He takes your hand in his and adjusts everything. The grip, the angle, the pressure, and wraps your fingers around his cock properly. His hand over yours. "Not that tight — Just like that. You feel the difference?"
"Uh-huh."
He does one slow stroke with your hand inside his, all the way up. His jaw goes tight. And he does it again. On the third one, he lets go of your hand, and drops his to the sheet.
You do it on your own. Same grip. "Like that?"
"Exactly like—" He stops as you do it again, his whole body jerking once. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—" His hand tightens its grip on the sheet. "Good."
You find the rhythm easier than you expected.
Bucky is quiet in a way that's the opposite of silence. His breathing changes, his throat moves when he swallows, and the hand that isn't gripping the sheet finds your knee and holds it. Like he needs something to hold onto and your knee was there.
You shouldn't be this focused on how he looks right now. You are. The flush starting at the base of his throat. The way his jaw has gone slightly loose.
You've seen Bucky composed in every situation you can think of. Watching that composure come apart because of your hand is doing something to you that has nothing to do with learning anything.
"Is this okay?"
"More than." He gets it out with some effort. His eyes are on you and they've gone dark, most of the blue gone.
"You can talk to me." You glance up to his half lidded eyes. "I told you things."
"That's different."
"How is it different?"
He opens his mouth, closes it. You get the impression the answer to that question is more complicated than right now warrants. So you let it go and keep your hand moving.
When you twist your wrist slightly at the top, the noise he makes is involuntary. His hand comes off the sheet to catch your wrist.
"Where did you—"
"I was paying attention."
He stares at you. There are about four things happening in his expression at once and none of them are teacher friendly. He lets go of your wrist.
The sounds he makes are quieter than yours were. Held back, like he's rationed himself. But they're there. His hips move into the drag of your hand, just slightly, small involuntary pushes he's not entirely winning against.
Warm puffs of breath are on your neck, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder.
You've had his attention directed at you for two weeks but this feels different. This is him needing something to lean on and choosing you as destination.
His hips buck up, once, fully. Immediately, he pulls back fast. "Fuck — sorry—"
You want to tell him not to apologise, that watching him lose his composure is doing something to you. You don't say any of that.
He's close. You know it before he says anything, from the way his thighs have gone rigid and his breathing's come apart entirely.
"I'm almost — Stop." His hand closes around your wrist.
You let go and drop your hand back to your own knee. You knew what was coming but you didn't quite anticipate it. He exhales deeply and spills across his own stomach, his grip on the sheets going white for a moment, a low groan working out of his chest before his whole body goes loose.
Before anything sensible catches up with you, you reach out one finger and drag it slowly through the mess on his stomach.
There’s no lesson in curriculum that says you have to touch his release. You don’t care about it at this moment.
You're curious, is all. You've been curious about him in increments for the past two weeks and this is just the latest increment.
The sound Bucky makes comes from somewhere very deep and takes his whole body with it. At once, his hand snaps up and catches your wrist.
"Don't." His voice is completely wrecked. He looks it too. Undone in a way you haven't seen him before, fighting hard against something that might be a laugh and losing to both at once. "Do not."
"Why not?"
"Because." Completely black pupils gaze over you. "Because I just came and you're going to — Fuck. Why are you like this?"
"I was curious."
"Of course you were." He drops his head back against your shoulder and laughs.
You feel the laugh through his whole chest. You feel it against your shoulder and through your arm and somewhere behind your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that makes you want to make him laugh again.
His hand is still loosely around your wrist. He hasn't let go.
"Was that okay? Genuinely. Tell me if I did something wrong."
He lifts his head to look at you. "You did nothing wrong."
"The wrist thing—"
"Was very much not wrong." His voice is strained, but also a little offended, like you're being ridiculous. "Where did you even pick that up?”
"I told you. I was paying attention. Do I get a grade?"
"You're not getting a grade."
"Feedback then?"
"The feedback is that you're going to be a problem."
You don’t know what he means by that. You don’t ask.
Two dates happen, but you are very intent on calling them lessons.
The first one is a bookshop and coffee after, which Bucky picks because he remembered you mentioning it three years ago. You tell yourself normal people hold onto information like that. After all, you remember his favourite author too.
He buys the book before you can get your wallet out. When you open your mouth, he says it's part of the curriculum, with a completely straight-face. You tell him that's a stretch. He shrugs and holds the door open.
The second one is harder to explain away.
He cooks. Which was not on any syllabus you'd agreed to. You sit on his kitchen counter and talk for two hours before the food is even on the table.
You're calling them lessons. That’s easier.
But why’s it becoming harder?
The next time you see Bucky it's a Thursday, and the word lesson doesn't come up at all.
What does come up, eventually, is his mouth on your clavicle. The fact that there’s a movie playing matters less now than it did five minutes ago. Somehow, you've ended up horizontal with his weight half over you. His lips trail up to your throat. Tipping your head back, you give him more space to work with.
But there’s one specific thing in your mind that needs attention right now. That’s been lying dormant for a week. "Teach me something."
"I am teaching you." There’s no attempt on his part to untangle from you. In fact, he moves, rucking your shirt as he goes. His mouth takes in your pebbles nipple, and you make a sound you hadn't planned on, your hand going to his hair. He does it again, the slow suction almost pulling your body off the couch.
"That's not teaching me anything," you manage.
"Sure it is." He doesn't look up. "You're learning what you like."
"That's not—" He does it again and and you lose your train of thought.
There’s no point in being logical about this, you let him play with your tits however he pleases.
After what feels like a lifetime, he surfaces. His face still rests on your torso as he looks up to you.
"Can you please show me the next thing?"
"There’s a next thing?" His crooked lips tell you he’s messing with you.
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don’t."
"Bucky."
“If you want it that bad, you can say it.”
Trying to glare at him from this angle not only proves to be a minor exercise, but also futile because he just smirks. “Fine. Blowjob. I wanna know how."
He holds your gaze. Then he sits up, which means you sit up too. He's doing that thing where he actually thinks before he opens his mouth. The fact that it’s rarer in people makes you like him a little more. If that’s even possible.
"Okay.”
"Just okay?"
"Did you want a longer answer?"
"Well, for starters, I want to know how to actually do it."
His hand comes to the back of your neck. Before you've worked out what's happening, he's pulling you in. His other hand rests warm on your bare waist as he kisses you. "Sure you want to switch right now?" he asks against your mouth.
"Yes. I've been thinking about it since the handjob."
Something happens to his expression that he doesn't manage to contain. "Have you now?"
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird." He sits back. You feel the absence of his warmth immediately. "Honest explanation or the polished version?"
"Honest, obviously."
"See what gets you a reaction, what doesn't. Same as everything."
"Teeth," you say immediately. "And I don't know what to do with my hands. And how do I even breathe?"
"Don’t forget you have teeth."
"I’m sorry, what?"
"No, I just mean, if you’re just conscious of it — like keep it in the back of your mind, it's gonna be okay. Breathe through your nose. If you need air, just pull off, it’s not a big deal.”
“And what about hands?”
"Base of the cock, whatever you can't reach with your mouth. Or thighs. Both. Whatever feels right." A pause. "It’s okay if you can’t take all of it."
"What if I want to?"
"Then you'll gag and we'll deal with it."
A checklist forms inside your head as he speaks. "Okay but I have a genuine question. It's called a blowjob. But literally no one is blowing anything in the videos I’ve watched. So what is actually happening?"
His mouth opens, and then closes. Then the laugh comes out of him, a real one, helpless, the kind that takes his whole face. Your chest does something embarrassing at that sight.
Framing your face with both hands, the softest kiss is planted on your lips. "You're" kiss "so" kiss "adorable" kiss "y’know" kiss "that?"
Oh God. You’re melting. You’re losing it all. Physically, you can hear your heart melt. But you take his face in your hands right back, mirroring him.
"I" kiss "know."
He grins against your mouth and kisses you properly this time, both thumbs drawing circles at your cheeks.
"Suction," he says when he pulls back. "That's the answer. Suction and tongue. The name's just a name."
"But why is it called that?"
"I — genuinely don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never thought about it."
"How have you never thought about it?"
"Because it's never mattered before."
The way he’s tilting his head tells you he’s at least mildly curious about it. Proving you right, he pulls out his phone.
"Buck. No. Don't google it."
"I have to."
"Bucky—"
He's already reading. His expression cycles between certainty and not quite confusion. "Okay so apparently, there are several competing theories."
"Of course there are."
"One is that it comes from a slang term for the act that has nothing to do with the literal — "
There’s nothing else to do but indulge him. "I don't want competing theories. I want one answer."
"Etymology is rarely that simple."
"Oh my god." You reach over and take the phone out of his hand. He lets you. "You just googled the etymology of blowjob."
"You asked."
"I didn't ask you to do it with that level of academic commitment." You set the phone face-down on the cushion. "Forget it. Never mind."
He's still smiling when he stands up. But the heat has returned, to him, and to you.
What you don’t understand is why he’s standing. “I need you to sit.”
“Why? This’ll be more comfortable for you.”
“I just — I wanna kneel.”
"You don't have to kneel."
"I want to."
"You can do it just as well sitting down, it's easier on your—"
"Buck." You look at him. "I want to kneel."
An exasperated but equally fond sigh leaves him. He reaches back and picks up the throw pillow from the other end of the couch without another word, setting it on the floor in front of where he’ll be sitting.
"Floor's hard," he says.
You don't say anything about that. You just kneel on the pillow and he sits on the edge of the couch. You're struck, not for the first time, by how completely not-strange this is. How it's just him. How that seems to be doing a lot of quiet heavy lifting lately.
When you tug at his sweats, he lifts to make it easier for you. You stare at his dick. His dick stares back at you.
This is also the time you can show him that you’ve indeed learnt something. You start with the grip you know he likes, watching him thicken and pulse under your fingers until he’s rock-hard and leaking.
When you lean in and run your tongue, on the tip, through the slit once, his breath shifts immediately.
His hand immediately flies to your head. You lick the tip again, slower this time, savoring the salty bead that wells up, then drag your tongue along the thick underside, tracing every throbbing vein from root to tip. The weight of him on your tongue feels perfect.
When his hand presses gently at the back of your head, you close your lips over the tip of him and suck, carefully. A whole body jerk accompanies an involuntary sound that he desperately tries to swallow back. You take a little more, tongue working the underside the way he’d said.
As you try to take more, your jaw strains with it. If he’d felt bigger in your hand before, he’s an entirely different story in your mouth. The stretch catches you off guard.
He sees you struggling to take him, and he adjusts your fingers around his length. "Your hand — Whatever your mouth can't cover. That's what it's for."
Mouth on the upper half, hand at the base, you finally find the thing that makes his breath change. The slow drag of your tongue and suction combined makes him shudder, you notice. You do it again. Though they’re held back, the sounds coming out of him make it very difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Atta girl.” It slips out quiet, almost hard to catch.
The words hit low in your belly and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You almost lose your rhythm from merely two words. Chiding yourself, you try to recover. His hips twitch like the praise cost him the last scrap of control he had left.
The idea that you could make him forget himself, make him slip like that, make him say something he wasn't planning on saying.
You want more of that. You want all of that.
As you work him deeper, tongue dragging slow and wet along the underside with every suck, your eyes flick lower without meaning to. His balls are heavy and tight just below where your hand grips the base, skin flushed and drawn up.
It is impossible to ignore now. You pull off.
He makes a sound of protest that is thoroughly undignified.
You glance up at him, lips shiny and breathing hard. “What about… those?” Sucking cock has your voice strained. “Do I — should I do something?”
“You don’t have to,” he says, reading it immediately, breath still ragged.
“But I should know, right?”
“It’s — if you want to, cup them first. Get a sense of it.”
He stands up without a word, feet planted wide in front of the couch, cock jutting out heavy and slick right at eye level. The new angle gives you everything you need.
His balls are warm and soft in your palm, making him go very still. You drag your tongue over them experimentally, feeling them draw tight under the wet heat. “Like this?” you murmur against the sensitive skin.
“God, yeah — fuck,” he breathes, thighs trembling. A raw and surprised groan rips out of him when you take one carefully into your mouth and gently suck. His hand fists tight in your hair and releases. “Christ.”
You switch to the other, licking and sucking with growing confidence, tongue swirling as his breath turns ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it already,” he mutters. “If you don’t want me to blow already, you should come off.”
Satisfied with the way he’s shaking, you reach up and wrap your hand around his cock at the same time, stroking him slowly while your mouth stays sealed around his balls.
His hips jerk hard against your mouth. “Shit — wait—” His fingers slide into your hair and tug you off gently but firmly. “If you keep sucking my balls and jerking me off like that I’m gonna — fuck — cum way too fucking soon. Slow down. Please.”
You pull off from his balls to gently shove him back to the couch. He lands with a soft thud and a groan, and you immediately come back to his cock, lips closing over the head.
This time you don't hold back. You want more of that. More of everything. The sounds of him, the way his control keeps slipping in these small visible ways.
Wet sounds fill the room alongside his ragged breathing. You stop being self-conscious about any of this entirely. Spit on your chin. His hand gripping your hair. You try to take him deeper than you have and it makes you gag, eyes watering. It’s a mess when you do pull off, coughing with tears pricking the corners.
Without a word, his thumb comes to your chin to wipe it. "What did I say?"
"I almost had it."
"You didn't have it."
"I was so close."
"Take me back in your mouth. And stop competing with yourself."
Mouth sliding back down, you take what you can and work what you have. His hips buck upward involuntarily, shoving deeper into your throat for one dizzy second before he catches himself. "Shit — sorry." He forces his ass back down. But the control slips again seconds later, another helpless roll that has you moaning around his cock.
You’re doing this to him.
His hand in your hair is gripping properly now. He says your name and it comes out rough.
Till this time, you were so concentrated on him, you didn’t realise you were dripping wet. Those panties sure are soaked by now.
"Come up." His hand migrates to your shoulder. "Come on, come up."
You don't. You remember his he pulled your hand during the handjob, and you don’t want that to fallen again.
"Baby." The hand tightens. "I mean it — come up —"
It slips out. Just the once, just that word, clearly not planned. You stay where you are and look up at him through your lashes. He forces his eyes to stay open, to keep his gaze on you, but his jaw goes tight and his head drops back. The swear that comes out of him is helpless as his whole body goes rigid and still.
The first hot, thick rope of cum hits the back of your throat, salty and bitter and so fucking him. You swallow it down greedily, sucking harder through every pulsing spurt until he’s shaking and empty.
The taste of him is all over your tongue. "Fuck," his voice is wrecked.
He is a sight as you sit back on your heels.
His chest is heaving. There's a flush across his face and throat. He's looking at you from somewhere between wrecked and something else, something that's been showing up on his face more lately.
"First time, you don't usually swallow. You don't know if you'll like the taste — that's why I was trying to—" He pauses to take a breath. "You should've let me pull you off."
Both of your hands go to his jaw. "Buck." You make him look at you. "I liked it. Very much. Can we do it again?"
Droopy eyes stare back at you, and you generously add, “not right now, obviously."
Something gives in his face and he laughs. His hand comes up to cover both of yours where they're resting on him. Turning his head, he presses his mouth to your palm, warmth transferring from his lips. "Twenty minutes," he says into your hand.
"Fifteen."
"Twenty." A kiss to your palm.
"Seventeen and that's my final offer."
"We can go straight to your cock. I'm ready."
Bucky looks at you. "No, you're not."
"I literally just—"
"Lie down."
There's no room in his voice for the conversation you were about to have. Because you know him well enough, you know that tone means he's already thought about this more than you have. It's annoying. You've gotten used to it. You lie down.
He comes down beside you, and his mouth finds the side of your neck first, and then your jaw. "Have you done this before?"
The audacity of this man. “I’m sorry — If I'd done this before. Why would I be here?"
His lips press somewhere near your ear. "With yourself. Have you touched yourself?"
Oh.
"Yes. Obviously." You didn't mean for the ‘obviously’ to come out quite so defensive.
"This'll be different."
The audacity again. "Yeah, you’re gonna be better —"
"No, I just meant — my fingers are bigger."
Right. You take a breath. He's right, you know he's right. The size, and when you add his experience to the mix... "Okay."
"I want you to show me something first." When you turn to look at him he's already looking at you. He proposes it like it's simple. "How you do it. What you do when you're alone."
The heat that climbs your throat is immediate. "Bucky."
"You don't have to. But it'd be nice if you did."
"No I just —" You press your lips together. It's not that you don't want to. It's just that there's a difference between doing something and doing something with him watching your face for your reaction. "You'll literally be right there."
"That’s kind of the point." A quiet fact.
Working up whatever nerve that requires, you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.
For the first few seconds you're almost entirely in your own head about it, hyperaware of him, of his attention. But your body doesn't especially care about that. It knows what this is. And gradually, the weight of being watched tips over into something else. The sound that comes out of you is not measured.
That’s when you register a movement without fully tracking it. You feel his breath against your inner thigh, you understand he's not beside you anymore, he's between your legs. Right there, watching up close as your hand moves under the thin fabric.
That is a lot of new information at once.
"Take these off." His hand is at the edge of your underwear.
To make it easier, you lift your hips. He drags them down and off in one slow pull and drops them somewhere behind him. The cool air hits your slick folds. But the most striking part of it all is that he's just looking, eyes dark and fixed on the way you're already glistening, the lips of your pussy flushed and wet from your own fingers. “God, I missed her.” The words slip out before he can stop them.
"Did you — did you just call my pussy 'her'?" The question comes out breathless though you're trying to sound sharp. You can't help picking at him even when your thighs are trembling under his hands.
He doesn't answer, so you naturally continue, "you wouldn't let me call your cock 'him'. But now you're out here naming mine like she's an old friend? That's rich." You manage to get the words out, but your voice cracks halfway through, the heat of his stare making it hard to keep the brat in check.
"That was different." The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "But, you can do whatever you want, gorgeous."
Did he just — did he just call you gorgeous and send your nervous system into an overdrive? Or did he call your pussy gorgeous? Sometimes it’s hard to keep track, especially when you’re inches away from losing it.
You try for a comeback, but there’s none, the words dissolve into a shaky moan before they’re even formed. Partly because his thumbs are already spreading you open again, exposing every slick inch to the cool air and his hungry gaze.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He urges your fingers to continue their motion, and you find your clit to work the slow circle you know. His hands stay spread open on your outer lips.
His breath is warm against you and it is genuinely insane how much that alone is doing to you. You can feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze, which is embarrassing, and also apparently fine. Because when he notices, he makes a soft involuntary sound that vibrates right through your core. "Put your finger in for me."
For him.
After a short shaky breath, you work one finger in. The stretch is small and familiar but the sound you make is not.
"Just like that… fuck, look at you." You can feel him looking. Not at your face. "Leave it right there."
His thumbs, on either side of your lips, spread you open gently, slightly more. To look at you, at where your finger disappears inside your dripping pussy, at all of it, up close.
"She's soaking wet already." His thumb sweeps through your folds in one slow drag, collecting the slick until it shines on his skin. "Look at her pulsing for me."
A soft whimper leaves you as you try to keep pumping in and out of you.
“Fingers out.” There’s an urgency to his voice now, eclipsing all softness there was there before.
You draw your hand back, and you're about to just keep going, bring them up, towards you. But his hand closes lightly around your wrist. Redirecting you.
He brings your fingers to his mouth, his lips closing around them, his eyes up and on yours while he sucks. He hums like this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing.
The second he releases your hand, his face descends to your inviting cunt, sealing his mouth over your clit. Your hand goes straight to his hair.
He groans at that, a sound that vibrates all the way through you, and his grip on your thighs tightens in response.
The pain of it, just that slight pull of his hair under your fist, makes him groan again. You save this particular information in the box that’s been filing everything about him for almost many years now.
He licks around your entrance, just teasing, testing, then goes back to your clit. You find yourself trying to grind up into him because your hips seem to have their own agenda now. When you roll up, he adjusts, tilts his head, his hands steady on your thighs, not stopping you.
He looks up at you. Actually holds eye contact while his tongue moves against your clit, which is an absolutely unreasonable thing to do to a person. Your hand tightens in his hair. He makes that sound again.
Mouth wet, he surfaces to rest his chin on your inner thigh for a second. "I'm going to use my fingers now."
"Yes," you say immediately. "Please."
His hand traces down your stomach, two fingers this time, slow through your folds. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing." You’re, in fact, not breathing.
"Are you?"
It’s the second time you’re swallowing your words today. Because he decides to slide one finger through your entrance, no further, just to the first knuckle, and stops.
"You okay?"
The stretch is different from your own. He's right about the size of it. But it's not too much, it's just new, it's just a presence you have to get used to. "Yeah, that's — yeah."
He pushes in slowly and it's very different now. The angle, the size, the fact that it's him and not you and that he's watching your face while he does it, which you are acutely aware of. When he's in fully, he stays there for a moment, unmoving. His thumb brushes over your clit, giving your body something else to focus on.
"Doing so good," he murmurs, as he curls his finger, just slightly, and your back bows off the bed. He does it again, finding the same spot, watching your face with that look of his. Patient. Like he has all the information he needs and is simply using it.
"Bucky—"
"I've got you, baby. You’re so good."
It’s the seventh time he’s called you 'baby'. You’ve tried not counting, but everytime it slips out of him without his knowing, it gets lodged into your brain.
His thumb keeps its steady circles and his finger moves in a slow drag. This is the point at which your body stops taking notes entirely and just exists in what he's doing to it. You pull his hair. He just hisses and keeps going.
"More. Buck — please."
"Yeah? You can take me?"
"Yeah — please—"
He adds the second finger. The stretch makes you grip the sheets, makes a sound come out of you that breaks in the middle. He stills immediately. "Too much?"
"No." The word is out before you've finished thinking it. "No, don't stop."
He works them slowly, both fingers, curling and dragging while his mouth reattaches to your clit. Now, that and doing this at the same time is a lot. It splits your attention in a way that eventually gives up trying to split anything and just becomes one overwhelming thing.
There’s no warning this time, it happens suddenly without any notice, you come with your hand fisted in his hair and your face pressed to his pillow, sound muffled. His mouth works you through it slowly, drawing it out until your thighs are shaking.
When he finally slides his fingers free, you feel their absence immediately.
His lips press a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your pubic bone, and then just below your navel. Your whole body is doing something between boneless and stunned.
When he comes to rest besides you, his mouth finds yours. You can taste yourself on his lips and that is also a sentence you're going to need a moment with.
"You did so good for me," he murmurs against your mouth, and the way he says it is so straightforward. Something behind your sternum goes a little weak. His thumb moves over your cheekbone once. He pulls back to look at you.
You lie there and just try to breathe. He's propped beside you, his hand resting on your stomach, moving with the rise and fall of it.
The lamp in the corner is doing something to the room, making it amber and small.
"You know — you can’t just — just say ‘she’s pretty’ okay? That’s not — it’s not—"
"Mm." He hums to let you fumble through your sentence.
You do. You fumble. "That — that was an incredibly unfair thing to say."
"Was it?"
"Yes!" Then, calming yourself down, "yes."
He laughs, a proper one, and you feel it through his ribcage where your arm is pressed against him. "I'll keep that in mind."
Your heart does something it's been doing more frequently around him lately. It’s a problem you’re currently not equipped to take a closer look at.
Shifting away from his grip, you turn yourself to look at him. The thought that's been in the back of your head for the last twenty minutes makes itself known again. "Please give me your cock."
The remainder of his laugh doesn’t come out.
"Bucky."
"I heard you."
"So—"
Taking your hand, he presses your palm flat against the front of his sweats. Where he’s hard. Properly hard. The heat and the shape of him is undeniable under your touch. "It's all yours."
The air leaves your body. The words leave your brain. All the blood in your entire cardiovascular system reroutes to your face in a single catastrophic second and you stare at his chest because you cannot currently look at him.
"I—" Nothing. You have nothing. Completely blank.
He doesn't move your hand away. If anything, he tightens his grip, just lets it sit there under his, while you attempt to reconstruct language.
"That's—" The warmth of him through the fabric is not helping. "You're—"
"Yeah." You don’t know what you were about to say, so you don’t know what he’s actually agreeing to. But he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that.
The smugness is radiating off him, and your voice comes out appropriately three times higher than usual, "I wasn't — I wasn't ready for that."
"You asked."
"I know I asked." Your face is genuinely so warm right now. "I asked and you—" You make a vague gesture with your free hand. "You can’t just — just do that ‘cause I asked."
The completely insufferable almost-smile at the corner of his mouth could power a city. He is enjoying every second of this.
"Stop looking at me like that," you tell his clavicle, because you still cannot bring yourself to look at him. Especially since your hand is enveloping his crotch, both enveloped by his own hand.
"I'm not doing anything."
You risk looking at his face, which is a mistake, because the expression on it is fond in a way that completely destroys you. You bring yourself to look back at his clavicle.
His thumb makes one small stroke over your knuckles, where your hand is still pressed to him, still warm, and you feel it in your whole chest.
The gesture is less reassuring than it should be.
Before you can process what’s happening, he shifts. Sits up properly, back against the headboard. His arm goes around your waist.
One smooth pull, barely any effort in it, and you're up — actually off the mattress for half a second — and then you're over him, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his hips.
The logistics of it take a moment to catch up with your brain. You're straddling him. You're bare from the waist down and he's still in his sweats and you're straddling him.
You’re also not fully dropping your weight on him, just hovering, thighs tight with the effort of not fully sitting.
"Sit down." His hands rest at your hips, thumbs at the crease where thigh meets the curve of your ass.
"Bucky, I — I'm going to crush him."
Bucky sighs like a patient man, who’s tired of hearing the same thing for the hundredth time. "You're not going to crush him."
"I'm serious, Bucky—"
"So am I. Sit."
You try. That's the thing, you genuinely try. You shift your weight, start to lower yourself, and then the thick line of him presses up against you, the fear of crushing little Bucky surfaces again. You can feel him there, right there, even through the fabric, even from an inch away, and your nervous system is having a full board meeting about the implications of closing that distance. What if you actually crush him?
"Still hovering," he observes.
"I'm trying."
"You're not going to crush me."
"You don't know that."
"I do, in fact, know that. I’m the experienced one, remember?"
Let there be a single moment where he doesn’t remind you of his sexual escapades. You almost consider retaliating by putting all of your weight on him in one go, but you need this guy, you need his cock.
"Shut — shut up."
"Sit down."
"Bucky."
"Sit."
You make an undignified noise at him. He looks back at you like he’s content to simply wait, which he will, indefinitely, and you both know it.
But like everything with Bucky, he surprises you. One slow slide of his hand, down between your bodies, and his thumb finds your clit. It’s one light flick, barely anything. But your hips betray you completely. Your knees buckle and you drop fully.
The sound you make when you land on him is not something you'll be repeating in polite company.
The rough fabric of his sweats drags through your folds and presses flush against you. Your brain, which had been managing perfectly well up until thirty seconds ago, simply stops.
His cock is right there, thick and hard under the thin cotton, pressed directly against your clit, and you are bare, not to mention wet and sitting on him.
The moan that comes out of you has his name in it and very little else.
"Good girl. There you go."
You grab his shoulders. Mostly for something to hold onto, partly because the alternative is floating off the bed entirely.
"Bucky—"
"Feel that?"
You feel absolutely nothing but that, actually. The pressure alone is making your thoughts go sideways. Your hips twitch, chasing it without permission.
His jaw goes tight and he tips his head back against the headboard for one unguarded moment before he levels out again.
His mouth finds your neck immediately. Open, dragging up toward your jaw and back down while one hand palms your breast, thumb working your nipple in slow circles until it aches. You press into his lap, just slightly, and feel him exhale through his nose.
"What are you—" Your own voice comes out strange. "Bucky, if you don't stop—"
"Don't stop what?" He says it against your throat.
"That. All of — just. Don't stop."
He laughs, low, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You want me to stop or not?"
"I want — stop asking me questions."
"Alright." He switches to the other side of your neck and you stop being able to track the conversation.
The thing is, every tiny shift you make drags your pussy across the front of his sweats. The friction is wet and warm and you are not entirely in control of your hips anymore. You rock forward, without even deciding to, and the pressure catches your clit just right and makes your teeth snap shut.
"Let's try something," he says.
You're mostly liquid at this point. "What?" It comes out slurred, half a word, because his cock is pressing exactly where it shouldn't be. He's also got his mouth on the underside of your jaw and your nipple is between his fingers. It's just a lot of ongoing information for your head to process.
He looks at you. His cheeks are already flushed and his eyes have gone the dark kind of blue. "Grind on me."
What?
You just stare at him, hoping he’d give you something more than that.
"Like this." His hands settle on your hips, guiding you. Forward, then back. Your clit drags across the ridge of him, making you bury your face in his neck. "Bucky—"
"Again." His hands repeat it. The same rhythm, forward and back. The fabric is already damp from you and the drag of it is obscene. "You feel that?"
You feel it fucking everywhere. "Yes."
"Just like that."
He keeps his hands on your hips for a few more strokes, setting the pace. Then lets go, one of them migrating to your nipple, the other to your back. Which means you have to do this yourself, in front of him, consciously.
But soon enough, your hips find the drag again and the self-consciousness evaporates.
"There it is.”
The sounds you’re making are nowhere in your control. Small and helpless but rhythmic with your hips. And you can't locate any part of yourself that cares. His hand at your back presses you closer, and the extra pressure makes your breath hitch.
"You're soaking through my sweats," he says into your hair. He sounds ruined by this. "D'you know that? Can feel you through the fabric."
The fact that he's saying this out loud makes you grind harder and your moan is muffled against his neck.
"That's good, yeah." His voice has shed several layers of composure. "Keep going."
His breathing has changed underneath you, shorter, less controlled. With his chest rising and falling faster, you understand you’re taking him apart the same way he's been taking you apart this whole time.
There was some point where his attention, his hands, his mouth, all of it were directed at you, for you to learn. But it’s changed now. It definitely goes both ways. You can feel that now under your hips, in the way his hands are gripping you, grabbing your skin for more. It’s becoming less and less like a teacher.
It’s more like a person who is losing his grip on something. On several somethings.
An urgency finds you now, pace picking up solely because you need to see him as flustered as you are.
"Fuck—" His voice is strangled. "Slow—"
You don't slow down. Your hips have their own agenda now, chasing something that's pulling tight and urgent in your stomach. Bucky's hands flex at your waist but they don't actually stop you, just hold on.
You're close. You know you're close because the friction has gone from good to unbearable in the space of about thirty seconds and your thighs are shaking and his name keeps coming out of you between breaths like punctuation.
"Bucky — I'm — don't—"
"I'm not going anywhere." Still ragged. His hand moves up your back, into your hair, just holding. "Cum for me."
Stuttering, your hips grind down one last time as your orgasm crashes through in waves. You feel him shudder underneath you, his grip tightening, his whole body going rigid.
Breathing his name into his shoulder, you both stay in a limbo.
When you finally manage to open your eyes and lift your head, he's flushed. His neck and his cheeks and the top of his chest. Hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, he’s breathing like he’s run across the campus.
Something clicks when your gaze travels between his face and the dark, obvious wet patch spreading across his sweats.
"Did you—"
His ears go pink. That alone is enough to confirm it.
"Bucky. Did you just—"
"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I did." The tips of his ears are genuinely red and you've never seen this on him before. "I came in my sweats, yes, you don't have to—"
"You came in your sweats."
"I'm aware of what happened."
"Without me even—" You gesture at the general situation. "I was just sitting there."
"You were not just sitting there," he says, slightly pained. "You were. Doing all of that. For quite a while. And you're — " He stops himself, something crossing his face that he seems to decide against finishing.
The laugh starts somewhere in your chest and works its way up before you can stop it. Helpless, falling out of you. You press your hand to your mouth but it's already too late.
"Go on. Get it out." He says dryly.
"I'm not—" You're laughing properly now, shoulders shaking. You can hear him hiss when you shift, your hips rolling just a fraction with the laugh, because your body hasn’t figured out how to stay still yet. The sound he makes is raw, like it got dragged out of him against his will.
“Fuck — give me a minute, baby, please,” he breathes, one hand clamping down on your hip to hold you there. Freezing you in place. His eyes are squeezed shut now.
“Shit, sorry—” the laughter dies in your throat.
“Don’t be.” He exhales, eyes cracking open again. They’re still glassy, that post-cum haze making the blue look almost black. “I’m just… over-sensitive right now. You moved and it’s—” Another small hiss when you breathe too hard. “Yeah. That.”
You bite your lip, trying not to smile again even though the whole thing is kind of hilarious and kind of hot at the same time.
His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips. You feel the way his cock is still half-hard underneath all that mess, twitching every time your weight settles.
You trace a finger along the side of his neck, right where his pulse is jumping. “Can I… give you a hickey? Just one. Or two.”
His head tips back against the headboard so he can look at you properly. The corner of his mouth lifts, tired but fond. “Hickey?”
“Yeah… I’ve always wanted to…” you trail off.
“Have at it,” he makes space for your mouth, titling his head to one side.
Immediately, you lean in and press your mouth to the spot just under his jaw, sucking slowly at first, letting your tongue drag over the skin until you feel him swallow hard. He tastes like salt and musk. Pulling back just enough, you see the little red bloom starting, then move lower, right where his neck meets his shoulder, and do it again. Teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth in a completely different way.
His hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Mark me up, gorgeous.”
So, you are gorgeous.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Next Part
EXTRAS. Thank you for reading. Hope that wasn’t just porn without plot. Last part will be up next Thursday.
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TOSHINORISBABY’S MONSTER MARCH 2026
👹 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 ⋮ ´ཀ` 𝕾𝖚𝖈𝖈𝖚𝖇𝖚𝖘/𝕴𝖓𝖈𝖚𝖇𝖚𝖘 ´ཀ` .⋆♱ Megumi Fushiguro - Jujutsu Kaisen ♱⋆.
MONSTER MARCH MASTERLIST | 2026 | JUJUTSU KAISEN MASTERLIST Hosted by @monstermarchevent [A03] [Fanfiction.net] [Wattpad]
Wretched Love (3.2k words) Megumi Fushiguro x Reader
summary: Megumi Fushiguro is dead, and you are left with the regret of everything you never said. Three weeks later, something crawls out of the dark and answers to his name. You don’t know what came back. You only know you let it touch you.
warnings/themes: Reader Insert, Sorcerer!Reader, Succubi/Incubu!AU, Demon/Human Relationships, Major Character Death, Monsterfucking/Teratophilia, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Mild Blood, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus/Oral Sex, Come Marking, Light Body Horror, Mildly Dubious Consent, Fear Play, Canon Divergence.
Sleep won’t hold.
Every time you shut your eyes, your mind throws the same scraps back at you in a different order, as if rearranging them might make any of it easier to bear. Megumi on the training grounds with his hands in his pockets, saying something dry enough to make Nobara snort. Megumi in the middle of a fight, face set, blood at the corner of his mouth, still thinking three moves ahead. Megumi pinching his nose and shaking his head when Gojo was talking too much. Megumi standing beside you after a mission... saying almost nothing at all and yet somehow still making the silence feel better instead of worse.
Then the memory tilts, darkens, curdles.
You see the mission report in your mind. The words ‘Confirmed Deceased’ typed in a font that looked far too clinical for the boy who used to feed the stray cats behind the dorms.
You turn onto your side and drag the blanket higher, staring at the grey-black grain of the wooden floorboards. The dorm feels too quiet. Jujutsu High is never truly silent—pipes knock, old wood settles, someone is always awake somewhere—but grief has its own acoustics. It makes every building feel abandoned. It makes even your own breathing sound intrusive.
You squeeze your eyes shut, the pressure of unshed tears making your head ache. You shouldn’t be alone with this tonight. You know that much. You know enough about shock, about the way sorcerers keep moving until the body gives up and the mind catches up even meaner than before. You know enough to recognise all of these bad signs in yourself.
You also know there is no one here that you want company from.
Gojo with his brittle brightness. Yuji with that terrible, earnest look in his eyes. All these people, kind enough to ask the questions you can’t answer.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.
You weren’t there. You were three wards away, exorcising a Grade 2 that didn’t matter. You didn’t see him fall. You didn’t see the way the life left those dusk-blue eyes.
The curse that killed him had something strange about it. That much filtered back through the reports, through the gaps in what people thought they were sparing you by not saying. Compulsion. Desire. Hallucination. Something ugly and intimate folded into its technique. You shut that line of thought down as soon as it starts. You don’t want to picture his last fight warped by anything that disturbing.
Your throat aches.
The worst part is not even the death. It’s the way your mind keeps reaching backwards, petty and pathetic, gathering up every second you didn’t say what you wanted. Every time you almost did. Every moment where something in his face softened, and you pretended not to notice because pretending was easier than ruining what you had.
You had made peace with wanting him in private. Then he died, and now the wanting has nowhere left to go. It just circles and circles inside you; a trapped thing looking for a way out.
You press the heel of your hand to your eyes until colour sparks behind them.
When you finally drift off, it comes with the blunt force of exhaustion.
The sound that wakes you is small—a pressure against the bedframe, a soft drag. Your eyes snap open.
You’re upright before you are fully conscious, cursed energy throbbing through your veins on instinct. Your hand closes around the knife on the bedside table. The room is dark enough that the corners are smudged together, moonlight barely making it through the curtains, but you know this room. Door to the left. Window latched. Wardrobe opposite. Desk by the radiator.
Someone is sitting at the end of your bed.
For one blind second, your body reacts before your mind does. Then, your thoughts catch up all at once and leave you cold.
No.
You don’t need to look twice to know who it is. He is sitting with one knee drawn up, one hand braced against the mattress. He’s shirtless, and the sight of his collarbones makes something helpless in you give way. But the outline of him isn’t clean. Black vapour unravels from his shoulders and arms, thinning and thickening like ink dropped in water. It curls at the edges of him instead of drifting away.
You grip the knife harder. Your training tries to reassert itself. Post-traumatic manifestation? Residual curse technique feeding off grief? Your own brain finally giving out?
"Megumi?" You say, and your voice comes out thin.
He doesn’t look at you yet. He just shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight. It’s the sound of the springs that makes you realise—the mundane, physical reality of the noise.
Hallucinations don’t make the springs creak.
"Fushiguro?"
He turns his head.
Even in the dark, you know the arrangement of that face better than you should. The sharp line of his jaw. The restless spikes of his hair. The mouth that always looked on the verge of disapproval, even when he was saying nothing at all.
It’s him. And it’s not.
His skin looks almost overheated, a fever-bright flush under the dim moonlight. His eyes catch the dark and hold it with a dull red glimmer that should not be there.
"Yeah," he says.
A breath leaves your lungs with a shuddering, jagged heave.
It’s his voice. Lower, roughened, but still his. Not some imitation; the flat mockery curses manage when they steal what they don’t understand. It lands in you with a sick force of recognition.
You swallow and force your hand to steady. "You died."
His expression does something strange then—barely anything at all, just a faint tension around the mouth, a flicker low in his eyes.
"I know."
Panic arrives late and ugly. You throw the blanket aside and shift back, knife lifted.
"What are you?"
He doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to the blade, then back to your face.
The mattress dips. He moves onto his hands and knees and starts crawling toward you. It’s an animalistic motion, his palms flat against the duvet, his knees bracketed on either side of your legs. Every nerve in your body goes taut.
You push farther back until your shoulders hit the headboard. "Stop."
He does stop, but only because he is close enough now that you can feel heat coming off him in slow waves. It rolls over your skin, wrong for the middle of the night, wrong for spring, wrong for anything human. You can see more of him with each second. The shape of his chest. Marks in the hollows beneath his ribs, shadows that don’t belong to this world.
You force yourself to look higher.
His eyes burn dim red in the dark.
Something catches the moonlight in his hair. At first, you think it’s moisture, sweat, some trick of the angle, and then you see the shape of it. Black curves push through at the edge of his hairline, too solid to be imagined. They’re small, barely an inch high, but they are unmistakably growing horns; tiny and cruelly neat against the familiar mess of his hair.
Your stomach drops.
"Get out," you say, and hate how badly you want the opposite.
He leans in. You smell smoke on him, and burning, and something darker underneath that makes your pulse jump for reasons you refuse to think about. He pauses just short of touching you. There’s a moment, terrible in its quiet, where you can study him from inches away. The same face you have looked at across classrooms and rooftops and mission sites. The lashes dark against his cheeks. The mouth you never kissed. The eyes that no longer belong in any human head.
Then he puts one hand against your thigh.
The contact hits you like stepping barefoot into hot water. You jerk and nearly slash him by reflex, but his other hand closes around your wrist before you can strike. His grip is burning. It sends a jolt all the way up your arm.
"Megumi—"
He kisses you.
Your mouth has answers you don’t have time to trust. You’ve spent three weeks wishing for one more second with him. You’ve spent years wanting the weight of his body on yours. The grief and the lust tangle together, a suffocating knot in your throat, and your mind blanks.
That is all the opening he needs. He pushes in close, body crowding yours into the headboard, vapour and heat and solid weight tangling together until you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.
His hand slides from your wrist to your jaw, thumb braced under your chin. You try to turn away enough to speak. "What happened to you?"
His mouth drags from yours to the corner of it, then lower, along your throat. The answer, when it comes, is quiet enough that you almost miss it. "Dunno."
You shut your eyes.
His mouth moves over you with ugly devotion, kissing and biting and breathing your name into your skin as though it's the only word he has left. His hands roam without patience, spanning your waist, your stomach, your ribs, as if touch itself is the purpose and not what comes after.
It should be easier to fight. It should be easier to throw him off, to call for help, to treat this like any other curse-shaped thing that has crawled where it doesn’t belong. Instead, your hands betray you. One catches in his hair before you can stop it. The shape of one of the small horns presses into your palm. Real. Warm. Fresh enough that the skin at its base feels tender.
When his head dips between your legs, you make a sound you would rather die than hear come out of yourself.
He looks up.
For one devastating instant, there is something in his face that is so familiar it almost buckles you. Not softness—Megumi was never really soft, not in any easy way—but focus. That severe, intent concentration he brought to everything he cared about. It’s there, and it’s twisted, lit from behind by something ravenous.
Your body answers before your pride can stop it.
"You wanted this," he says, his voice deep and resonating.
The shame of it goes through you so fast that it turns into anger. "I wanted you."
The red of his eyes flares brighter. A strange, brief stillness goes through him at that. Then his head drops and his mouth finds you again with new force, as if the words have fed something as surely as anything else could.
His tongue is relentless. He eats you as though he’s trying to consume your very essence, his face pressed hard between your thighs. He sucks at your clit with an intensity that, in any other context, could be described as generosity. The room tilts around the edges. Your knife is gone; you don’t remember losing it. The blankets are twisted around your legs. Every place his hands land becomes too hot, too real.
"I’m... coming," you moan, your back arching off the bed.
The pleasure is a sharp, agonising peak. As you tip over the edge, his hands clamp down on your stomach.
Pain cuts through the daze.
You gasp and look down. Dark marks rise across your stomach in crooked lines where his claws have scored four shallow welts into your skin. Deep enough to sting. Deep enough to make the truth of his new body impossible to ignore.
There is blood on his hands. Fear returns in a rush.
His head lifts. His mouth is wet. His pupils have swallowed what little red you could see. He doesn’t even look at the marks he’s made. He shoves himself back up, his body a dark weight over yours. He’s massive; his cock, now free, is a dark, swollen thing that looks too large for a human frame, pulsing with a visible heat.
"Megumi," you say again, but this time it's a plea.
He stares at you, breathing hard. Smoke leaks off his shoulders in torn ribbons, thicker now, as if his arousal is feeding it. His hand flexes once against your side, claws catching in the shirt. Then he bows over you and buries his face against your neck with a rough sound that feels torn out of him. The closest thing to despair you have heard all night.
That is what undoes you. Not the heat. Not his mouth. Not even his face. That.
Your arms go around him on instinct. For half a second, he freezes as though he has never been held before, or has forgotten how. Then he crushes you down into the mattress with a violence that is almost panic. He grabs your knees, shoving them toward your chest. Your breath leaves you. His body settles between your legs, heavy and scorching, and the world narrows to impact and pressure and the maddening fact that this shape is still his, this shoulder, this throat, this scar, this horrible, lovely, impossible outline.
When he enters you for the first time, it is shallow and testing. The second time is deeper, and you register the jut of his hipbone, the hardness of him where skin is still human.
What follows is not tender. It is not the thing you used to picture when sleep wouldn’t come, and you let yourself be weak in private. It’s rough, relentless, driven by an appetite that keeps slipping its leash. He says things you have never imagined him saying; filthy, broken things in a voice you know too well, and each word lands between your ribs like a blade turned slowly. His hands pin your wrists above your head, but he doesn’t need to hold you down. You stay, because staying is an answer you have kept in reserve for months.
You hold on where you can. His back. His shoulders. The smoke-slick edges of him when he starts to blur and reform under your hands. He leaves marks everywhere. Claw marks under your ribs, at your hip, high on your thigh. It hurts. It pleases. The two are braided together in a way that makes you dizzy.
"You’ve been calling for me for weeks," he snarls, his pace increasing until the bedframe is slamming against the wall with every thrust. He isn’t just fucking you; he’s trying to break you. His hands find your breasts, his claws raking over your nipples, leaving more stinging lines in their wake. "You didn’t stop wanting me just because I died."
You can’t look away. You’re trapped in the gravity of those red eyes. His skin stays blistering hot. When you scrape your nails down his back, he makes a strangled sound and drives you harder into the mattress, as though pain helps anchor him in whatever body this is. His hands move to your throat, not to choke, but to hold you still as he hammers into you.
You feel your orgasm building again, a secondary wave that might shatter you entirely. Distantly, you realise that he seems to be swelling inside you, getting larger, firmer, until he’s filling every inch of your lower body.
It becomes too much. Then it keeps going.
"More," he demands, his hips snapping forward with a violence that makes your teeth rattle.
He hits your cervix, a hard, dull thud that makes your eyes roll back. It’s a deep, invasive ache, but the pleasure is so thick it’s drowning you. Your thoughts come apart. Grief, want, fear, memory. His face: younger, alive, standing beside you in the rain, looking at you across a mission report, wanting to say something and then deciding against it. The thing over you now has that same face sharpened into something infernal and starving. Stripped of every restraint he ever had. You cannot tell whether letting this happen is surrender or punishment.
Still: "Don’t stop," you find yourself sobbing, "Don’t leave. Please don’t go back."
When you reach for him near the end, it is not to claw, it’s to touch his cheek. A stupid, aching instinct. The one that survived all the rest.
His head jerks, eyes fixing on yours. For the first time all night, everything in him stills.
You think, idiotically, hopefully, that this is the moment something human might break through. That he might lean into your hand. That he might finally look like the boy you loved instead of whatever this thing is, wearing his ruin.
Instead, the red in his eyes sparks bright enough to sear your retinas.
The room floods with shadow.
It is not the soft, private end you have imagined on better nights. It’s scalding and thick and obscene, filling you to the point of bursting. For a skewed second, you panic; the heat seems to spread under your skin like liquid metal. There is so much of it that it spills over, running down your thighs and onto the sheets, left as sticky, steaming evidence. He goes rigid above you with a sound dragged from somewhere deep and wrong, and then the pressure is gone so fast it feels like falling.
You gasp and grab at empty air.
The mattress beneath you is still dented with his weight. Then that too begins to ease.
There is no sound of him leaving. No footsteps. No window opening. One blink, he is there, smoke curling from his shoulders, mouth parted, eyes blazing down at you. The next, there is nothing.
Nothing but your room.
Your curtains stir slightly in a draft from the radiator. Your blanket is still tangled at your knees. The knife lies on the floor beside the bed.
You stay exactly where you are. Your hand is still raised, fingers curved around the shape of a face that is no longer there.
Slowly, horribly, the quiet comes back.
All except for your own breathing, ragged and thin and human.
You look at the end of the bed.
Empty.
You look at the marks on your body.
Still there. Stinging.
The warmth between your thighs, too. Already cooling into something you don’t want to think about.
Your throat closes.
Was it him? Was there a piece of his soul trapped in that shadow, or was it just a cruel echo, a puppet made of his suppressed desires and your own grief? You do not know. The room gives you no answer. Neither does your body.
You curl onto your side because you cannot bear to stay on your back another second. The sheets still smell faintly of smoke. The ache in your chest—the jagged, unfinished love you have for a dead man—comes back with a vengeance. You press your face into the pillow, inhaling the inhuman scent, and shut your eyes.
It only makes him easier to see.
Bestie benefits
pairing : bestfriend gojo x reader
synopsis : satoru gojo has never been great at respecting boundaries—especially when it comes to you. And tonight, with the house empty and a stupid little deal between you two… he might finally push things a little too far. afterall, best friends are supposed to help each other out, right?
content warning : 18+ only • MDNI • explicit sexual content • best friends to ??? • dubcon/coercion vibes • begging + manipulation • semi-public risk • cum play • no actual penetration • heavy dirty talk • Satoru Gojo being an absolute menace.
Satoru Gojo has been your best friend since you were both knee-high brats terrorizing the playground. Back then, it was all innocent chaos, fighting over swings, playing tag until you were both sweaty and breathless, sharing secrets under the slide and so on. Y'all were always together. He was always the touchy one, even then—demanding hugs that crushed the air out of you, planting sloppy kisses on your cheeks that left you giggling and wiping your face.
"C'mon, just one more!" he'd whine, latching onto you like a goddamn koala, refusing to let go until you gave in. That was Satoru. Clingy as fuck, but in a way that made you feel like the center of his damn universe.
But then puberty hit him like a freight train, and suddenly that touchy bullshit escalated. His hands lingered a little too long on your waist during those "friendly" hugs, his body pressing just a bit closer than necessary when you'd crash on the couch after a long day. Not that you'd complain outright—hell, being this close to a guy like Satoru Gojo? Other girls would kill for it.
They drooled over him, whispering in the halls about his stupidly perfect face, that cocky grin, those piercing blue eyes hidden behind his shades that could make anyone weak in the knees. But no, his gaze was always locked on you, like you were the only thing worth looking at in this whole world.
It was flattering, sure, but goddamn annoying too. The way he'd wrap his strong arms around you from behind while you were trying to study, his chin resting on your shoulder, breath hot against your ear as he murmured some bullshit excuse like, "I'm cold, warm me up." Or how he'd flop onto your bed uninvited, pulling you down with him for "cuddles" that felt less like friendship and more like foreplay you weren't ready to acknowledge.
Even though he played it all cute and innocent, batting those long lashes, pouting like a kicked puppy—there wasn't a single ounce of purity behind those pretty blue eyes.
You could see it, the way they'd darken just a fraction when his fingers brushed your skin, the subtle shift in his smirk when you'd shove him away half-heartedly.
Lately, it's gotten worse. He started showing up at your house whenever your parents were out, like he had some sixth sense for when you'd be alone.
"Just checking on my bestie," he'd say with that shit-eating grin, letting himself in without knocking. And before you knew it, he'd be all over you, cuddly as hell, arms draped around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your neck.
"Gimme a kiss on the cheek? For old times' sake?" he'd beg, voice all sugary sweet, like you were still kids trading playground pecks. You'd roll your eyes and give him a light slap on the arm, muttering, "Grow up, Satoru," but he'd just laugh, pulling you closer anyway, his body heat seeping through your clothes in a way that made your pulse stutter.
Today was no fucking different. Your parents had barely pulled out of the driveway before there was a knock—more like a rhythmic tap that you knew all too well. You opened the door, and there he was, Satoru in all his glory: tall, pretty and his white hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed, shades perched low on his nose so those electric blue eyes could peek over them and lock onto yours.
"Miss me?" he drawled, stepping inside without waiting for an invite, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately. God knows how he always found out when you were alone—who's spying on you?—but none of that mattered now. He kicked off his shoes, sauntered into the living room like he owned the place, and plopped down on the couch, patting the spot next to him.
"C'mere, we've got the whole house to ourselves. Perfect for some quality time."
You huffed, crossing your arms, but followed anyway because resisting Satoru was like trying to push back a tidal wave.
"Quality time? You mean you annoying the shit out of me?"
He just grinned wider, reaching out to tug you down beside him, his arm slinging over your shoulders possessively. For a while, it was the usual, him yapping about some game he'd crushed effortlessly, you half-listening while scrolling on your phone, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm that sent unwelcome tingles down your spine.
But then the remote became the battlefield. You wanted to binge your favorite anime. But Satoru? Oh, he had other ideas.
"Nah, let's watch something real fun," he said, snatching the remote from your hand with that infuriating speed of his. You lunged for it, but he held it high, laughing as you climbed half onto him, your chest pressing against his in the scramble.
"Give it back, you asshole!" you growled, fingers clawing at his arm while he leaned back, remote dangling just out of reach. His free hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard lines of his body under that thin shirt—muscles honed from years of whatever boring sports he do.
"C'mon, don't be like that," he teased, voice dropping an octave, breath fanning over your ear. "You know you love it when we fight like this."
You slapped his chest lightly, but he just chuckled, low and throaty, his eyes gleaming with that not-so-innocent spark. He wasn't budging with that damn remote, holding it up like a trophy while you squirmed against him, your body unintentionally grinding against him in the struggle.
"Fine, you wanna play fair?" you snapped, breathless from the tussle, your heart pounding from more than just the fight. "Rock-paper-scissors. Best of five. Winner gets the remote."
Satoru's eyes lit up like you'd just handed him the keys to heaven, that predatory gleam flashing behind his shades. "Oh, you're on, baby. But you know I always win."
He finally lowered his arm, sits down on the couch with you, his free hand casually resting on your thigh like it belonged there. "Ready? Rock... paper... scissors—shoot!"
**********
Well, long story short, you lost. He wrapped you up easy.
"Told ya. I always win." He yanked you fully into his lap then, arranging you between his spread legs on the couch, your back flush against his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder possessively.
"Now, be a good loser and pout all pretty for me while I pick."
You crossed your arms, lips jutting out in a genuine sulk as he flicked through channels, his body heat enveloping you like a cage you didn't hate being in.
Click, click—some old action flick, nah. Reality trash, skip. Then he landed on something, settling back with a satisfied hum. The title flashed: some low-budget rom-com you'd never heard of.
"What the hell even is this?" you protested, twisting to glare at him. "I've never seen this crap. Change it back, you cheat."
Satoru just chuckled, turning your face forward with a finger under your chin before leaning in and planting a wet, sloppy kiss right on your cheek—loud and obnoxious, his lips lingering a second too long.
"Shhh, just watch. You'll like it, promise." His voice was all mock-innocence, but the way his arms tightened around your waist said otherwise. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, grumbling, but stayed put, trapped in his hold.
**********
The movie rolled on, and god, it was cringe as fuck—dialogues that sounded like they were written by a horny teenager, acting so bad you wanted to vomit. The plot? Some bullshit about a guy chasing a girl in a big city, so much flirting and fake laughs.
"How the hell are you into this shit?" you said, sneaking a glance at Satoru, who was grinning like an idiot, his fingers idly drumming on your sides. "This is torture."
But then, a few minutes in, the vibe shifted. The guy and girl on screen started getting handsy, kissing turning heated, hands roaming under shirts, the camera panning suggestively.
"Ewwww, Satoru, change it," you whined, squirming in his lap. "What the fuck are they doing? This is gross."
He laughed, breath fanning your ear as he held you tighter. "Come on, don't be such a prude. It's just normal shit. What's the big deal? You've seen worse."
His voice dropped, teasing. "Or are you telling me you've never watched anything like this before?"
"Ugh, just stop it, Satoru." You dismissed him with an eyeroll.
The scenes ramped up, nasty and unfiltered, the guy pinning the girl against a wall, her moans echoing through the speakers as he sucked on her neck, hands yanking at clothes. Tongues tangling sloppily, hips grinding, the camera zooming in on her tits heaving under his grip.
You shifted uncomfortably, a tingle sparking between your legs, heat pooling in your core despite yourself. Fuck, why was this turning you on? And then—
Satoru's hands moved. He was still hugging you from behind, but now those long fingers slid down, settling on both of your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh before inching inward, gripping your inner thighs hard enough to make you gasp.
"T... Toru..." you stammered, voice shaky as his touch sent jolts straight to your pussy. "What're you doing?"
"Me? Nothing, just... getting comfy," he murmured, all innocent-like, but his palms were hot, fingers digging in possessively. And then you felt it—his cock, hard and throbbing, pressing insistently against your lower back through his pants. Thick, insistent, twitching slightly as you shifted.
"It's... y-your..." you whispered, cheeks burning, trying to wriggle free. "Let me go..." Your hands pushed at his wrists, but fuck, he was strong—unyielding, like trying to move a mountain.
"Just... don't mind that," he breathed, voice huskier now, his chin nuzzling into your shoulder. "It's nothing, really. Happens sometimes."
"Satoru... this is..." You trailed off, pulse racing, the movie's moans filling the room like background porn.
"Y/n..." He paused, lips brushing your ear. "Can I ask you for a favor? Please?"
"W-what?" you managed, voice barely above a whisper, your thighs clenching involuntarily under his grip.
"Can I... can I see it? Please?" His words hung there, bold as fuck.
"See what?" you echoed, thinking about all the possibilities this moron could've come up with, even as your heart hammered.
His hands wandered then, one sliding up your thigh, thumb pressing right over your pussy through your clothes—firm, deliberate, rubbing in a slow circle that made you bite your lip. "Here... wanna see it. Your pussy. Just a peek."
You couldn't believe the audacity, this cocky bastard asking straight out like that, but god, it made your core throb, heat flooding your panties, clit pulsing under his thumb. "Satoru, what the fuck? You better be joking, you fuckin' perv..."
"No, I'm not," he whined, shifting to pouty mode instantly, lips brushing your neck as he nuzzled closer. "I just wanna see it, I swear I won't do anything else. Please? I haven't seen one in real life, that's why. Come on, Y/n, don't be selfish—you love me, right? This is what best friends do, help eachother."
You scoffed, but your body betrayed you, hips twitching slightly into his touch. "Best friends don't ask to see each other's... fuck, Satoru, that's not normal."
He amped up the whine, getting all desperate and whiny, voice cracking like he was begging for his life. "Please, please, please, please, please, Y/n—I'm begging you. Just let me look. It'll be quick, I promise. You're my bestie, come on help me out. Don't make me suffer like this..."
All the while, his hand stayed between your legs, gently patting your pussy over the fabric, soft, rhythmic taps that had you soaking through your panties, the lewd squish almost audible in the quiet room.
You couldn't take it anymore, the pressure building, his hardness digging into your back, the movie's filthy sounds egging it on. "F... fine. Just looking. Nothing else."
He lit up like Christmas, rewarding you with a sloppy, wet kiss on your neck—tongue flicking out to taste your skin. "Ahhh, Y/n, I fuckin' love you. You're the best friend ever."
**********
You don't know what the fuck made you agree to this bullshit, but here you are, sprawled on the couch like a goddamn offering, knees hiked up to your tits, thighs spread wide open in a filthy V that leaves nothing to the imagination. Your shorts are tossed aside on the floor like forgotten trash, and your pussy—oh, it's throbbing, slick and desperate—clings to the thin, soaked fabric of your panties for dear life, the cotton molded to your folds like a second skin, outlining every swollen inch of your cunt.
Satoru's on his knees right between your legs, towering over you even like this, his blue eyes locked on your core with a hunger that makes your stomach twist. His Adam's apple bobs hard as he swallows, like he's starving and you're the meal.
"Y/n, please... come on, just one look," he begs, voice rough and needy, hands hovering but not quite touching yet.
"F... fine," you mutter, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down slowly, the cool air hitting your wet heat like a slap. But instinct kicks in, and you slap a hand over your exposed pussy, covering the slick lips as doubt floods you. "Satoru, no... this is... this won't happen—"
"No, no, no, Y/n, please don't say that," he whines, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting over your thighs, making your clit twitch under your palm. "You promised, come on..."
Well, fuck it—you were gonna show your fuckin' pussy to this maniac anyway, might as well get something out of it. "On a condition, then."
"What's it? What's the condition? I'll do anything," he blurts, eyes flicking up to yours, desperate and wild.
"Fine... uhm, buy me a new phone. The one like yours—the latest model."
"That's it? God, Y/n, I'll buy you ten phones like that, alright? I'll get you the whole damn store. Now just show me, please..." His voice cracks on the plea, and when you finally look at him—really look—you see it: eyes half-hooded with lust, those pretty blues glazed over, his grey sweatpants tented obscenely with his fat cock straining against the fabric, a dark damp spot blooming at the tip where he's already leaking pre-cum like a faucet. You swallow hard, throat dry, your own arousal spiking at the sight.
"Fine..." you breathe, heart pounding as you move your hand away, fingers parting your slick folds deliberately, spreading your pussy wide for your best friend—who's staring like he's seen god. Your clit peeks out, swollen and shiny, your hole clenching around nothing under his gaze.
"Damnn, Y/n... it's so pretty, fuckkk," he groans, voice dropping to a filthy rasp, leaning in so close you can feel the heat from his mouth.
"Look at that... it's so juicy— all soft and wet, did you get like this watching that shit on TV? Fuck, those puffy lips, spreading all nice... Godddd. You've got the prettiest pussy I've ever imagined. Makes my mouth water, baby."
You can't speak up, the weight of his stare pinning you down like a physical force, your breath hitching as heat floods your cheeks and your core. He's so blatant, so depraved, rattling off nasty shit like it's poetry, and it's making your thighs tremble.
He inches closer, nose almost brushing your folds. "Toru, nooo... I told you no touching—"
"No, I won't... it's just..." He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he breathes you in like a drug, eyes rolling back a fraction. "Smells so fuckin' good, Y/n... like sweet, musky honey. Bet you taste even better—fuck, I could bury my face in this wet slit all day."
He looks up at you then, pleading, lips parted. "Y/n... I... I'll give you my card—no limits, spend whatever the fuck you want on anything, clothes, stuff, whatever. Please, can I just touch it? Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please..."
You finally subside, because shit, that's a hell of a bargain—who even turns down that? "O-okay... just... touch..."
He doesn't waste a second, one hand shooting forward gently, his fingers—long, calloused—brushing your slick folds, parting them with a slow drag that makes you moan loud and broken. "Ahh—Toru!"
"Fuck, yes... so soft and sloppy," he mutters, playing with it clumsily at first, like he's exploring uncharted territory—thumb circling your clit in messy, uneven rubs that send sparks shooting up your spine, fingers tracing your entrance without dipping in, just teasing the rim.
Your face twists in pleasure, mouth falling open as he smears your arousal around, making everything even wetter. "Ahhhh, Y/n... this pussy's a mess."
When you glance down, that motherfucker has his free hand shoved in his sweatpants, rubbing his cock shamelessly—stroking the thick length through the fabric, the damp spot growing as he leaks more. Real pervert shit, but you can't defend yourself, not when his touches are lighting you up like this, your hips bucking into his hand involuntarily.
He amps it up, fingers getting bolder, rubbing your clit in slow, messy circles that build the pressure agonizingly. "God, this cunt's so hot and looks so tight... how's it feel if I do this?" He presses a fingertip to your hole, testing, and you jolt.
"T-Toru, no—d-don't dip in... just... ahh—touch..."
"Sorry, baby, couldn't help it—your hole's winking at me, see." He pulls back to just the lips, spreading them wide again, dirty talk pouring out.
"Fuck, I wanna do this every day, play with your pussy. Been missing out a lot, Y/n... all those years, and I never got to see how wet you can get."
"Satoru, you---"
He cuts you off. "Wonder how it'll feel inside—bet it's like velvet, sucking me in deep, milking my cock dry. Shit, imagine my dick in here. . . Clenching so hard I can't pull out."
Your words come out half-cut, fractured from the intense pleasure coiling in your gut— "T-Toru... s-so... ahh—stop... c-can't... f-fuck..." —body arching as he rubs faster, clumsier, his thumb mashing your clit while he palms himself harder, groans mixing with yours.
"Is it good, Y/n... tell me it's good, fuckk... ahhh...." Satoru groans, his fingers still messing with your dripping cunt, rubbing those clumsy circles over your clit that have you seeing stars, his other hand fisting his cock tighter in his sweatpants. He's panting like a dog in heat, eyes locked on where he's touching you, thumb flicking your swollen nub just right.
Before you can gasp out a response—your words a jumbled mess of "y-yes... f-fuck... good..."—he yanks his hand out of his pants, freeing his cock with a wet slap against his abs. He pumps it slow and deliberate, the thick shaft glistening with pre-cum, veins bulging under his grip. "Y/n... you wanna see mine...??"
"Toru.. you... put it back in..." you stammer, but your eyes are glued to it now, his dick is massive, rock hard and curving slightly upward, the head flushed an angry red, leaking so much it's dribbling down his knuckles. It's thicker than you imagined, hot and heavy-looking, the kind that would stretch you to your limits, with a prominent vein running along the underside that pulses with every stroke.
He shifts up a bit on his knees, towering over you, cock bobbing in the air like a threat—or a promise.
"Please, just try holding it..." he begs, voice wrecked, pushing his hips forward so it's inches from your hand.
Crap... you didn't know it'd come to this, but shit, things have escalated this far anyway—why hold back?
Your pussy's aching, clenching at the sight of him, so you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his scorching length. It literally burns your palm, so hot and throbbing it's like holding a live wire, the skin silky smooth over steel-hard muscle, slick with his arousal.
Satoru moans like a cheap whore the second you touch him—head thrown back, mouth slack, a guttural "Ahhhh, Y/n... soo good..." ripping from his throat, hips bucking into your grip involuntarily.
"Hey, can you jerk it a little? Please..." He's whining again, that desperate edge back in his voice, blue eyes pleading through half-lids.
"Fi---fine."
Well, it's not like you were in any position to say no—your own hand betraying you, starting to move on its own, sliding up and down his fat cock in slow, twisting strokes, feeling it twitch and throb in your palm.
The scene is so fuckin' lewd, you sprawled with your legs spread, jerking off Satoru's massive dick while his fingers tease your sloppy pussy, rubbing your clit in messy figure-eights that make your toes curl. Both your faces are nasty as fuck—yours twisted in pleasure, lips parted on moans, cheeks flushed; his all blissed-out, eyes hooded and dark, biting his lip like he's trying his best not to cum already.
Then Satoru looks down—at his cock in your hand, then back at you, then fixating on your exposed cunt, spread wide and dripping. That's when it clicks for you, panic spiking. "Satoru, don't... don't you fuckin' dare—"
You couldn't finish whatever half-assed protest you had, because that motherfucking Satoru Gojo grabs his dick from your hand, lines it up, and presses the hot, leaking head right against your swollen, puffy pussy—smearing his pre-cum over your folds, the blunt tip nudging your clit.
The feeling hits like lightning: his cock so heavy and warm against your sensitive cunt, the ridges and veins dragging over your slick lips, making everything even messier, wetter. Your expression cracks, eyes widening, mouth dropping open in a shocked gasp, body arching up instinctively. His face? Pure filth—smirk twisting into a groan, eyes blazing with lust, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, looking like he's about to devour you whole.
"You fuckin' perv... what're you— ahhh—" Your words catch in your throat, turning into a moan as he starts moving, rubbing himself up and down against you, his thick shaft sliding through your folds like a hot knife through butter, the head catching on your entrance before gliding up to mash against your clit.
"Fuck, Y/n, your pussy feels so good like this— all hot and sloppy, hugging my cock," he growls, voice rough, hips rocking steady as he grinds against you, the lewd squelch of your combined arousal filling the room.
You squirm under him, hands fisting the couch cushions, but he just pins you with one hand on your thigh, keeping you spread.
"Look at that—your cunt's kissing my cock. Been dreaming of this shit, rubbing my fat cock on your pretty pussy till we're both a mess."
"S-slow down... Toru, t-too much— ahh, f-fuck..." you whine, but your hips won't stop, grinding back against him, chasing the friction as his tip bullies your clit over and over, sending jolts through your core.
He laughs breathy, low and dirty, picking up the pace just to spite you. "Slow down? Why baby, you love it— Bet this slut hole wants him inside, but this is good too... rubbing like this, you soaking me. Ahhh shit, I'll cum soon."
"Satoru.... s-shut up." You're moaning incoherently unable to form words.
His massive cock is slotted between your puffy lips, sliding back and forth in filthy drags, your arousal coating him shiny, his balls slapping lightly against your ass with each thrust. Your body is trembling, pleasure building like a tidal wave, while he watches where you're connected, his mouth spilling nasty nonstop.
"God, Y/n, your pussy's perfect—soft and puffy. Imagine if I just slipped in...." He keeps it up, relentless, the rub turning frantic as he reaches his limits—breath hitching, abs tensing. Suddenly, he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up even wider, angling his cock so the tip smashes directly into your clit with every brutal slide. "Fuck. . . I'mma cum. . . ."
The new angle destroys you, pressure coiling tight, your clit abused by his leaking head, and you shatter first—cumming with a broken scream, "Ahhh—Toru! M'cumming"—pussy clenching hard, gushing slick all over his cock, soaking his length and balls in your release, spasms wracking your body.
He's right behind, groaning deep—"Shit, Y/n—fuck, me too..."—hips stuttering as he unloads, hot ropes of cum shooting out hard and thick, painting your pussy, your thighs, even your stomach in messy spurts. It's so much, it won't stop for a while, his cock twitching with each pulse, milking out every last drop as he grinds through it, smearing his seed all over your folds like he's marking you.
**********
His hips haven’t stopped moving even after he’s blown his load—slow, messy thrusts that drag his still-hard cock through the slick mess he’s made of your pussy, spreading his thick cum all over your swollen folds like he’s painting you with it. Rope after rope of hot, sticky white painted your clit, your lips, dripping down to your ass.
You can’t believe it, but that fuckin’ maniac is already rock-hard again, veins pulsing, head flushed darker than before, like cumming once did nothing but make him hungrier.
“Satoru… you…” Your voice comes out wrecked, barely above a whisper, thighs trembling from the aftershocks.
“I’m sorry, it’s just—you’re so fuckin’ hot and… god…” He groans low, hips rolling lazy, smearing his spend deeper between your lips. “How ‘bout I put it in. You’ll like it, yeah? Please… just the tip, baby. I’ll go slow, promise.”
“No—no no no no, not happening, Toru. This is more than enough.” You shake your head frantically, hands pushing weakly at his chest, but your cunt clenches traitorously at the thought, fluttering around nothing like it’s begging for the stretch.
“Please, just—” He doesn’t finish.
Who are you kidding? As if Satoru Gojo has ever listened to anyone or anything when he wants something bad enough. He’s already pumping his dick again in that filthy, wet fist, lining the fat head up with your fluttering hole. The blunt tip nudges past your lips, dipping in just enough that you feel the stretch—the obscene burn of him starting to split you open—
—and then the sharp screech of tires on the driveway slices through the haze.
Crap. Mom and Dad.
You shove him hard—harder than you mean to—and he topples backward with a surprised grunt, landing flat on his back on the floor, cock still jutting obscenely from his sweatpants.
You scramble like your life depends on it, snatching your soaked panties and crumpled shorts off the floor, bolting for the bathroom down the hall. Your heart’s hammering so loud you swear they’ll hear it through the walls. Seeing their one and only precious daughter covered in the guy’s cum—the same guy they treat like a second son—is not a good look afterall.
Behind you, Satoru barely manages to tuck his dick back in, yanks his sweatpants up, and flops back onto the couch like nothing happened, snatching the remote and flicking the channel to some mindless sports recap just as the front door swings open.
“Heyy, kid!” your dad’s voice booms, warm and tired from whatever errand ran late. His eyes light up the second he spots Satoru sprawled there. “When did you get here?”
Mom’s right behind him, kicking off her shoes. “Oh, you’re here too? Good then—let’s all have dinner. This is from that place you like, Satoru.”
He flashes that trademark grin—cheeky, innocent, not a single trace of the fact that he was just humping their daughter raw on this very couch minutes ago. “Auntie, you’re the best. I was just keeping Y/n company while she sulked over losing the game. You know how dramatic she gets.”
Your mom laughs like it’s the funniest thing. “Where is she, anyway?”
“In the bathroom,” Satoru says smoothly, not missing a beat. He raises his voice, calling down the hall with that casual, teasing lilt. “Y/n! Come eat dinner, lazy ass!”
“Yeah—in a min!” you shout back, voice higher than normal as you scrub furiously at your inner thighs with a wad of toilet paper, washing and wiping away the sticky evidence of him. His cum is everywhere, thick globs clinging to your skin, drying in tacky patches. You splash cold water on your face, fix your hair, pull your shorts and panties back on and pray to whatever god is listening that you don’t look freshly fucked.
You step out, legs shaky, and walk to the dining table like you didn’t just have Satoru Gojo’s dick grinding against your pussy until you both came. He’s already seated, long legs stretched out, chatting with your parents about some match he “totally crushed” last week, making them laugh like he’s still the charming boy they’ve known forever.
You slide into the chair next to him close enough that your thigh brushes his under the table—and he doesn’t even flinch. Just reaches over, casual as fuck, and plops a piece of your favorite fried chicken onto your plate.
“Eat up,” he murmurs under his breath, only for you, lips barely moving. “Gotta keep your strength after all that.”
You shoot him a glare that could kill, but he just smirks wider, popping a bite into his mouth like the picture of innocence.
Dinner drags on in the most agonizing, surreal way imaginable. You’re barely tasting the food. You stare at your plate, cheeks burning, clit still swollen and sensitive, hoping, praying that this humiliating, dripping embarrassment is worth the brand-new phone and the unlimited card he promised.
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90s punk artie :3 (i couldn't find much references for 90s punk fashion,,,?? so i just went with something similar)
Can't Hardly Stand You
New Avengers!Bucky x New Avengers!Reader
A/N: This smut has been brought to you by the snowstorm that ravaged the United States back in January. Decided to stop sitting on this fic and share it with you lovely goons :)
Summary: While awaiting extraction from a mission with Bucky, the safehouse generator shits the bed. It’s cold outside, with a long wait until the cavalry comes to the rescue. What’s a girl to do, except curl up next to a scowling, smartass super soldier?
Word Count: 3k
Content: enemies to lovers, smut MDNI (dry humping, handjob, unprotected p in v (don’t do that)), sub!bucky, use of ‘doll’ (sorry not sorry)
Of all the people to freeze to death alongside, it just had to be Bucky Barnes.
You’re shivering so hard, you feel like you could come apart if your arms weren’t wrapped around your torso, holding you together. The storm of the century roars outside. It's getting harder and harder to remain optimistic that Bucky can fix the generator, that you’ll be defrosting anytime soon.
You tap your foot impatiently against the dirt floor of the basement while Bucky fusses with the generator battery. The tension winds tighter in his shoulders with every passing second, with every tap of your foot.
Eventually, he tosses the battery to the side with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s dead. won’t charge.”
“I thought you said you could fix it,” you snap, trying to keep your teeth from chattering. These New-Avengers-branded winter tactical suits that R&D pushed on the two of you are far more fashion than function, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your toes.
“Can’t fix a battery that won’t charge,” Bucky grumbles as he gets to his feet. “It needs a replacement, which we don’t have.”
You groan, rubbing your temple with a gloved hand. “This is just perfect, Barnes."
And then the bickering starts, as usual. It’s the same old song and dance routine that happens every time the two of you are forced onto a mission together.
“Oh, so this is my fault. How was I supposed to know?”
“You said this safehouse was fully equipped!”
“I got bad intel,” he growls, more frustrated by the second. “Can you cut me some slack?”
You clutch your arms tighter around your body, trying to preserve what little warmth you have. “I’m freezing my ass off because of your bad intel. How long are we gonna have to wait this out?”
Bucky glances down at his comms display. “Val said extraction is at dawn. Earliest they can get here.”
“Great,” you huff, stomping up the stairs and out of the basement. “Eight more hours in a freezing cabin with you. It must be my birthday or something.”
Wishful thinking, to hope he wouldn’t follow you, that he’d give you space to be angry. You hear his footsteps behind you, hear him mumble something about ‘dramatics’ under your breath, and you resist the urge to throw something at him.
“Dramatics?” you whirl around, indignant. He's not shivering one bit. It makes you want to punch him.
“Not all of us have super serum to stave off frostbite. I'll be lucky if I make it to morning with all my toes.”
Bucky frowns at this, brows furrowing, but you’ve decided not to care about what he thinks anymore. You're too cold for that. You unfurl the ancient sleeping bag you procured from a storage closet and lay down on the dingy hardwood floor.
“I’m going to bed,” you declare as you cocoon yourself. “If I freeze to death in my sleep, it’s on you.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and sits against the wall, dejected. “Fuck’s sake.”
Your teeth are chattering so loud, Bucky's surprised that it doesn’t give away the safehouse’s location to every hostile in a five mile radius.
He had peeled off his snowsuit and laid down almost an hour ago to sleep, but he’s still staring at the ceiling, listening to your shallow, shivering breath. Annoyance and fatigue mixes with a hint of guilt — because you’re right. It was his bad intel that brought the two of you here, and now you’ll be borderline hypothermic for another six hours at least.
Bucky can’t in good conscience allow this to go on. He sits up in his sleeping bag and runs a tired hand through his hair. “Okay, that’s enough. Get over here.”
“What?” you mumble, raising your head.
“I can’t sleep with all the shivering and teeth chattering going on over there.” He pulls open his sleeping bag and gestures for you to approach. “You’ll be warmer if we share.”
Despite the lack of color in your face, you still manage to give him a withering look. “N-no way.”
Bucky sighs. “Will you stop being so damn stubborn, for once?”
“Why do you c-care?” you shoot back.
“I can’t sit here and pretend to sleep while you’re suffering like this.” Something happens to his voice, an involuntary softening, and he clears his throat quietly to banish it. “Just come here.”
Your eyes flick from his face, to the sleeping bag, to his broad chest — he’s just wearing a t-shirt and he’s still not shivering. He's the closest thing to a functioning radiator in this run-down shack.
You decide that you’ve spent worse nights in worse ways.
Disentangling yourself from your sleeping bag, you shuffle across the room and slip into his, trying to look dignified as you wriggle into position.
“If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you dead,” you warn.
“Agreed,” he replies. “We never speak of this.”
You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a hand at the zipper of your snow jacket, pulling it downwards. “What the hell are you doing?” you nearly yelp.
Bucky tries not to roll his eyes at your reaction and eases the jacket off your shoulders, leaving you in your thermal top and tac suit pants. “You wanna get warm or not?”
Before you have time to protest, he throws the sleeping bag over you and pulls you until your back is flush against his chest. Warmth envelops you immediately, pulling a shudder from your freezing body.
“Christ, you’re like a furnace,” you mutter, burrowing closer to him before your brain can think better of it.
“Just relax,” he rumbles, his real arm circling around you as your shivers begin to slow. “I’ve got you.”
It’s far too intimate of a moment for the kind of relationship you have with each other — all bark and occasional bite. But your body doesn’t care about that. It just cares that you can finally feel your fingers again. You would never admit it to yourself, but it was sort of nice, being held by him. Because of the warmth, of course. Not because of the familiar scent of cedar and gun oil, or the steady and sure sound of his breath, or the way you can feel every twitch of the muscles in his arm.
He’s just warm, that’s all.
After a moment of quiet, during which you realize the quiet is due to your teeth no longer clattering against one another, you sigh and whisper, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles.
Not fucking likely.
When you finally fall asleep, it’s bliss. The insulation of the sleeping bag keeps you wrapped in Bucky’s warmth, sending you drifting off into peaceful sleep.
You think you’re dreaming at first, when something stirs you awake. Breath, hot against the back of your neck. A quiet, rumbling groan from behind you. A strong arm draped loose around you, and the slow grind of something hard against your backside.
You’re barely awake, registering sensation before context, so you mindlessly press back into it, a sigh breaching your lips. It's only when you feel the scratch of stubble against your shoulder, inhale the familiar scent of him that you realize where you are, and who you’re with.
You freeze, eyes snapping wide open.
For a moment, you’re still not entirely sure if you’re dreaming, because this is a highly unlikely turn of events. Is Bucky Barnes, of all people, making a move on you?
He shifts again, another lazy grind of his hard cock against the curve of your ass, and he mumbles something soft and incoherent. Your brain does the math instantly.
He’s dreaming.
“Barnes.” Your voice is weak as you speak up to — to what, exactly? Wake him, stop him? With each uncoordinated, needy press of his hips against you, you’re less and less sure that you want him to. The sound of his dreamy pleasure in your ear, the warm press of his body against yours… they’re affecting you more than you’d like to admit. You can feel a growing damp patch between your legs that no squeeze of your thighs is going to relieve anytime soon.
The rules of consent here are shaky at best. You should stop this. You really should stop this.
Bucky murmurs something against the back of your neck, that underneath the rumble of sleepy desire, sounds suspiciously like your name. It sends your brain reeling, torn between shoving him awake and pulling him against you until there’s no space left between your body and his.
His arm tightens around your waist, his cock pressing insistently against you even in sleep. Something close to a whimper resonates in his throat, and the sound of it travels straight between your legs.
“Barnes,” you gasp, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room.
Suddenly, he stops moving, awareness seizing him. The two of you grow very still, the sound of breath the only thing breaking the silence.
“Fuck. Sorry. I'm… I was dreaming.” His voice shakes a little, laden with guilt and shame. His arm retreats from its hold around you, his hand finding your waist, trying to ease himself away from you. “Christ, I’m sorry, I’ll—“
When you speak, it surprises even you.
“Don’t stop.”
You can almost picture the stunned look of surprise on Bucky's face as he freezes in place once again. “Wh-what?”
Well, you’ve already said it. There's no pretending that you didn’t. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I said don’t stop,” you repeat emphatically, pressing your hips back against him for good measure.
Bucky hisses, his grip on your waist tightening, discouraging you from moving again, but also not pushing you away. “Fuck, don’t do that.”
“Why not?” you ask, breathless.
“I — it’s been a while, and I— jesus.” He groans like a man being tortured when you grind back against him again. “Don't tease me, doll.”
“Who says I'm teasing?”
You cover your hand with his and drag it forward, upward, until it sneaks beneath the hem of your thermal shirt and rests against the warm skin of your upper abdomen. His fingers graze against the underside of your breast, and you arch back against him, seeking the feel of his cock between your layers of clothing.
A soft, needy sound slips out of you, and in an instant, Bucky's composure unravels completely, like he’d been waiting for permission.
His arm flexes, pulling you tight against him, and he ruts desperately against you. “God, please.”
That ‘please’ absolutely ruins you. You can hear the anguish, the need laced through it. The super soldier, the assassin of legend, so starved for touch that he’s reduced to a begging, whimpering thing just from the feeling of your body against his. You press your thighs together uselessly, soaked at the thought.
“Please what?” you reply. Okay, now you might be teasing him. But it’s only because you want him to ask, so you can give it to him.
“I— I don't know. I need…” His thrusts against you increase in rhythm, and his hand closes the distance to palm at your breasts, almost mindless in his urgency. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I just need this,” he murmurs against your neck. “Need you.”
Your body hums with pleasure and possibility, and you grind back encouragingly when he rolls your nipple between his fingers.
“Yeah? You wanna get off like this?” you ask as gently as you can manage under the circumstances. “Or do you want more?”
Bucky gasps sharply against your shoulder, like he hadn’t even considered that a possibility, still rutting restlessly against you.
“More. Please.” His hand grasps your hip, gathering a fistful of the fabric of your tactical pants. A plea just as ardent as the one that he spoke aloud.
Quick and decisive, you unbutton your pants, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear, kicking them away. His large, rough hands knead the newly exposed flesh and he groans again, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Come on, baby,” you murmur, reaching back to weave your fingers into his hair. “Show me how bad you need it.”
Baby. That's new. Before you have time to parse your own words, Bucky frantically shoves his own clothes out of the way, freeing himself. You feel the warmth of his cock against your asscheek, the smear of his arousal against your skin. Lifting your leg and draping it over his thigh, you open yourself to him, your chest heaving with anticipation. He slides his cock through the wetness between your legs, barely choking back a moan.
You tug at his hair softly, a silent encouragement, and he sinks into you in one urgent thrust.
You inhale sharply at the stretch, at the sensation of being filled so completely. The instant Bucky is inside you, he’s completely gone — panting, gripping your hips like a lifeline, grinding against your cervix like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and live there.
“God, you feel… you feel so good,” he mutters helplessly.
Your hand finds his again, guiding it between your legs. “Touch me,” you whisper, a shuddering gasp leaving your lips when his fingers brush against your clit and circle there. “Yeah, like that, fuck.”
Bucky begins to thrust from behind you, and his fingers find the perfect pressure against the bundle of nerves. Your body responds by clenching around him, a breathy moan escaping you.
He whimpers again, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. “Sweetheart, if you do keep doing that, I'm not gonna last.”
“Then hurry up and make me come, Barnes," you reply, deliberately squeezing him again.
Something halfway between a chuckle and a moan pushes out of his lungs, and Bucky begins to move in earnest, thrusting deep and desperate into you.
You wish you could see his face, but you hear plenty, because Bucky Barnes is surprisingly vocal in bed. You would have thought him to be stoic and silent, but every thrust is accompanied by a grunt, a moan, a gasp, sometimes even a whine. It turns you on even more, to hear so clearly what you’re doing to him.
Another unfortunate consequence of being in this position is that you can’t kiss him. You surprise yourself by wanting to, wishing to feel those delicious moans buzzing against your lips, to hear what sound he might make when your tongue flicks into his mouth.
Still, you can’t really complain in this position, not when the drag of his cock lights you up so deliciously, hitting your g-spot on every stroke. It doesn't take long for you to wind you up, not when he sounds like that, right in your ear.
“C-close,” he chokes out, his pace turning fevered and uncoordinated.
“Me too,” you pant in reply.
“Sweetheart, please,” he begs, his voice strained like it costs him to ask, “please, don’t make me stop. You feel so good, I wanna come inside you so bad—”
The request, and the desperation in it, pushes you over the edge. As your body seizes with pleasure, you thread your fingers into his hair again, tugging sharply.
“Yes, Bucky, yes.”
If your words weren’t enough permission, your cunt clamps tightly around him, and all the willpower in the world couldn’t make Bucky pull out now. He comes inside you with a strangled cry, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade. He shudders and thrusts shallowly as your muscles draw every last spasm and twitch and drop of cum from his cock until it’s completely spent, until both of your cries of pleasure taper off to shallow breaths of recovery.
Once again, neither of you move for a good, long moment. Bucky is the first to shift, pulling out of you reluctantly with a labored sigh.
“That was…” He trails off, because he doesn’t quite have the words yet.
You roll over in his arms, and the blissed out expression in his face says it all for him. “Yeah, you agree. “That was.”
He looks at you, utterly bewildered. An unexpected wave of something close to tenderness washes over you, and you find yourself pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “You okay?”
Bucky looks just as surprised at the gesture as you feel to be doing it. “Yeah, I just… I thought you couldn’t stand me.”
You smile, in spite of yourself. “To be fair, that’s true. Some of the time,” you concede. “Other times, you’re not so bad.”
Bucky's eyes flicker down to your mouth, and he inches towards you until his nose nudges against yours. “And now?”
“Now…” you pry your arm out of the sleeping bag to check your watch. “We have two hours until extraction.”
Eager to get a taste of what you were missing when he was at your back, you brush your lips across his teasingly. “You wanna make ‘em count?”
He wastes no time, pulling you flush against him and slotting his mouth over yours. You moan appreciatively into the kiss, and you can already feel the first twitches of renewed interest from where his cock is pressed to your thigh.
His lips drag across your jaw, the column of your throat, and he growls, “We are definitely not telling anyone about this.”
“What, you don’t want me to tell the team about how you beg when I touch you?” you whisper in his ear, your hand sliding down to wrap around his now half-hard cock.
“Fuck, you’re evil,” he whimpers, already wrecked again under your hand.
God bless super soldiers and their short refractory periods, you think to yourself.
“Say ‘please’ again,” you tell him, your teeth grazing the shell of his ear.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate for a second, complying immediately. “Please.”
It’s music to your ears.
You reward him with an agonizingly slow stroke along the length of him, and whisper experimentally, “Good boy.”
To your delight, he hardens completely at the sound of your praise, nearly choking on a groan as he presses his forehead to yours.
Your grin is absolutely wicked. “Oh, that is interesting.”
“Doll…” he protests, ears turning red, his expression so hopelessly turned on that it almost makes you laugh.
“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, lazily stroking him again. “I won’t tell anyone about that, either.”
Permanent taglist: @globetrotter28 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes
more gray wardens au i say as it's just warden commander Arthur after hours (i redrew my old sketch)
He may be from the first batch but he's still a treat!
Bonus for star days
my taste in fanfic at 2AM and 10AM are not the same
HEY I HAD THIS VISION
Bucky having a wet dream about reader WHILE sleeping right next to her
and well you take it from there👀
also i don't know if i already sent this i'm sorry
please keep having these visions!
---------
You wake up to the sound first—soft, ragged, barely-there breaths. The kind that don’t come from someone resting. The kind that come from someone wanting.
At first you think Bucky’s having a nightmare. His brow is pinched, his jaw tight, his metal fingers flexing against the sheets like he’s reaching for something he can’t hold.
Then you feel it.
The slow, grinding roll of his hips beneath the covers. The heat of him pressed against the back of your thigh. And the low, desperate whisper of your name falling straight from his parted lips.
Oh.
Oh.
Bucky Barnes is having a wet dream about you—while he’s curled around you, while your body is tucked against his like you belong there, while his cock is hard and thick against the curve of your ass.
You bite your lip, breath catching, because you’ve seen him turned on. You’ve seen him flustered. You’ve seen him completely undone.
But this? This is pure, unfiltered need. No restraint. No control. Just instinct.
“mmph—sweetheart…” he groans into your shoulder, voice wrecked.
Your thighs press together helplessly.
He ruts forward again, harder this time, chest shuddering against your back like the dream is swallowing him whole. Like he’s fucking someone—fucking you—in his sleep.
You whisper his name. Soft at first.
Then a little firmer.
“Bucky…”
He doesn’t wake.
Doesn’t even stir.
Just groans again, hips rolling like he’s chasing something he’s been denied for days.
Your heart trips over itself. Because he’s not waking up. Because he’s so far gone in this dream that he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Because you shouldn’t want to touch him like this—
—but you really, really do.
Your hand drifts back on its own, barely brushing over the outline of him through the sheets.
He gasps.
Not awake. Not fully. But his hips snap forward into your touch like he’s starved, like the slightest contact is enough to send him reeling.
“Please…” he breathes, and it’s the neediest sound you’ve ever heard from him.
Your resolve crumbles.
You slip your hand beneath the covers, fingers closing around the hot, heavy length of him. He twitches instantly, thrusting into your palm, breath stuttering in his throat.
His eyes flutter open—barely. A sliver of blue. Dazed. Half-conscious. Dream-drunk and wrecked.
“Y’r real?” he slurs.
“Yeah, baby,” you whisper, stroking him slowly, deliberately. “I’m real.”
His head falls forward against your shoulder like he can’t even hold it up. His flesh hand fists in the sheets. His hips jerk again, fucking into your fist like he’s still not fully awake enough to control himself.
“Dreamin’ about you,” he mumbles against your skin, voice rough with sleep. “Couldn’t—couldn’t stop.”
The confession lights a fire in your stomach.
“What were you dreaming, Buck?”
He whines. Actually whines.
“You were on top of me,” he pants. “You were so warm—felt so good—fuck—” Your thumb sweeps over the head of his cock and he chokes on a moan, biting your shoulder. “Wanted you so bad, doll. Wanted to be inside you.”
Your breath steals right out of your lungs.
“Still want to?” you whisper.
His eyes snap open fully this time—dark, blown-wide, hungry.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
He grabs your hip, rolls you onto your stomach with a strength that’s all instinct, all urgency, all need.
His body covers yours, heat and muscle and dizzy, sleep-heavy desire pressing you into the mattress.
Metal fingers slide your panties aside. Flesh fingers guide himself lower.
“Been hard for you all night,” he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates against your spine. “Gonna take you now, sweetheart. Can’t—can’t wait anymore.”
You arch back into him, already dripping at the sound of his voice, at the weight of him hovering over you like you’re the dream he doesn’t want to wake up from.
“Please, Bucky,” you breathe.
That breaks him.
He sinks into you in one slow, trembling push—deep, hot, so thick you gasp into the pillow.
His breath shudders out of him.
“Oh, fuck—this—this is better than the dream,” he groans, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades as he bottoms out.
He moves before you can even adjust—short, slow thrusts that turn into deeper ones, his hips finding a rhythm born straight from sleep-fogged desperation.
Every sound he makes is pure sin. Low, ragged, helpless.
“Always thinkin’ about you,” he pants into your ear. “Every night—every morning—you make me so hard it hurts—”
Your body clenches around him and he swears, metal hand gripping the headboard hard enough to dent it.
He’s still half dreaming. Still chasing something he started in his sleep. And now he’s finishing it with you.
Your orgasm hits you embarrassingly fast—heat coiling, snapping, blinding. You cry his name into the mattress and he follows instantly, hips stuttering, breath breaking apart as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds like surrender.
Silence.
Then—
A sleepy kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“You, uh…” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and afterglow, “you were definitely not a dream, right?”
You laugh softly, turning your head just enough to see the dazed smile tugging at his lips.
“No, Buck. Very, very real.”
He presses another kiss to your shoulder.
“Best damn dream I ever had.”
Then lower.
“Best way I’ve ever woken up.”
men who can’t help but slut themselves out a little bit around you because they just like you so much!
they’re constantly making sure they’re dressed in clothes that fit their physique in the most flattering/revealing way whenever they find out you’ll be tagging along for drinks. they spritz on the cologne that you once commented you liked on them, and make sure to lean in slightly when you talk to them so that you can undoubtedly catch the scent of it.
they laugh at your jokes and flutter their eyelashes all pretty-like while they’re listening to you and are paying attention extra hard. are fixing their hair in the mirror whenever they go to the restroom even though they’d never bother otherwise. are draping their arm across your chair, pretending they’re just trying to get more comfortable. even the sound of their voice changes slightly whenever they’re focused on you.
also, they show off their neck by undoing the top button of their shirt and sometimes readjust their belt, hoping that you’ll take a peek while they do it.
You don't like silence
Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist |
| SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Johnny’s accent is thicker when he’s tired/talks to his family | CW grief, depression spiral, feelings of inadequacy, loss of appetite | Everyone has big feelings |
The house is silent, but inside your head a brumous storm swirls, wispy tendrils of fog curling around delicate gray matter.
Your routine—watching Johnny walk Isobel to school, going to work and coming home, just in time to glimpse Johnny leaving to retrieve her—has changed.
You still watch from the window, mug bleeding warmth into cold, stiff joints from between your palms. Peer around the curtains every morning as the pair amble down the pavement together.
A new month brings a steady influx of meetings and end of quarter reporting, projected sales and last minute production tweaks, but your days are no busier than normal. Rarely miss a lunch break. Leave no later than three each afternoon.
Dinner, if you have any, is ready by five.
Even so, restlessness lingers in the midnight moons hanging beneath your eyes, darkens the air around you with somnolent clouds, and you list in the torpid deluge that rains down.
Sleep evades you altogether most nights, and you’ve made a game of picking out patterns in the knockdown. Faces, animals; nebulous, nameless things.
Some nights, when the faces of strangers, burned into your retinas, find their way into the patterns of textured drywall, you listen.
Isobels room must be on the other side of yours, beds sharing a wall. On the nights you manage to make it upstairs, you can hear them both. Isobel’s slow and measured pronunciations. The lilt of Johnny’s voice, filling in the blanks where she pauses on a word she doesn’t yet know.
They’ve finished all of her animal books, which means the imitated roars of big cats and bleats of farmyard animals have morphed into exaggerated accents. Sing-song rhymes about the importance of kindness, accepting differences, and other life lessons told through colorful illustrations and whimsical narratives.
Every now and then, if you’re lucky, she falls asleep within a few pages, and you can pretend that the low, pillowy rumble of Johnny reading is just for you. A gentle coaxing made of velvety words, swaddling your mind, heavy with exhaustion, and cradling it to his chest against the maelstrom you’re spiraling in.
Sometimes she stirs, woken hours later in the placid, milky hours before dawn, just as your eyes begin to droop. Tiny feet patter across the hardwood like rain, muffled in uneven intervals by what must be a rug or runner in the hall, on her way to Johnny’s room or the washroom maybe.
You wonder if it’s full of frilly, feminine things, her room. Pinks and purples, dolls and plushies. Does she have princesses or ballerinas on her bedding? Do posters and drawings line her walls or does floral, pasted wallpaper?
She likes Mulan, you remember. A warrior. Fighter. Soldier. Like Johnny.
Probably not so frilly, then.
Perhaps they could make a fighter out of you. Press you into the mold of their little family–strengthened by loss and galvanized with love–and breathe life into clay limbs. Carve a soldier from the malleable earth. Shape you into something useful.
Now, most of your nights are spent huddled in the living room, listening to the droning of the television. Throw blankets suck you down into the sofa like quicksand and each breath draws them tighter and tighter around you, filling pockets of air with crushed velvet and fleece. Tonight, you let them swallow you whole. Sink willingly into a latibule of plaid and warm cashmere.
The cold and quiet of your empty home isn’t so bad when you can hear Johnny moving about on the other side of the wall. Isn’t so unbearable when the warm timbre of his voice chases away the numbing fog that muddles your head.
There are nights that he calls you, like he knows. Knows that you're drowning in the silence.
He does that now, after he puts Isobel to bed for the night. Calls to ask about your week. Casts a lifeline into the churning ocean between you, procellous waves lofting you on spuming peaks, and calls your name from the battered, broken shore.
A lighthouse calling to a ship, lost in the mist on a perilous sea.
Last Thursday he asked about the cookies you made with Isobel. Asked if you would be willing to share the recipe with him–teach him–so that he could make them with her for a school event coming up in the spring.
The tenderness with which he speaks of her is a balmy breeze for your gelid heart. Soothes the burn of ice floes in your veins. Melts weeks of tension from aching muscles.
Now, his voice is somber, pensive, as it filters through the lack of insulation between you. “Friday. No, ah havnae told ‘er yet. Jus’ got the call.” He pauses, and you think you hear a muffled sigh. He sounds tired, too, accent thicker than honeyed whiskey rolling off his tongue, dropping consonants in favor of deep, throaty vowels. “Aye, ah ken. She’ll be happy tae see ye though.”
He’s on the phone, talking about Isobel. They must have family visiting soon, or a family friend if Isobel knows them well enough to be excited.
You wonder what the MacTavish family is like, if they’re a rowdy bunch. If they’re a large, extended family. Johnny seems like the kind of man who comes from a close knit community, one where you grow up down the street from your cousins and spend summers terrorizing small towns together.
“I’ll talk tae ‘er in the mornin’. Ah- No.” There’s a pause again, and even with layers of sheetrock separating you, you can feel the weight of his silence. “No, Mam. She’s… ah worry. Leavin’ ‘er like this. Piss poor timin’.”
He’s leaving? Without Isobel?
It’s muffled through the wall, and you feel like you can’t have heard that correctly. He mentioned the army, but you had thought, with a child at home, that his work wouldn't be the sort that requires travel.
Ice floes turn to glaciers in your chest, frozen spikes threatening to pierce brittle, fragile muscle, and the clouds swirling overhead descend upon you.
Lost in the mist, and he’s leaving.
He’s leaving, and he’s taking the sun with him.
“Ye cannae keep it from the lassie forever, John. Ye havnae even told 'er what ye do?”
Christ, this woman…
“She knows ‘bout the army,” he defends. “Cannae say much more.”
Fenella MacTavish clucks her disapproval. “Ye’re heids full of mince.” Dishes clatter and a cupboard closes a bit too forcefully on the other end of the line.
Johnny runs a hand through the disheveled strands of his hair, overdue for a trim, well outside of regulation length. “Mam—”
“Dinnae ‘Mam’ me,” she cuts in. “John Alexander MacTavish, ye tell that lass what she’s gettin’ herself intae—or I will.”
“Mam,” he tries again, voice pitched low, “Not yet. Cannae send ‘er off, naw like I do wi’ Bell. It’s safe enough here.” You’re safe with him here. “Dinnae like knowin’ she’s alone—Christ, I can hardly stand tae have the wall between us when I ken she’s hurtin’—but there isnae anythin’ I can do that’s naw already been done. Kate’s made sure of that.”
Fenella huffs and he can’t quite make out the garbled muttering on his end, but he has a fair idea of what his mother is blathering about beneath her breath. “Kirsten—have ye gone tae see 'er?” she finally asks, mercifully shifting the conversation out of your direction. “Has Isobel?”
“No,” he admits, and guilt twists in barbed coils through his chest.
He’s been meaning to, to drive up for the weekend and take her to visit her mothers grave, now that she’s older. Stay with her gran and look through the old albums. She's only ever seen the few photos they have at home, hanging in the hall near the kitchen.
Sometimes she asks about her. If she liked the things she likes. The way rain freezes on the tall grasses and tree branches in the winter, making glass gardens of trellises and window boxes. Extra whipped cream and blueberries for her pancakes.
If she would have walked with them to school in the mornings. Take her to the park down the block in the summer. Hiking in the fall, looking for wisps darting about beneath the fallen abscission.
Isobel is so much like her mother there are days Johnny swears it’s her refusing to eat the dinner he’s made. That it’s her complaining about cold weather and overcast skies in the heart of winter, bemoaning how long they have until spring revives the land. Swears it’s her voice that wakes him in the middle of the night. Her ghost, standing in the dimly lit doorway of his bedroom, a blanket pulled ‘round her shoulders and a teddy dangling from her hand.
“I’ll take ‘er, then.” Johnny can hear the grief that tempers his mothers voice, turning anguish to steely resolve. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, let ‘er have a few hours with ye at home before ye say yer goodbyes.”
“Thank ye, Mam,” he says on a strained exhale, lungs rattling with fragments of his own grief. It slices into old wounds until pockets of air become sanguineous aquifers, bubbling up in his throat and leaving a sour, metallic taste on his tongue.
“I meant what I said earlier,” she reminds him. “Ye tell yer lass. Dinnae leave ‘er in the dark like ye did Kirsten.”
The line goes silent and Johnny sinks back into the old corduroy sofa, pushed up against the wall beside a shelf overflowing with picture books in the living room, and a ragged sigh unfurls from his chest.
The television across from him is dark, turned off when he took Isobel upstairs for bed, but he can hear an old rerun of Taskmaster playing softly behind him.
He listens, every night, for you. For the sound of your fridge, opening and closing. The soft ‘clink’ of porcelain against granite. The oven timer or the microwave.
He prefers the former. Knows, after these last few weeks, that you cook when you’re in a good mood. Usually go to bed soon after. The sound of the microwave precedes long, muted evenings and little sound from your side of the wall. He won’t hear the stairs creak beneath your sluggish feet until the wee hours of the morning. If at all.
He listens in the mornings, too, while he makes Isobel’s breakfast. Makes sure he can hear you doing the same. Smiles to himself when he glimpses movement in the window beside your door, a miniscule swaying of the curtain, and he holds Isobel’s hand a little tighter as they navigate lingering ice patches on the pavement.
The phone call with his mother, making arrangements for Isobel, masked the sound of your movements earlier, and his fingers twitch against his leather phone case.
When your side of the wall is quiet, he knows a storm is brewing; that you’re sitting in the eye of it, waiting for the walls to close in around you.
He doesn’t know if you’ve eaten tonight. Can’t hear anything beyond the muffled television and occasional creak of the sofa beneath your shifting weight.
So he calls.
One… two… three… four… “Hi, Johnny.” Soft and breathy. Like the air the words are spoken on has borrowed from the softness of your lips as it spills into the receiver.
This is the way you sound when you’re tired, he’s learned, all soft and rounded syllables. Too exhausted, even for your own nervous habits. You don’t have the bandwidth to explain every little thing like you normally would; don’t bother with rationalizing your actions aloud.
“Hi, bonnie. What’s cookin’?” It’s cheesy as hell, but it earns a huff of a laugh from you and it tempers the jagged edge of his worry—a knife, lodged between his ribs.
“I, uh… I had leftovers. Takeaway, from a work thing.” He’s never seen you with takeaway. Always canvas bags full of groceries and the occasional frozen box dinner.
How empty is your fridge? When was the last time you went to the grocer?
“Didnae take ye for the ‘easy’ type. Ye always make me work for it.”
“Work for it?” He can picture the pinch of your brows. The way your lips quirk to the side when you’re confused.
“Aye, got me makin’ puppy eyes an’ beggin’ for yer scraps.” You laugh again, more of a scoff, but it eases some of his worry all the same.
“When have I ever made you beg, Johnny?” He’s been begging any higher power that will listen to see you smile again, and he’d give anything to see the smirk he knows is dancing at the corner of your mouth right now.
“Could do it tomorrow,” he blurts before he can think better of it. “Come over. Show me that recipe again.”
Don’t make him tell you he’s leaving over the phone.
“I thought… you said the charity event is at the end of March, right?”
“Aye, but I think I’ll need a few lessons ‘fore my bakin’s fit for auction.”
He needs to know—needs to see—that you’re well before he goes.
“And you want to start tomorrow?”
“Why not?” He’d have you baking in his kitchen now if it weren’t for the late hour.
There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the faint crackling of static and the sound of your breathing. “Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything to bake with?” you ask, and he answers with a proud ‘yes’. “Okay… okay. I can come over after work tomorrow.”
“I’ll ‘ave Bell home early then. She’ll want tae help.” Your amused sigh echoes across the line, followed by the faint rustling of fabric and then the soft pattering of stocking-clad feet over hardwood, fourth and fifth step creaking softly as you climb the stairs. “Off tae bed?”
Another sigh–on the tail-end of a yawn, he realizes. “Yeah. Well, trying. Don’t get a lot of sleep these days,” you admit, and though he’s successfully abated the storm of your thoughts, he wishes he could disperse it entirely.
Be the shelter you seek, at the very least.
He’d nestle you in the warmth of his bed, tucked close and sleeping soundly in the cage of his arms. Anchor you to him with a leg hooked between yours, whispering adulation against the howling, taunting winds.
He would make himself a rock to let your tempestuous thoughts batter and besiege. Weathered and whittled down to pebbles on a beach, he’d roll in the undertow alongside you. And when he is but sand on the ocean floor, still, he would drift and settle wherever the storm of you takes him.
“I used tae read for my sister when we were weans. She’d wake, spooked from a dream, and come tae my room in the middle of the night.”
“You have a sister?” A door clicks closed and blankets whisper over sheets as you settle in for the night. “What’s she like?”
“A lot like our Mam. Headstrong. Stubborn.”
“Are you the oldest?” You sound further away. Muffled. Like you’ve got the blankets pulled up to your nose and the phone beside you on the pillow.
“I am,” he lilts.
“She gets it from you, then,” you murmur, and his chest tightens.
“She got a fair number of things from me, I’d wager.”
He continues on, speaking just above a low, gravelly whisper. Reminiscing his early years and the trouble the two of them got up to. Thick as thieves and wild as the kellas cats roaming the highlands.
Your interjections dwindle, turn to soft hums and slow, even breaths. Sleeping.
He listens for a few more minutes to the soft, sweet sounds you make, little chuffs and sleepy hums, the susurrations of shifting sheets and nightclothes, and he whispers into the darkness, “Goodnight, sweet girl.”
Work passes you by in a blur, meeting after meeting chipping away at the hours and minutes ticking by on the analog clock perched on your desk.
The drive home is uneventful and it feels as though you’ve passed through a wormhole somewhere along the way. Can’t quite remember making the turn into your neighborhood from the main road.
Normally, Johnny would be leaving to retrieve Isobel from school right now, but as you gather your things and step out of the car you hear your name being called from several houses down.
Braids bounce and red wellies squeak as Isobel darts ahead of Johnny, weaving around patches of ice to get to you, and you step up onto the pavement just in time to keep her from running into the road.
She barrels into you, wrapping her arms around your leg and smooshing her face against your slacks. “Ye’re back!” she squeals, fingers curling into the fabric.
She’s leaving.
Your hand settles atop her head, soft wisps of curls tickling the pads of your fingers where they’ve escaped their plaits. “Where did I go?” you ask, and she tips her head back to look up at you.
“Bubby said ye were busy with work. Sometimes he gets busy too, and I have to stay with my gran.”
They’re both leaving.
Johnny’s caught up with her, lingering a few steps away near the walkway leading to your door. When you look to where he stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, windbreaker bunched up around his forearms where a tattoo peeks out, the corners of his eyes glimmer.
A smile curves the corners of his mouth, and it’s an odd mixture of grief and happiness that flickers there in the crook of his lips and set of his brow, sloped upwards and creased in the middle. His hair is longer than you remember, scruffy sides and tufts of mohawk curling at the ends, loose strands tousled around his face.
Wind blows at your back and a single tear tracks down the sharp plane of his cheek, disappearing in the dark shadow of stubble that lines his jaw.
“I have been busy with work,” you confirm, peering down at Isobel once more. “But I didn’t leave.”
You’re staying, and they’re leaving.
The wind picks up and she presses closer, shielding herself from the cold behind your frame. “Let’s get ye inside and put yer book bag away. Then we can catch up over cookies an’ milk,” Johnny says as he closes the distance between you.
“Cookies?!” Her excitement carries on the wind, and his smile sharpens, bright and hopeful, but the whetted edge of sorrow undercuts the warmth.
“Aye, but we’ll have to make ‘em ourselves.” He brushes a stray lock from her eyes, fingers brushing against yours where his hand settles beside it on her crown, and dread blooms low in your stomach where warmth should.
She ducks away from you both, bolting towards their front stoop, and you’re left with both of your hands hovering in the air, his half curled over yours, staring after her.
You pull away first, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just need to sort this–” You gesture to the tote full of binders and your laptop. “–and I'll be right over.”
He fishes his keys from his pocket and takes a step back, towards Isobel. “We’ll be waitin’,” he says with a wink, and turns to take her inside.
There's flour in your hair and matching handprints on your slacks, and neither Johnny nor Isobel have fared much better. You’re all a mess, and the cookies you’ve made are tantamount to your disheveled state–lumpy, dry masses of something more closely resembling a biscuit.
“Dunno what ah did wrong,” Johnny muses, breaking one in half and inspecting the crumbly texture.
You sit beside him at the kitchen table, watching Isobel dunk half a cookie into a glass of milk. “It’s the butter and flour. The ratio is imbalanced–not enough fat.” She doesn’t seem to mind, stuffing the entire piece in her mouth and readying the next, fingers covered in crumbs that fall in her milk.
Johnny shifts beside you, sliding out of his chair and taking a bite out of his cookie as he moves towards the fridge. “Still tastes good,” he says around a mouthful and pours two more glasses, placing one down in front of you when he returns. “But I’ll need another demonstration when I’m back, I think.”
You take a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table, breaking off a chunk to dunk in your milk, and ignore the mirrored sensation in your chest. You knew this was coming. You know he’s leaving.
“When you’re back? From where?” you probe. No need to dance around the subject.
He shifts again, uncharacteristically nervous, and speaks softly. “Have to leave for a little while, for work,” he explains. Your cookie turns pliant between your fingers and you bite off the softened corner, chewing slowly while you listen. “Willnae know where they’re sendin’ me to until the briefin’.”
“When are you leaving?” You stare down at the crumbs swirling in your glass.
“Tomorrow morning.”
The foreknowledge of his impending departure doesn’t make the break any cleaner. The fracturing feeling in your chest widens into fissures and chasms, jagged edges crumbling, tumbling down into the festering darkness.
When you lift your gaze you find that he’s been watching you–studying you–and his hand has crept across the table, close enough you can feel the warmth of him. “How long?” It comes out wobbly. Unsteady.
You’re drifting out to sea again.
“Few weeks. Maybe a month.” Your chest feels like it’s caving in.
There’s a knock at the door. A canary in a coal mine, warning come too late.
“Gran!” Isobel’s chair nearly topples as she pushes back from the table, racing from the kitchen to the front door.
Johnny’s hand covers yours, long, callused fingers curling around your clenched fist and squeezing. “I’ll be back before ye know it,” he murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face and tracing the curve of your jaw as he stands.
He only goes as far as the kitchen doorway. Your heart’s already somewhere in the North Sea.
“Hi, Mam.” He’s greeted by an older female voice and pulled into a hug by a woman a whole head shorter than him. Isobel hovers nearby, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot, and tugs at the older woman’s–her grandmother’s–cable knit sweater.
“Gran, come meet our friend!” she says, and tugs again until she lets go of Johnny.
You stand from the table on wobbly legs, fighting to balance your listing emotions and put on a warm smile as Johnny’s mother slides past him into the kitchen.
The resemblance between the three of them is uncanny. Johnny shares his mothers dark coloring, rich hair and warm skinned, and they all have the same eyes–steely hues of grey-blue, spiraling outwards from inky pupils like storm cells.
“So, this is the lassie next door ye willnae stop glaverin’ on about?” she asks no one in particular as she openly appraises you.
“Mam–” Johnny begins, a simmering warning, but she holds up a hand to silence him.
They carry themselves in a similar manner, in the set of their shoulders and broad stance. She may not stand as tall as he does but she’s no less imposing, and it’s an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny.
Seconds feel like hours as she looks you up and down, cataloging the flour on your pants and in your hair, glancing to her left where Johnny stands in a state of equal disarray, and a knowing look flickers like lightning in her storm cloud eyes.
“It’s good tae finally put a face wi’ a name,” she says, smiling, and pulls you into a hug, too. “Call me Fenella, or Fen, whichever ye like.”
You return the gesture hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to Johnny for guidance and finding none. He simply smiles back at you from where he leans against the doorway, something unreadable in his expression lingering beneath it.
“It’s nice to meet you too… I- I’d love to stay, but should probably be heading home. I have an early morning and wouldn’t want to intrude on your visit,” you say by way of excuse.
“Ah’m naw stayin’ long, dear,” she explains, finally pulling away. Isobel returns to her side, pressing her shoulder to her thigh, and Fenella’s hand settles on the crown of her head. “Here tae take the wean for a stay wi’ her gran.”
“Is yer bag ready, leannan? D’ya have all yer books for school?” Johnny asks from where he stands, hands having found their way into his pockets again. His shoulders droop, broad frame deflating before your eyes. Leaving her behind, even with his mother, takes a toll on him.
Isobel leans around her gran to say, “I’ave all my books. And Mr. Ghost.”
“Goan an’ get yer things then, Bell,” Fenella ushers her out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs behind her to her room.
You watch until they disappear above the half open staircase, but Johnny has been watching you. Watching you navigate the shoal of your emotions, razor sharp rock scraping against a flimsy hull.
“C’mere, lass,” he entreats, one arm outstretched towards you, and your feet move of their own accord, carrying you forward until his hand settles on your shoulder, momentarily moored in the eddy of a tide pool. “Didnae mean to tell ye in the middle of… this.” He gestures above him to the sound of footsteps overhead. “Only got the call yesterday.”
With your hands folded at your front, you stare down at them, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s okay. I understand—”
“No, lass, it isnae okay,” he interrupts, hand gliding up your shoulder, your neck, and coming to rest on your cheek. He lifts your gaze back up to his and he’s wearing that nameless emotion, staring down at you with a pained expression.
This hurts him as much as it hurts you.
“The job I do, it isnae always… predictable. Dinnae get much warning when I’m called in for assignments. I should have warned ye…” his thumb traces soothing arcs over your cheek, but it does nothing for the gaping hole in your chest. “I’m sorry… I should have—”
“It’s okay, Johnny. Really.” The lie feels like rubbing salt into a wound, burns the back of your throat like you’re speaking around a lump made of sandpaper, and your voice comes out scratchy and raw.
His hand lingers on your cheek, eyes darting from yours to your nose, lips, cheeks, brow. Memorizing.
“Let me walk ye home?” You nod, unsure if you can speak around the cordolium lodged in your throat, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, guiding you through the razor rock and churning tide to the front door.
His arm remains firmly around you, fingers digging into your softness as he escorts you across the meager expanse of your lawn.
There’s an SUV, still running, parked in front of both houses and left to keep warm while Isobel gathers her things. She and Fenella step out into the brisk evening air just as you and Johnny reach the top of your stairs, and Isobel waves to you as they descend. Your arm feels leaden as you lift your hand into the air, waving back to her.
“She‘ll miss ye. Talks about ye all the time,” Johnny says beside you, unwilling to let you go just yet. “I’ll be missin’ ye too,” he admits, and you thought you’d found the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Thought you were already lying at the bottom of it.
You were wrong.
The well of your affection for them feels bottomless. The floor crumbles, residual tremors of the quaking in your chest, and you’re falling, falling, falling…Even with his arm around your waist.
You fell in love with the man in front of you. Fell in love with the darling little girl climbing into her grandmother's car. You’re already in love with Fenella and her dedication to her family.
You’ve been falling this whole time, no safety net in sight.
“I- …” Your voice cracks, and you try again. “I’ll miss you, too. Both of you.”
You’re falling, and they’re leaving.
There’s little warning, just a tug of your blouse, before you’re being folded into his arms. A wide palm cradles your head to his chest, fingers threading through your hair, and he presses his cheek to your crown.
“Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.” He murmurs his promise into your hair. “If… if I’m not here an’ somethin’ happens… I gave my Mum yer number. Saved hers in yer phone when I gave ye mine.” He pauses. Sucks in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Whatever it is, she’ll help.”
You nod your understanding and he pulls back just enough to see your face, guides your head to look up at him and says, “Promise me. Promise that ye’ll go to her if ye need anythin’,” with a desperation you’ve never heard from him.
So you make another promise. Let your eyes flutter closed as he presses his forehead to yours and ghosts his lips across the chilled skin of your brow.
And then he leaves.
Isobel is sorted, buckled into her car seat and saying her goodbye’s to Johnny, and Fenella MacTavish stands beside the driver’s side door, watching.
She’s said this goodbye a hundred times. Sent him off to god knows where to fight a war she’s never heard of. It never gets easier.
Isobel’s door closes, and her son turns to her with pain in his eyes. “I hate leaving ‘er.”
“Which one?” she intones, and Johnny leans his hip against the B pillar.
“Both of them. The three of ye.”
“Then make sure ye come back tae ‘er–tae all of us,” she advises, and pulls him into one last hug. “I cannae bury another child.”
Next>>>
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divorced!john price who lets his daughter and her best friend (you) stay at his house every summer without fail. divorced!john price who leaves the two of you home alone more often than not when he's deployed. divorced!john price who spoils the two of you when he is home, by taking you out to restaurants and going shopping. divorced!john price who should see you as a second daughter, and treat you as such. divorced!john price who feels like a dirty old man for not thinking that way. divorced!john price who's wanted to feel your cunt wrapped around him since the moment he laid eyes on you. divorced!john price who swears to let his fantasies be nothing more than they are. divorced!john price who gets a text from his daughter during his early drive back that you had arrived sooner than she did. divorced!john price who gets home only to find you sprawled naked across his bed, playing with yourself and moaning his name. divorced!john price who can't help but swallow thickly at the sight of your messy pussy ruining his sheets. divorced!john price who clears his throat, voice gruff, "d'you wan' help sweetheart?"
he knows he shouldn't be doing this, knows that it's wrong, but the taste of you is addicting. warm and sweet against his tastebuds, innocent and needy. the precise but shaky roll of your hips against his mouth is driving him insane as well⸺ and the only thing he can do is watch. watch as you fall apart on his tongue while he grinds himself against the edge of the bed. listen to the muffled sound of your moans and pleas as he takes you higher and higher only to slow down his ministrations and ruin your orgasm, your slick, soft thighs trapping him against your swollen, drooling cunt. john can't help but groan against you, tongue lashing out to flick your engorged clit, when he finds your teary face, your head shaking back in forth. "m-mr. price! mmf--! please! i can't, need t'cum."
and maybe he shouldn't have given in as easily as he did, but god he's jerked off to the thought of this exact moment for what feels like an eternity. "all y'had to do 's ask, luv."
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒!
cw: unedited, mild misogyny? if you squint?
price x fem reader thoughts
John Price definitely loves being a little bit of an asshole. He just adores being the traditional dominant provider type for you and spoiling you, but sometimes you get a bit to spoiled. If he doesn't like your attitude he'll fuck you from behind with your face buried in his bicep, whispering the filthiest shit in your ear. " is this all ya needed luv? hmm? big strong man to fuck you silly? little miss independent needs to be reminded who this pussy belongs too, yeah?" he has your face covered in drool and his arm covered in bite marks. He especially loves to grab you by the hair and pull your head back. "want to hear those pretty sounds luv. Make sure the neighbors know I take good care of you" all you can do is whine and steady yourself in his arms as the sounds of his fast pace thrusts fill the room.
🍑🍑🍑 more on patreon? patreon.com/c/SleepyCoffee
Newcomer (Bucky Barnes x Reader)
Summary: He barely talks, swears too much, and is somehow already under your skin.
Word count: 10.5K
Notes: Friends to lovers with a good portion of longing. Slowburn with a little smut thrown in the mix as well, enjoy
Masterlist
Bucky is nothing like you'd imagined him.
From the way that Steve had described him, you'd been picturing a womaniser, a charmer who could speak the panties off of any woman he met, a daring silver tongue - but the word that best describes the Bucky you've met?
Withdrawn.
He's been at the compound almost two weeks now, always following Steve around looking anxious and slightly beside himself as he tries his best to blend in with the wall behind him, flinching if someone comes a little too close or laughs a little too loudly near him. You've all noticed his nervous eyes constantly darting all over his surroundings, clearly checking for the nearest exit to make sure he can escape at just a moment's notice.
You also haven't heard him say much apart from his name when he first arrived and the occasional 'yes' or 'no' when Steve asks him stuff, but you've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you've got your attention directed elsewhere.
You wonder if he's having a hard time adjusting not only to his new home but also to the flourishing friendship between you and Steve, so you give both of them space to find each other again. After all, Steve is important to you, so by proxy, Bucky is too.
Day 19
Three weeks in and you're eating dinner by yourself in the kitchen when you hear footsteps from the hallway.
"Smells like the kitchen's occupied right now," Steve's soft voice sounds from the other side of the wall before he's even shown himself in the doorframe, "come on, we'll just come back later."
"You can come in, it's okay," you call back over your plate of chicken tikka masala, excited to finally have an excuse to talk to Steve after weeks of almost complete radio-silence.
He pokes his head around the door frame. "You sure? We can wait 30 minutes until you're done - we don't mind, do we Buck?" He looks over his shoulder and you hear Bucky mumble something incoherently before Steve looks back at you with an apologetic smile.
"No, no please come in," you urge the two of them forwards with a wave of your fork, "it's been a quiet day, I would love some company."
"Well it does smell lovely in here," Steve smiles broadly and steps inside, immediately striding over to you by the dinner table while Bucky silently follows him.
"Hi sweetheart," Steve mutters happily and kisses the top of your head, "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages.”
"Hi Stevie," you lean into him and send Bucky what you hope is a disarming smile from over Steve's shoulder as he sits down at the far end of the table. He looks as if he'd rather be lying under a rock.
"I didn't want to impose on your big reunion," you explain, "I thought you guys needed some well-deserved time to reconcile."
Steve sends you a grateful look and starts emptying the fridge of vegetables.
"So what've you been up to today?" you ask as he pulls out a bag of chopped kale and a sad looking winter squash.
"Uhm, not much," Steve eyes the squash suspiciously. "Went for a run earlier, showed Buck around the gym. Had my ass handed to me in the ring, didn't I?" He laughs and looks over at Bucky who's sitting quietly between you like a polite child.
"I - I don't know about that," Bucky says uncomfortably and darts his eyes over to you, checking for your reaction.
You remember feeling like that; scared that others would be afraid of you if you showed them exactly what you were capable off. It makes your stomach ache.
"Come on Buck, you beat the living shit out of me," Steve laughs unknowingly and it makes Bucky's ears turn red and his mouth reduce to a thin white line.
"I hear you're skilled with a switchblade," you speak directly to Bucky, wanting to show him that you're neither afraid of him nor his capabilities. "I could use some pointers for close combat if you have any," you try to shrug as nonchalantly as humanly possible. "I usually spar with Sam or Steve but they're both terrible with knives!"
"It's true," Steve grins. "You're a better match for her, Buck."
Bucky's eyes dart between you and Steve but he doesn't reply.
"Say the word, and I'm yours for an afternoon, James," you smile.
Bucky grunts and uncomfortably slinks back in his chair.
Day 24
There's a strong burning sensation in your eyelids as you blink for the first time in what feels like hours and you turn your head to the side, only to realise the clock is up by a mere three minutes.
4:42
It's mocking you. Red digits staring at you in the dark, reminding you that you have exactly two hours and eighteen minutes before you have to be dressed for your weekly sparring match with Sam. You give out an involuntary groan at the thought and try placing yourself differently on the mattress although it feels like you've tried out every possible position already.
It's the third night in a row you haven't closed a single eye, and it's starting to drive you crazy! It's not as if you really have a job where you can afford an off day. Off days usually results in getting badly injured - or in worst cases; killed.
With yet another annoyed groan, you sit up straight on the mattress. 4:44.
"That's it," you mumble under your breath and swing your legs over the side of the bed frame, grabbing your wollen socks and your book in the process as you determinedly decide that you're not gonna waste the next few hours fretting over missing sleep.
The entire first floor is completely dark as you walk the empty hallway, so when you enter the living room, you're surprised to find another person already occupying the room.
"James?"
He's sitting in the big winged chair, his hair unruly, shoulders slumped, dark bags under his eyes. He doesn't even look up to greet you but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the table in front of him as he gives out a tired grunt in response. The skin underneath his eyes is irritated and spotted, and you think to yourself that it looks like he's been crying. A lot.
"Are you okay?" You ask and he blinks a few times at the question but still doesn't look up.
"M'fine."
He looks awful and you cannot help but think to yourself that Steve definitely doesn't know about this. That if he did, he'd be sitting right here beside the man he's been missing like a piece of himself.
"How long have you been up?"
Bucky's eyes flicker to the clock above the door. "A while," he grunts and you get the immediate feeling that maybe he's never even gone to bed.
"Hmm," you nod, not sure what else to say. "Come, I'll make us coffee."
"I don't want coffee."
"Well come anyway," you urge him.
His eyes meet yours for the first time and you guess he's considering how to gently turn you down, but after af couple of contemplative seconds, he finally sighs as he pushes himself up from the chair and reluctantly follows you. Even though he pulls the bill of his cap down towards his eyes, it feels like a victory. Thank god for his impeccable manners or he probably would've turned around and left altogether.
He sits down on the bar stool at the kitchen island and you pour both of you a mug of instant coffee.
Normally, he seems to thrive in silence but you've never seen him look more uncomfortable, so you decide on breaking the ice.
Carefully, you clear your throat and his eyes immediately dart towards you. He already looks sick of the question you haven't even asked him yet, but still, you continue.
"You're on the ninth floor, right? Next to Sam."
He nods.
"Have you settled in nicely?"
"Mhm," he grunts.
"I live on the floor below. Sandwiched between Steve and Nat."
"Okay," he nods, probably wondering why you won't just leave him alone.
"Do you like it here?"
"Yes," he hesitates and sighs in slight annoyance when he realises that his short answers aren't going to keep you from yapping away. "People here are nice. I guess," he gives in with a shrug.
You chuckle and watch as he takes a sip of the coffee and scrunches up his nose, looking at the coffee as if it's offended him.
"I don't know if you know this-" you say as you finally look away from him now that you have a reason to continue the conversation, "- but I'm actually quite new to the compound too. I've only been here about six months."
"Steve told me," Bucky nods and tries to hide that his fleeting eyes are studying your every movement. "He talks a lot about you."
It makes you smile. "He talks a lot about you too."
Bucky follows the movement of your fingers as they tap the rim of the mug in front of you but doesn't say anything.
Entertained by how he studies you, you slowly bring the cup to your lips. "Where is Steve?" You ask him and take a sip.
Bucky's eyes briefly catch yours again and a thin line immediately appears between his dark eyebrows. "In bed," he grunts, "- why?"
"Does he know you're-"
"He's not my babysitter," he cuts you off pointedly.
"I know," you give him what you hope is a reassuring smile. "I was just wondering if he knows you're not sleeping. There are remedies for insomnia these days, you know."
His eyes seem to stare straight through to your soul. "Like coffee?" he grunts, challenging you.
It makes you chuckle. "Touché!"
The muscles on his forehead seem to relax a little now that he's figured out you can take a joke. "No, he doesn't know," he mumbles and looks away. "He has enough to deal with being Captain America and all. I don't want to burden him more than I already have."
"I see," you nod and go back to your coffee, thinking to yourself that Bucky might no longer be the great charmer Steve's told you stories about, but he's definitely a good man. Perhaps with some humour in there if you dig deep enough.
"Are you going to tell him?" He asks with slate blue eyes coming back up to stare right through you once more. He's challenging you again.
"Don't see why I would," you shrug. You want to show him that you can be trusted. That he doesn't have to rely on Steve alone.
He stares at you intensely a couple of seconds before his face fades back to neutral, but you see the way the tension of his shoulders eases just a fraction. Finally, he's disarmed.
"How do you like the coffee?" You ask, pleased to see that you've passed his tests.
His probing eyes direct the attention to the Falcon mug in front of him. "It tastes like ass," he grunts sincerely and stares disprovingly at the mug.
It makes you laugh.
Day 25
It's 5:23 when you hear dragging feet shuffling in the hallway. They stop right outside the kitchen door but nobody enters.
You know who it is, and you know he's currently contemplating going back to his quarters so he doesn't have to talk to you, but you decide on ruining his plan.
"You can come in," you say cheerily but the door stays immobile for a second or two before a heavy sigh sounds and he gently pushes it open.
Once again, you're thankful for his impeccable manners.
"Good morning," you say cheerily and turn off the heat to the pot on the stove.
"Mornin'," he mumbles while giving off an aura of slight annoyance, but you catch the brief interested look he shoots the eggs sizzling in front of you.
"How'd you sleep?" You ask as you plate your breakfast and sit down opposite him.
"I didn't."
"Me neither," you muse. "Are you hungry?" You ask him altough you know he is. He didn't show up for team dinner last night.
His eyes dart from yours, down to the shakshuka between you and back up again. He gives you a curt shake of his head but his stomach gives him away by growling.
"Come," you smile and hand him an extra fork, "we'll share mine."
He hesitates.
"- come on, I can tell you’re hungry."
"I’ll wait for Steve," he mumbles, "I don't want to ruin your breakfast."
"What are you talking about? I was lonely until you joined me," you push your plate towards him. "Let me do something nice for you in return."
He looks at you perplexed as if he isn't sure how to respond to your kindness. Slowly, he casts his eyes downwards so they scan the red sauce and eggs between you instead. "I don't know what it is."
"Try some," you offer him a reassuring smile.
You cannot decide whether he looks more curious or annoyed. "Okay. Thank you," he mumbles quietly and takes a small amount of sauce and eggs on his fork, carefully inserting it in his mouth. "It's spicy!" He furrows his brows and looks at you as if you've just tried to poison him, and before you can even react, his eyes widen. "Jesus FUCK!" He coughs.
You have to hold back a splutter of laughter at his sudden cursing. "Sorry! I forgot to tell you!"
He takes a gulp of water. "Fuck me!"
You chuckle, "Are you okay?"
He sucks in some air and waves his hand dismissively between you.
"Oh my goodness I'm so sorry," you full on laugh and catch his desperate eye as he takes another big gulp of water, "I always make it too spicy for Steve too."
"Shit," he wheezes and looks at you with tears in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry," you grin with tears in your own eyes, "I can make you something else."
"No, I like it," he continues coughing a little, "- I think."
"You think?" You laugh.
"I just didn't even know food could taste like this," he purses his lips and suck in some cooling air while eyeing the shakshuka between you. "For the past seventy years, I've only had stew and potatoes."
"Mmh," you sigh with a suddenly serious frown, and for a second, Bucky looks as if he's scared he's said something god-awful wrong but you interrupt him before his mind starts to wander. "Sorry - it's just: I remember that all too well. Eating the same thing over and over again. Personally, I haven't touched beets since I escaped."
He freezes slightly in his chair "...Escaped?"
You nod, "yeah. I was trained under the Soviet Armed Forces."
Bucky's gaze tells you that he's well-aware of the things you must've endured. "...Oh," he puts down the fork he's been holding.
"Yeah. Thank god I knew Natasha or I would probably still be stuck in Moscow."
"Hmm," he furrows his eyebrows. "I was told stories about Operation Red Room back when I was..." he clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and you refrain from telling him that you heard stories about him too. That from a young age, you'd been told that the Winter Soldier would come in the night if you didn't practise your ballet. "- You were... brainwashed too?" His eyes find yours.
You nod slowly. It seems you've finally found common ground.
He furrows his brows. "But you're normal?" he states matter-of-factly and immediately looks embarrassed by himself.
You smile at his expression. "Just as normal as you I guess."
Bucky's mouth twitches a little as he offers you the first hint of a smile you've ever seen on his face. It's hesitant, but it's there. And it lingers when he goes in for a second bite of your breakfast.
Day 30
Last night at dinner, Steve had told you that Bucky was having one of his more 'gloomier weeks' (his words) and that he would neither leave the bed nor have anything to eat no matter how much Steve tried to coax him.
Of course you haven't mentioned to anybody that you've shared your breakfast with Bucky every early morning for the past week, getting a chance to talk to him before he sneaks back to his room as the rest of the compound starts waking up, so when his pale cheeks suddenly appear behind Steve's back not even 30 minutes after you've wished him a good day, you try not to make too much of a fuss about it.
"Mornin' guys," you smile at them from over your coffee cup. They're both dressed in running gear with a huge Captain America logo on the front and you smile a little at how Bucky looks like he's about to hurl himself off of the nearest cliff. Your eyes meet his as he unsuccessfully tries to smooth back his long hair. "- Doing anything fun?"
"Thought we'd take some laps around the lake, didn't we Buck?" Steve smiles and pushes Bucky forwards so they're at the same level.
Bucky merely grunts, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.
"Sounds lovely," you sip your coffee, happy that you haven't come up with the same insane idea.
"Yeah, it's the first day of spring and the sun is finally out!" Steve sighs lovingly while Bucky rolls his eyes dramatically, clearly annoyed by Steve's peppy morning routine. "-Wanna join?"
"Oh absolutely not," you splutter with a laugh. "This is your insane idea. Don't drag me into it."
It makes Bucky's upper lip twitch familiarly as he tries smoothing back his long hair again.
"Big Captain America fan?" You joke as you nod towards the giant star on Bucky's chest.
Luckily, he doesn't miss a beat and picks it up immediately; "not really," he says in a sour tone of voice, "I'm only wearing this because they were all out of Iron Man shirts."
It makes both you and Steve laugh and Bucky sweeps back his hair again, for a brief moment looking proud of himself.
You're still grinning as you lock eyes with him and hand him the hairtie from around your wrist. "Here," you say as you wobble it in the air between you "to keep your hair out of your eyes."
Bucky hesitates as he looks between you and the black elastic band.
"It's a game changer, trust me," you grin and once again urges him to take it.
He's still hesitating when he takes a step forwards and grabs it from your hand, slowly tying the smallest ponytail you've ever seen at the nape of his neck. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome, James," you smile at him and he briefly smiles back before his expression fades to neutral again.
With pink cheeks, he looks at you while nervously shifting his weight around on his feet. "You can... call me Bucky if you'd like."
You smile at him and he carefully returns your smile. He's actually quite cute. "Okay Bucky," you nod, "I'd like that."
Steve looks as if he might burst from joy.
Day 34
Four days later, Bucky sits down next to you on the sofa. It's the first time during the day he isn't following Steve around like a dark shadow and it really suits him to be this independant.
"Hello," he says carefully.
"Hey Buck, what's up," you greet him and put down your book.
"I was thinking," he starts off slowly while fidgeting with the metal plates of his left hand. "If maybe you'd wanna show me one of those movies you were talking about at dinner the other night?"
"Yeah," you immediately grin and have to hide your excitement of finally having him seek you out voluntarily. "Anything in particular?"
"I don't know," he shrugs, already much more relaxed. "I don't really know any movies apart from Bambi and I doubt that's still a hit."
"You'd be surprised," you laugh and turn on the Netflix app, ready to show him your favourite movie. "Get cozy," you throw him a blanket, "I know exactly where to start."
He nods and carefully unfolds the blanket as he directs his attention to the title on the movie displayed on the screen. There's something heartwarming about seeing the world's most deadly assassin wrapped in plaid, sitting stiff as a trunk with his hands folded neatly in his lap, but you make sure not to look too obvious as you smile widely.
As the movie plays, you carefully watch his reactions to make sure he's thoroughly entertained, but even though he doesn't laugh at the funny parts, he still assures you that he liked it when the movie ends.
"You don't have to say that if you don't mean it."
"Okay," he chuckles so beautifully your stomach lurches forwards, "- maybe I would have liked to change some things around, but overall, I liked it."
"Okay, good," you smile.
"Maybe you can show me all your favourite movies?" He tries to shrug nonchalantly.
"I'd like that, Buck"
Day 37
"Hey sweetheart, I have a favour to ask you," Steve says when he catches you coming back from the bathroom during a movie break. He's dressed in tactical gear from head to toe, carrying his shield on his back and talking in his serious, low voice as he pulls you to the side so no one can hear the two of you. "I have to go with Tony to Boston for a few days. It's an emergency," he sighs, "do you think you could keep an eye on Bucky until I get back? Make sure he gets something to eat, that he comes out of his room. Stuff like that."
You look over Steve's shoulder and see Bucky sitting on the sofa, looking at you curiously from over the back. You feel a pang in your heart when you see his anxious face, and you almost get offended on his behalf. Over the last few days, he's really been showing progression. "I don't mind keeping him company," you turn your attention back to Steve, "but don't you think he deserves a little more credit?"
"I know, it's just -" Steve winces, "- I'm still a bit worried about him and it would really ease my mind to know you'll help out. Please, I have to leave in a bit."
"Just go. Don't worry, we'll have fun."
"You're the best," he grabs your hands and kisses your knuckles. "Thank you," he says and adjusts the strap over his shoulder before he waves at Bucky and heads out the door.
When you sit back down on the sofa again, Bucky's weirdly distant.
"What did Steve want?" he asks after a few seconds of silence.
You turn your gaze towards him, scan his face and feel the same pang in your heart as before. "Honestly?" You sigh, "he wants me to keep an eye on you."
The colour in Bucky's cheeks drains so he becomes more pale than you've ever seen him. "So now you're babysitting me too?"
"Nope," you say unceremoniously and press play on the remote. "I told him to fuck off."
He smiles at that.
Day 39
It's almost midnight and you and Bucky are sitting outside on lawn chairs with cups of steaming hot tea cradled in your hands as you quietly look up at the stars above you. Normally, you like talking and could do so for hours, but lately, you've come to enjoy the quiet hours in Bucky's company too.
You give out a content sigh and briefly turn your gaze towards him as he studies the constellations above you.
Even though the March air is so cold you've put on several layers of wool just to be able to sit outside, he's only wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, his thick bicep bulging nicely against the black hem. You wonder what he might look like with his shirt off.
"You're staring," he mumbles, a cloud of vapour escaping him as he breathes against the chilly air.
"Sorry," you chuckle and look away, slightly embarrassed by your unsolicited staring. "I just can't really believe you're not cold."
"Serum," he mutters matter-of-factly.
"Wish I had some of that," you sigh and snuggle further down into your scarf.
"Trust me, you really don't."
"Why not?"
"You ever been over-stimulated? It's like that."
"Mmh," you nod. "All the time?"
"Pretty much."
"What does it feel like?"
He shrugs, "neurons firing. Like everything's dialed up to eleven. Summers are unbearable. Loud noises even more so. Annoying people become three times as annoying," he shoots you an amused side-eye and you can tell he's about to make a joke. "Just imagine what I go through with Sam."
"Eat a bag of dicks, Wilson," you repeat the words you heard Bucky mutter the other day when it was suggested that he switch out a protein bar for a can of tuna.
He smiles at you. "You heard that, huh?"
"Just because Sam chose to ignore you, doesn't mean the rest of us didn't hear you being crass."
"Sorry," he grins.
"I can take it."
"I know you can," he arches an eyebrow, about to say something, but is cut off by a sudden loud bang from above that has both of you look upwards.
"Ooh!" You immediately exclaim with enthusiasm as you follow the illumination of colours above. "Fireworks!" You lean into him, excitement quickly slipping from your face, however, when you notice the state he's in.
He's sitting as if petrified; stiff, glossy eyed, panting. His chest is heaving in shallow breaths and he stares at you with desperation.
"Bucky!" You cry out and immediately grab his pale cheeks, holding his face close to yours.
"Can't. Breathe," he's gulping for air, hands desperately clinging to your elbows.
"Look at me," you say and slowly heave in some air, trying hard to get him to match your breathing. "Focus on me," you exhale slowly.
His eyes flitters across your face but it works. He has his breathing under control within three deep breaths but then another loud bang sounds and he flinches.
"Come," you grab his hand and drag him inside to safety while he pants and whines behind you.
With the door kicked shut and your hands immediately on his cheeks again, you quietly remind him where he is. "You're safe, Bucky. It's just fireworks. You're safe here with me."
He clutches his heart as he slides down the wall behind him.
And when you hug him tightly, and over and over again remind him that he's safe, he slumps down against your shoulder and cries into your neck, holding onto you for dear life.
Day 40
Although he's been around you all day, Bucky hasn't uttered a single word directly to you since the panic attack the night before, so when he suddenly breaks the thick silence between you with a loud clearing of his throat, you immediately listen.
"Steve wants us to be friends," he says bluntly and completely out of context.
You look up from your book. "What?" You furrow your eyebrows. "- you don't think we're friends?"
"I - I don't know," he bites his inner cheek and finally looks at you for real, "I wasn't sure after the... you know."
"That changed nothing for me," you try to shrug nonchalantly although you want to shake him to make him understand. "You just panicked, Buck."
"Well who the fuck panics at fireworks?" he mumbles and looks awat, "you must think I'm fucking mental."
"Definitely not," you smile with a shake of your head. "I just think you have some invisible scars. That doesn't mean we can't be friends."
"Mhh," he grunts without fully accepting your words. "I'm not sure I deserve your friendship," his mouth pulls to the side disapprovingly.
"You do," you put your head in the crook of his neck and breathe in his scent. It's earthy and fresh; orange and cedar wood.
"So you don't think I'm.... off?" He asks quietly, lips close to your scalp. You can almost feel them vibrating.
"No, Buck," you smile with closed eyes, enjoying the close proximity. "I don't think you're off," you breathe in. Orange. Cedar wood. "Quite on the contrary. I like spending time with you."
He nods slowly while contemplating your words. "I - uh - I like spending time with you too."
"That makes me very happy to hear," you smile into his shoulder. "So you agree? We're friends?"
"Yeah," he nods and puts his chin on top of your head. "We can be friends."
Day 42
Steve's back from Boston with an injury.
"He took a blade to the glute so now he can't even walk," Bucky explains after coming back from visiting him in the med wing. "He says it's his hip but I just know it's because he's too decent to say ass in front of doctor Cho."
"Poor Steve," you wince while chuckling slightly at Bucky.
"Yeah... Even with the serum's recovery time, he figures he'll be out for the rest of the month."
"Well," you smile, "at least that means you finally found a legit way out of going on morning runs with him," you muse as you measure a cup of water for the dinner you're making the two of you.
"Yeah, thank fuck for that!" He agrees in relief, "I cannot listen to one more word about how much he loves bird song in the morning."
"God he's so old!" you laugh and switch your voice over in your best imitation of Steve, "Oh look over there, Bucky! A blue crested warbler!"
It's not even that funny but the voice you're making has Bucky laughing!
It's the first time since you first met him and, oh my god, if it isn't the most beautiful sound you've ever heard! The skin around his eyes crinkle softly, his head tilts backwards and he gives out a 'ha!' so loud you can see the back of his teeth.
You want to freeze this moment in time. To make him laugh at your stupid joke for an eternity while your stomach flips in slow motion.
Your own reaction to it perplexes you so much that the cup you're holding overflows.
Day 43
You've barely entered the gym before Bucky's let go of the bar he's doing pull ups in and has approached you to ask if you'll be his sparring partner for the day instead of Steve.
"Hip still a bust?"
Bucky nods and throws his grips to the ground. "What do you say?" He pants and wipes a drop of sweat from his temple. "We're both out of a partner. Might as well use each other as punch bags."
"Are you sure?" You arch an eyebrow while trying to ignore the sudden dryness of your inner cheek. "I mean; you look pretty beat already. How long have you been down here?"
"Couple of hours," he shrugs, "since breakfast."
"Since breakfast?"
Bucky shrugs again. "You were out."
"So you resorted to training for five plus hours because you were bored? I'm flattered Barnes."
He grins.
"- but yeah, sure, I guess I have time to throw you around for a bit," you wink at him and he grins again. It makes you feel warm. "But be warned, I might not be as good with a knife as you are but I'm faster than Steve and sneakier than Sam."
"So you say," he smiles and ties the small pony tail at the nape of his neck.
"Cute hair," you chuckle at him while you grab your makeshift dagger from your gym bag.
"A-har-har," he says sarcastically, "don't forget whose hairtie I'm wearing."
Day 46
He's sitting shirtless beside you, still panting from your daily sparring match, and you're trying your absolute hardest not to stare at the intricate scars that zigzag across his torso and comes to a blazingly red halt where flesh meets metal.
Over the last couple of sparring matches, you've thought to yourself more than once that he looks absolutely beautiful in all his scarred beauty.
"I talked to Steve this morning," he cuts the silence, thankfully giving you something else to think of other than tracing the red lines of his chiseled chest. "He's ready to start training again."
"Yeah?" you try and read his neutral expression. "Looks like morning laps around the lake are back on the menu for you then," you wink at him.
"Well at least I had eleven amazing days without bird watching," he jokes.
"I know you secretly love it," you smile, "- Okay, maybe not the bird-watching bit but the running at least."
"Yeah, it's fine," he leans forwards, puts his weight on his elbows an shoots you a glance. "So, what do you wanna do about us?"
Your stomach flips at the way he pronounces us. Like you're a unit.
Your voice suddenly seems raw. "What do you mean?" you smack your lips to bring them back to life.
It has Bucky follow your mouth intendedly. "I mean, I guess you don't have to keep sparring with me now that Steve's back on the roster," he says, "I like sparring with you, but that doesn't necessarily mean that -"
"Don't worry," you cut him off, relieved that you still have an excuse to be in this close proximity with him. "I like sparring with you too."
He smiles jokingly at you. "Even though I always win?"
"Even though you're always lucky," you chuckle, "and lets be honest, it's only because you fight dirty."
He sends you a puzzling look.
"As if taking off your shirt isn't a trick to get me weak in the knees!"
He gives you the loud 'ha!' you've been awarded with only a handful of times. It makes your stomach all warm and in the heat of the moment, you get the sudden urge to press your lips to his skin. To see if he tastes as good as he smells and feels and looks.
"Alright," he rolls his eyes and stands up from the bench with a groan that have your knees feel like rubber. "Come on, let's get back to me kicking your ass."
You look sceptically at the hand he's stretching out before you. "Will you be putting on your shirt to give me a fair chance?"
"No fucking way," he winks at you.
You flip him off.
Thankfully, it has him laughing again as he pulls you to your feet.
Day 49
"Sweetheart!" Steve exclaims excitedly as him and Bucky enter the living room at lunch time. "I haven't seen you in days!" He immediately strides around the table and hugs you while giving your cheek a brief kiss.
"Hey guys!" You smile at them and then turn towards Steve; "how's your butt?"
He shoots you a tired smile and you can tell from his face that's Bucky's already been giving him hell about his injury. "Butt's fine," he sighs and changes course. "How about you? What have you been up to?"
"Not much," you shrug, refraining from telling Steve that you've been spending almost every waking hour in Bucky's company.
"I hear you're kicking Bucky's ass," Steve chuckles.
"Well, he's a liar," you wink at Bucky who in return sends you the boyish smile that you love. "- He beats me at everything from shooting to stabbing. It's annoying."
"Don't listen to her, Stevie," Bucky protests with a smile as he crosses his bulky arms over his chest. God, you want to touch him! "She's doing fucking amazing."
"You know what?" you turn to Steve, "for someone so foul-mouthed, he's actually strangely polite!"
Steve laughs, "if you think that's bad, you should hear him when you're not around," he blows out a little air, "yikes!"
It has Bucky roll his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he chuckles, "lets not make it worse than it is."
"Come on Buck, you'd never use that kind of language in front of a beautiful dame," Steve grins.
"A beautiful dame?" you snicker at the old fashioned term. "Did you seriously just call me that?"
"Yeah," Steve chuckles and bumps his elbow against yours, "of course I think you're a beautiful dame."
"Gee thanks Steve," you grin, "that doesn't make me feel like a grandma at all," you look to Bucky for confirmation, but he awkwardly looks away.
Day 50
You and Bucky are watching the newest blockbuster on Netflix and have just arrived at the part where the final stand between the lead and the villain takes place, when in the middle of the tenacious battle, Bucky decides to talk.
"Is Steve your boyfriend?" He asks suddenly while following the burning helicopter debris on the screen in front of him.
You have a feeling that it's a question that's been nagging him since yesterday, but that he suddenly couldn't hold it back anymore.
"Steve?" You look over at him, a little perplexed. His eyes are glued to the screen in front of him and you're having a hard time figuring out if he's just embarrassed by the slightly prying question or if there's more to it. "- Why'd you think that?"
Bucky's face turns almost crimson. "I don't know," he says while pursing his lips but you have a strong feeling he knows exactly why. "You seem... cosy," he shrugs. There's a different tone behind the last word as if he had to struggle to even get it past his lips.
"We're just friends, Buck."
He stares ahead, body as tense as the first day you met him. "He thinks you're beautiful," he mumbles uncomfortably though he tries to hide it by feigning nonchalance. "And he's always kissing your face..."
"You should really ask Steve about that," you smile, "but no, there's nothing between us. Promise." You want to tell him that you only have eyes for him. That you want him to kiss you.
He gulps and flitters his gaze across your face, studies every angle while you follow his blue irises. Your stomach lurches, it's definitely the most intimate moment you've ever shared and you can feel the electricity between you.
"Just for the record," he says quietly, "I think you're really pretty too."
Your throat tightens. It's suddenly hard to breathe. And before you've had a chance to react to his words, to take his lips between yours, he looks back at the screen and tightens his jaw.
You bet he's thinking of how much smoother this used to go.
Day 51
"Sooo," Sam sings as he playfully plumps down on the sofa next to you, "spill the tea!"
"...About?"
"Rumour has it that you and Bucky have the hots for each other." He pumps his eyebrows annoyingly. "Has he smooched you yet?"
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. Because no, Bucky is taking things a little too slow for your liking and he hasn't smooched you yet though it's all you can think about when you're with him. "I don't know what you're talking about," you mumble.
He takes your bad attempt at dodging his question as confirmation. "Lucky guy!" He laughs, "seventy years on ice - God knows he must be excited to finally get a little sugar!"
You want to punch Sam.
Day 52
You've already gone to bed when there's a knock on your door.
"It's me," Bucky mumbles from the other side, "can I come in?"
"Sure!" You sit up straight and briefly fiddle with your pyjamas front even though you can tell by your bedside mirror that it looks fine.
He peers in from behind the door and you feel the familiar embers come to live inside of you when he shoots you an amused smile. "Nice PJ's," he cackles and and steps inside.
He looks amazing dressed from head to toe in his tactical suit complete with thigh strap and makeshift sniper rifle attached to his back.
"You're in your most comfortable outfit too, I can see," you grin and nod towards the grenade launcher he's holding. "What are you all dressed up for, sergeant Barnes?"
He gives you a crooked smile at the old familiar name. "It's Tuesday," he brazenly waves the launcher in front of his face as if you're supposed to know what that means.
"Which means we have to sacrifice someone?" You joke.
"Steve and I usually do Tactical Tuesdays in our combat gear. But apparently, his ass is still sore," he grins and you can tell he has to hold back a laugh, "I - uh - I was wondering if you'd wanna come with me instead? Sorry, didn't realise how late it was."
"I'll come!" You say excitedly before he's even had the chance to finish his sentence. "Give me two seconds," you grab your tactical suit and bag of knives, quickly changing in the bathroom while Bucky patiently waits for you.
When you re-enter your quarters, knifes neatly arranged in the belt strapped around your waist and all, Bucky briefly forgets all about his manners and runs his eyes down your full length. You know you look good in the skin-tight suit, but even though you'd picked the all-black outfit for his pleasure, you're still surprised to have him so discomposed before you.
You clear your throat so his slate blue eyes snap back up to meet yours and he realises he's been caught red-handed. "Get a good look?" You smile at him.
"Fuck off," he grins with pink cheeks and turns his gaze away and opens the door for you. "You ready?"
"Yeah," you excitedly step past him and into the hallway, feeling his gaze burn on your backside.
"Okay I have to ask" you say as the elevator zooms towards the gym on the ground floor. "Is it really necessary with four guns? What are you compensating for?"
He smirks. "Says the woman who brought six knives."
"Touché," you laugh, "but if I know you correctly, you also have a few daggers tugged under your belt."
He smiles knowingly.
"How much do you reckon it takes to take me down when I'm in my tac suit?" You ask him, bemused. "Four guns and two daggers?"
He looks at you with an arched eyebrow.
"- And lets not forget about the grenade launcher," you chuckle as the elevator doors ping open. "Super handy for close combat."
"I'm just putting it in my locker," he rolls his eyes at you as he holds open the door to the gym. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Oh I would never," you grin and watch his broad backside as he dumps the launcher on the top shelf of his locker, picking up his switchblade instead. "What?" He chuckles when he turns around and sees your cocked eyebrows, "it's my weapon of choice."
"You are so only bringing that because you know I love your little knife flip."
He shakes his head with a grin as he leans down to tighten the laces of his right boot.
Just to have something other to do than stare at his muscular form, you adjust the white sportstape wrapped around your knuckles. You cannot wait for training to begin so you have something else to focus on.
"Okay," he straightens up and runs a hand through his hair, tying the small pony tail that, in the time since you've come to know him, has turned into a bun. "Ready?"
"Come at me Barnes," you smile while taking on your fighting stance, parrying your face with your taped up fists.
He smiles at you briefly before he surprise-lunges forwards, ready to sweep you off your feet, but you know he fights aggressively and has seen it coming from miles away. Skilfully, you jump as high as you can, swinging your knee over his neck so you're sitting on top of his shoulders.
He crouches over before you've had a chance to yank his collar, makes you do a somersault over his head and throws you down on your back, immediately pressing his dull practise switchblade against your throat.
"Fuck!" You admit defeat.
"That's got to be a new record," he grins, "10 seconds."
"Dammit!"
"Come on," he offers you his hand and pull you to your feet, "let's go again."
"Alright," you take on your stance once more and try to read him, "you got lucky this time."
"Sure," he says and grins while skilfully swinging his switchblade so it swooshes in the air between you.
"Show off," you stick out your tongue and take advantage of his momentary grinning as you run towards him, slip down to your knees and slide between his legs, plunging your little white plastic dagger into his right calf so the blade disappears into the handle.
"Right side injury," you yell to make him simulate that he's hurt and kick his left leg in the hope that he will fall down.
But even off balance, he's sturdier than you think and keeps his stance, so you jump to your feet and charge at him again, this time jumping him on his front, forgetting that he has a vibranium arm as you try and injure his left shoulder.
"Shit!" You say through gritted teeth at the sound of metal clanging against metal.
He takes advantage of the added weight to his front and falls forward on purpose so you land on your back, knocking the wind out of you in the process.
He lands on his knees between your legs, and even though you have your ankles wrapped around his waist and your plastic knife inside his arm pit, his fake gun is out of its holster, and he's pointing it straight at your heart.
"Got you," he's panting hard as he studies your face, moving his torso a little closer to you, and you get the sudden feeling he's about to lean in and finally kiss you, so you tighten the grip your legs have around his waist, silently telling him to come closer. But he looks away and re-holsters his gun.
"That was better," he admits and stands up, holding out his hand for you to take. "Nice detail with the surprise kick."
With disappointment pooling in your stomach, you let him pull you up from the floor. "Mhm," you grunt. "And it would've worked too if it wasn't for your stupidly large feet."
"Sorry," he smiles, "Kick harder next time. Bust my fucking ankle" he winks at you.
"I'll bust your balls," you mutter, analysing the way he distributes his weight to predict how he'll move.
He laughs, "I love when you talk dirty to me!" He flips the daggers he's holding in each hand.
"God, you're so cocky right now!"
He grunts and readies himself for your attack, "I'll fucking show you."
Which he does. Two times more.
"Again!" You grunt in annoyance.
"How much more can you take?" He chuckles as you get in position for the fifth time.
"More," you parry your face again.
"Alright alright," he wipes his forehead on his wrist, "just gimme a second. I'm sweating balls."
"Don't you dare take off your shirt just to throw me off!"
"I would never!" he grins and grabs the neck of his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion, revealing glistening pecs and that small trail of hair that you've dreamt of licking.
"You're fucking infuriating, Barnes," you say while charging straight at his dumb smile, but he grabs you around the waist before you've even had the chance to react and throws you to the ground, unstrapping your knife belt in the process so you only have a single dagger left to defend yourself with.
He throws himself on top of you, pins your wrists over your head and incapacitates you by pressing his chest down on your lungs.
"Fuck!"
"Five seconds this time," he smirks. "You're slipping. Should've stayed in bed, huh?"
"Did your mom ever tell you how fucking annoying you are?" you wriggle to get loose but he merely tightens his grip. "Can't you just let me win once?"
"Can't help it. I love when you turn all aggressive."
"What happened to all the gentleman-crap you and Steve always advocate?"
"It went out the door when you starting cursing at me," he grins and pulls on your wrists so you stretch your shoulders with a small groan.
"Careful Barnes or I'm not gonna want to play with you anymore," you do another small wriggle to break free.
"I have a hard time believing that," he says and with a grin turns his gaze down the length of your neck again, fixes his eyes on your panting chest.
The electricity you've felt between you as of late swells and grows, settles in your chest cavity at the way his weight feels between your legs, his handsome face mere inches from yours. Voltage in your joined skin.
You study his every move as he briefly licks his lips and look back at you.
With your eyes locked on his, he gulps, suddenly uncomfortable. Neither of you say anything but the look he sends you speak volumes when he settles his gaze on your mouth.
"Bucky," you say tenderly and search his face in the hope that it will finally get him to kiss you, but it does the opposite. Instead, it looks as if he awakens from a trance.
He blinks twice, parts his lips as he carefully examines your expression and then he sends you an apologetic smile as he lets go of your wrists. "Sorry," he says and move away from you, stands up as he avoids your disappointed gaze. "Let's call it a night."
You have a hard time being as nonchalant as he is about the situation he just denied the both of you, and you jump to your feet with annoyance radiating from your entire being. "Hell no!" You protest as you clip on your knife belt again, "I'm not done with you."
"Sweetheart," he sighs pointedly with a raised eyebrow but the new nickname doesn't escape you and it takes the edge of the infuriation you feel.
"Don't sweetheart me," you say and bend down in your hips, balling your taped-up hands into fists. "Get in position. I'm gonna find your weak spot soon enough, Barnes."
"If you say so," he sighs in defeat. "Come on then," he lazily waves you forward and you run straight towards him, copying the manoeuvre from the first round by swinging your knee over his neck.
Again, he tries to throw you off by bending forwards, but this time you're holding on much tighter to him and you stay put. He slashes the plastic switchblade against your arm, yelling out "injury!" while throwing you off his shoulder again when you're not allowed to use your left arm to hold on to him any longer.
Luckily, you land on your feet so you kick his left arm, making the switch blade fly out of his grip and you spin again, this time fuelled by so much frustration towards him, that you kick him straight in the chest with so much force he immediately falls down.
He lands on his back with a thump while you land straddled across his chest, your face close to his, the small plastic dagger in your hand pressed tightly against his Adam's apple.
"Okay," he gulps and opens his palms to signify surrender, "this time, you have me. That kick was ballsy!" he grins boyishly. "Your flexibility always amazes me."
"Told you I'd find your weak spot," you pant with a proud smile on your lips, enjoying having him in his lying like this.
The knife is no longer pressed to his skin but neither of you are doing anything to move out of the position you're in, and when his eyes search your face and he lets out a small inaudible gulp, you lean forwards without thinking, finally claiming his lips in a hungry kiss.
He follows you immediately and it doesn't take long before your tongues are intertwined and his right hand is cradled around your chin.
"Bucky," you whisper against him and stretch out your arms over his head and you slink forwards, dragging your front over his.
"Mmh", he hums against you and sits up so you straddle his waist, presses his pelvis towards yours and kisses you again while he grabs you around the ribcage, scoots you closer to his. "You are my weak spot," he pants and pushes his tongue inside your mouth, lets his arousal grow.
You bury your fingers in his long hair, let him lick your neck while he groans beneath you. "Take off my clothes," you whisper in his ear and lick the shell of it.
"Ah shit," he whispers against your skin and gives you a brief, wet kiss before he moves his head to get a better look at you. "You are so beautiful," he whispers and goes back to kiss your wanting lips, vibranium fingers slowly pulling down the zipper at the front of your suit, revealing your naked chest to him.
"Fuck me," he gulps when he looks down at the exposed skin between you, "you're so fucking beautiful," he whispers and leans forwards, takes your nipple between his lips and kisses you sensually
"I'm crazy about you," you confess in a whisper and throw back your head as his hands become more wanting, his hips suddenly moving in small thrusts. "Fuck me Bucky," you fist his hair and hold him at an arms length while moving your hips to simulate you riding him which has him grunt a few excited times.
He looks at you with pupils blown wide, mouth falling open. "Oh my god, you are so dirty!"
"I want you so bad," you pad his erection through his cargo pants and he shoots back his head in response, the most beautifully sinful look etched on his face. "Take off your pants."
"Yeah," he grins and flips you onto your back, gives you a brief kiss before he stands up, unbuckles his belt and pushes down his pants, kicking them and his boots off. He gives a raspy exhale when he sees you sitting on your knees before him, and he groans gutturally when you find the edge of him through his boxers and you trace the massive outline of him with your lips.
He takes a step closer to you, buries his hands in your hair as you kiss the trail of hair from his navel down and lick the muscles giving his torso a distinct V running down beneath the elastic band of his boxers.
"Sweetheart," he groans without looking away, tenderly holding your hair back so he can see your face as you kiss and lick him. "I've been dreaming of this."
"Me too," you trace his head underneath the dark fabric, suck a wet spot at the tip and cup his balls in your hands, letting your index finger slip back to touch his tight perineum.
"Jesus fuck, you are so fucking dirty," He shoots back his head with a groan, eyes suddenly fixating on something above you, but you ignore it.
You're about to pull down the last layer of fabric separating him from your mouth, when he takes a step back. "Hey, hey," he suddenly says in a different tone of voice and he puts his hands on your arm to get you to stop moving, eyes still fixated above you.
"Sweetheart," he looks down at you with a shocked expression as he takes one more step backwards while drying off saliva from the corner of his mouth. "Not here, okay?"
"Why not?"
"There's a camera pointing straight at us." He points over your head and you notice the red dot immediately.
You release the grip you have on him with a sigh. "Tony and his fucking security," you mumble.
He quietly helps you up and pulls on his pants while you zip up the front of your suit so you're decent again.
"So now what?" you grin a little awkwardly and take a step closer to him, hoping that he will suggest one of your bedrooms.
"Come on," he's suddenly serious as he grabs your hand and pulls you towards the elevator, silently pointing out the security camera blinking angrily in the corner of the lift as you zoom up to your floor.
"Being cockblocked by a camera really wasn't on my bingo card for this year," you joke.
He smiles a little but you can tell it's forced and it doesn't change the frown he's sporting.
You both get off on your floor and he follows you to your quarters but doesn't follow you inside when you open the door.
"I should go," he furrows his eyebrows.
"What?" You turn around staring at him.
"The footage," he mumbles and his upper lip twitches. "I have to go destroy it."
"We can do so tomorrow," you smile at him and grab him around the waist, kissing his neck to try and coax him into continue where you left off.
"Might be too late then," he whispers.
"Bucky, come on. It's just Tony."
He leans forwards and for a brief moment, you're sure you have him convinced but then he presses his lips to your cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart," he says quietly and with that, he's out the door.
His prescense lingers even after he's gone and all you can think about is what would've happened if he'd stayed.
Day 53
You'd listened to him pacing the floor of his quarters above you half the night before deciding on getting up yourself.
He didn't join your around 4 am as he usually does when neither of you are able to sleep, and at 7:30, Steve came down dressed in his running gear alone.
"What's up with Bucky?" He asks while scratching his beard. It's not something you've ever explicitly discussed before but of course he too has noticed how much time you've been spending together outside the ring.
"I don't know," you shrug and turn your attention back to the book you've been pretending to read for two hours straight.
Even with your eyes fixed on the yellowing pages in front of you, you can tell that Steve stops mid-motion. "...Did you two have a fight?"
"No, we did not," you scoff, "we're not children."
"I know. But you're both wearing the same long face, and he's usually occupying that chair - " he points to the bar stool opposite you, "- when he's making up bad excuses to spend more time with you instead of coming out for a run with me."
"I don't know what's up with him, Steve," you say pointedly, "I'm not his girlfriend!"
Steve puts his weight on his elbow and leans close so you can see his expression from the corner of your eyes. "Is that what this is about?" he asks quietly, "You want to be his girlfriend?"
Your cheeks light up and you determinedly fix your gaze on the first word of the page. "I'm not having this conversation with you," you mumble even though you know your cover is made.
"You don't have to," he shrugs. "I've already had it with Bucky."
Finally, your interest is piqued. You shoot Steve a nervous side eye. He's looking at you like a disappointed father.
"...and?" You ask when he doesn't continue.
"I really don't think this is a conversation you should be having with me."
"Well you started it," you mumble and look back down again, flipping the page of your book even though you haven't read a single word.
Suddenly, Steve stands up straight. "Hey man," he says over your head and you don't have to turn you gaze to know who's just entered the room.
"Hey," you hear Bucky's voice from the doorway before he fully enters the room though he stays close to the exit.
"Right," Steve nods and pads your hand before pressing past Bucky, clapping his shoulder in the process.
Finally alone, Bucky takes two steps closer to you. "Hey, sweetheart," he mumbles quietly, hands buried in his pockets, "can we talk?"
You look up at him, the air between you thick. "Sure," you sigh but cross your arms over your chest.
He takes the bar stool next to you, drums his fingers against the steel kitchen counter, purses his lips. "Last night was -..." he trails off and closes his eyes in frustration when he cannot find the right words.
"Disappointing?" You say and cock an eyebrow.
"Yeah," he agrees honestly. "It was very disappointing. I'm sorry about that."
He looks sincere but you're not sure how to react. You want to accept his apology - to have him back on your side - but you need an explanation.
"It wasn't because I didn't enjoy it," he quietly continues, "- because trust me, I did," he sends you a pained look and you ease up on the defensive position you're holding yourself in as he carefully grabs your hands, kisses your knuckles tenderly. "I didn't lie when I said that I've been wanting it for quite some time," he looks at your joined hands and your heart cracks at the confession that Steve insinuated. "- been wanting you."
"Then why'd you leave?" You ask quietly.
His gaze crawls up to meet yours. "Truth be told, I got scared."
"Of... us?"
He shakes his head. "No, sweetheart. Of that camera."
"The camera?" you tilt your head to the side and search his face, "Honey, it's just Tony. I know there's bad blood between you, but he would never expose any of us."
"I know," he gulps. "It's more what the camera represents. Usually, I'm so aware."
"Of what?"
"Everything," he breathes as if it's a relief to say out loud. "It's like I told you; the serum enhances everything inside of you, dials everything up to fucking eleven. So in terms of combat and targeting enemies it's great, but when I'm with you, I don't feel anything else..."
You furrow your brows. You don't understand.
"Sweetheart... I can tell by the colour of the dust underneath Sam's shoes where he's been taking his latest date. I know when you're on your period just from the way you wash your hair. I know when Nat's talked to her sister last, when Steve's not sleeping - even when Coulson's wife's van needs an oil change. I'm aware of every emergency exit, surveillance measurement and guard change of every building I've entered in the past six months, but that camera last night? Sweetheart, I forgot it was there."
"Buck," You whisper achingly. "That's an awful lot to carry around."
"I know," he mumbles. "Being alert of everything has been my default for so long - a survival mechanism if you will - but last night, you were all I saw. And I got scared when I suddenly realised how easily you've made me put down my guard," he sighs. "That's why I left."
An involuntary whimper escapes your throat, you fiddle with the golden link that runs over the back of his left hand. "I know it scared you but I bet it must've felt good to let go too."
"You have no idea," he breathes out a sigh of relief. "But it's not easy to let go of something that's such an integral part of your way of living. Contemplated what to do all night."
"What did you conclude?" Your heart starts to hammer in your chest.
"That kissing you definitely beats remembering where every security camera in the compound is," he shoots you a careful smile. "Look I know I screwed up, and I know I should've kissed you weeks ago. And I'll probably still get scared of the effect you have on me from time to time," he moves a little, uncomfortable. " - but if you want me, I'm yours."
"If I still want you?" You smile at him, "you're all I want Buck. You know I'm in love with you."
"Yeah," he nods. "I'm in love with you too."
"I know," you bite your lower lip and search his face.
He moves a little closer to you, snakes his hands around your neck in quiet desperation and finally kisses you.
"Hey," you whisper in-between tender kisses. "Perhaps you wanna show me your room?"
"Yeah," he grins against your lips. "I wanna fucking show you the world."
He's yours and you're his. And in that moment, you know he's done leaving.
