Heaux Tales

22

[rr-after-dark]

Hooked - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.

Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare

Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical

A/N:  that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic

Word Count: 14.2k

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

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[winteryn]

ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader [26.2k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times—every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival; reader uses jamie a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.

A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy! series masterlist

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.

Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.

And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.

You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.

Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.

“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”

Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.

Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.

He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.

You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”

Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”

Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.

“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.

Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.

Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?

Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.

The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.

Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.

There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.

“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”

You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.

The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.

Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.

“Watch your head.”

You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.

As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.

“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.

“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”

Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.

In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.

“You look lovely tonight.”

That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.

The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.

His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.

His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”

You nod eagerly.

“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.

Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.

“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”

You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.

Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.

“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.

“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”

When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.

“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.

You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.

From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.

And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.

“You wearing the brown boots today?”

You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.

“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.

You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.

In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.

It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.

The contrast is cute rather than discordant.

You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.

You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.

“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.

You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.

“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”

It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.

So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.

The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure. 

“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”

His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.

“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”

His brows draw together. “Went off how?”

Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.

“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”

You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.

“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.

You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”

“The art teacher.” 

You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.

“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”

“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.

For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.

Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.

“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.

“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”

That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.

“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.

You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.

“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”

You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.

“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly.

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”

He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward his lap.

“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.

The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.

Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.

“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.

“I’m not.” You insist weakly.

Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.

“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”

Your face burns.

“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.

“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”

The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.

The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.

A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.

“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.

You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.

“They came out pretty nice, huh?” 

You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”

Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.

“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.

You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.

You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.

The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.

“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.

A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.

“Send me those pictures later.”

You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”

That earns you a look.

“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”

You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.

Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.

Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.

The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.

The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.

There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.

With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.

You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.

For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.

“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”

Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.

On his flannel wrapped around your body.

His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”

The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.

Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.

“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.

Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.

“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”

“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”

“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.

Your eyes widen. “What—no!”

A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.

“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”

You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.

“You’re exaggerating.”

A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”

Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was simply checking how it fit.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.

“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.

“Ain’t.”

“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.

“Not anymore.”

The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.

“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”

“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.

“Mhm.”

“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.

“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.

“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.

That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”

You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”

His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.

“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”

You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”

“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.

“Mm-hmm.”

You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”

“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.

“Means I make the laws around here.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.

“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.

“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.

You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”

At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.

Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.

His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.

Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.

“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”

Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.

“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.

The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls. 

“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.

“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze. 

Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly. 

First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.

“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.

“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses. 

You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.

“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”

“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine. 

When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.

Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.

“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.

When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.

“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”

You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.

Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.

“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?

Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”

“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”

You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy. 

“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.

It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.

“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.

“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.

Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.

It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.

His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair. 

“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”

Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”

He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.

“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”

“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.

“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?” 

Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.

“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.

Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.

“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.

You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.

Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.

And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.

And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.

It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.

Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.

Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?

So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.

But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.

Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.

You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.

“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.

You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”

Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.

“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.

A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.

“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”

“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.

That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.

“Baby—”

“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”

Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”

“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”

His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.

“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.

His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”

There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.

“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.

“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”

“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”

He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”

“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”

“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.

“That’s anxiety.”

“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”

“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”

You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.

“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.

“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”

“To who? A bowling ball?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.

A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.

“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.

You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.

“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.

His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”

And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.

Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.

Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.

And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.

You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.

His large, warm palm tilted upward.

Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?

Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.

Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.

Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.

Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.

Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.

You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.

His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.

“What?”

Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.

“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”

The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.

A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.

You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.

From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.

“Steve!” He whispers sharply.

The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.

“What.”

“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”

Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.

One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.

And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.

“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”

His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.

“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”

Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.

By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.

Eat something besides crackers today.

This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.

At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.

“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”

“I know you can.”

The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.

“Then why are you doing all this?”

That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.

“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”

“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”

Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”

“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”

Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.

“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.

You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.

“This is tea.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.

“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”

Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”

The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.

“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”

And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.

Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.

There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.

By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.

You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.

Already driving 12:22am

Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.

“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.

And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.

“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.

His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.

“You ate dinner?”

The hesitation on your face answers for you.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.

“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”

There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

Your shoulders visibly lower a little.

“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”

And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.

You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.

“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.

Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”

“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.

Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw. 

“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.

“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”

“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”

You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.

Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.

“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”

“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

His grin only grows as he reaches you.

“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”

Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.

“Bucky!”

“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.

“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.

“I know you could.”

His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.

This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.

“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.

“I know you can, baby.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.

He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.

You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.

“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”

Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.

The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.

“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”

You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.

“C’mere, baby.”

And just like always, you go.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.

Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.

His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.

“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.

“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.

“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You wanna help?”

You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”

The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.

“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”

And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.

“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.

You nod silently.

“Then stay.”

Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.

After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.

“Hold this for me.”

“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”

“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”

At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.

One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.

“I’m fucking useless.”

Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”

You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.

“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.

Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.

The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.

Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.

His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.

Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”

Bucky snorts softly without looking up.

“I’m working , sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.

“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.

Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.

You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.

“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”

This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.

“Oh, so that’s what this is?”

You try to appear unbothered. “What?”

“You being a needy girl.”

Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.

“I am not needy.” You insist.

His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend. 

“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.

The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.

“Oh, you’re trouble today.”

You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.

“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”

You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.

“You’re playing with fire, doll.”

You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”

His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.

“I need you, Jamie.”

And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.

“Jamie—”

“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.

Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.

“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.

“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing. 

“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed. 

See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.

And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.

By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further. 

Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.

You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.

The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.

Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.

“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”

“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.

You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”

“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.

“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”

There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.

“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”

You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.

Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.

“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.

You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”

He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.

“Mhm.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”

The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.

“You need ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And water.”

“Probably.”

“And you should sit down for a minute.”

At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.

“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.

You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”

That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.

Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.

“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.

“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.

Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.

“…Little bit.” He decides finally.

Your eyes widen. “You do?”

“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.

You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.

He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”

Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.

“Too cold?” You ask softly.

“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”

You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”

“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.

“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”

That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.

This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.

“Keep spoiling me like this.”

The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you murmur. “Better?”

Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.

You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.

So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.

Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.

“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”

His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.

“I’m awake.”

Bucky hums softly, deeply unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yep. I was listening.”

“To what?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.

Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.

“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.

You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.

And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience. 

Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.

“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.

The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.

Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?

Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.

Your eyes fly open.

Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.

Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.

Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”

“For falling asleep here.”

“You were tired.” He frowns.

“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.

“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”

You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”

Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.

“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”

Your lips part slightly. “Well—”

“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”

It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.

“I liked waking up next to you.”

The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.

“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.

“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.

“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”

“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.

“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.

“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”

The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.

“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.

“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”

Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.

And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”

The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.

“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it. 

Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.

He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.

Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.

“What happened?”

You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”

Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.

“Show me.”

You turn in surprise. “What?”

“Show me what you gotta do.”

“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”

So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.

“This all for one class?”

“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.

Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.

At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.

“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”

You blink once. “Yes?”

He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”

“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.

Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.

“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”

You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.

“Is that a frog?”

You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”

“He encourages them.”

Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.

“Good for him.”

After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.

By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.

“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.

Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”

He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.

A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.

“Oh no.”

The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.

“No, no, no, no—”

Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”

He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.

“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”

But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—

Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“Sweetheart.”

You barely hear him.

“Where are my tights? Fuck—”

The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.

“Sit down for me.”

The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.

“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.

“You got thirty seconds.”

“Bucky—”

“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”

And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.

Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.

“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“What about bottoms?”

“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”

A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”

“They’re different.”

“Mhm. I’m learning.”

He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.

“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”

Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”

“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”

And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.

By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.

“Bucky—”

He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.

“C’mere.”

You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.

“You need protein.”

You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”

You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”

That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.

He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.

“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.

Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”

“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.

“A little.” You nod reluctantly.

“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.

“You got everything?”

You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”

“That usually means no.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”

He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.

“You forgot to fill this.”

“Oh.” You frown.

“And your portable charger.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.

“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”

Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.

“Why won’t this stupid thing—”

Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.

“There.”

Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.

You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.

You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.

“You did good.”

You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”

“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”

He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.

He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.

“Now go teach your little gremlins.”

“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.

His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”

“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.

“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.

That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.

You don’t even think before stepping in.

“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”

One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”

He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.

“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”

You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”

That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”

He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.

And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.

Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.

The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.

“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”

The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.

“Try again.”

Silence.

Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.

His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”

You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”

Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s fifteen.”

“He’s still a student.”

His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”

With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. 

“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.

“Didn’t look like you did.”

The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.

Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?

You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.

“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove. 

“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”

“I did help.” You frown at his back.

“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”

That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.

“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.

Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.

You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.

“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.

He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.

“C’mere a second, baby.”

You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.

Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.

But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.

“We’re not doing silence, okay?”

Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”

“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs. 

“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”

The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.

“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”

Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer. 

“Then help me understand.”

Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.

And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.

“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”

You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”

“But I still made you feel that way.”

That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.

Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.

“C’mere, babygirl.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”

“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.

“You still flinched.”

The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”

Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh. 

“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter. 

“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart. 

“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you. 

Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.

“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little. 

“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”

Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.

“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”

You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.

The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.

“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”

Your arms tighten around him at that.

“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”

A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.

Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”

You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”

“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.

“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.

“That sounds very therapist of you.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”

A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.

“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”

You nod slowly. “I can do that.”

“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.

His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his. 

“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.

He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.

“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”

Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.

“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.

“You alright?”

The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.

“Were you scared of me?”

You almost flinch back. “What?”

“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”

“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”

You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.

“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”

You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.

“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”

“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.

“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”

You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”

His expression softens at the full name.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you. 

“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.” 

“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.

“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.

Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.

That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.

“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”

Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.

Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.

He pretends to find it deeply offensive.

“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.

“She sees you every day.”

“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”

Tonight is no different.

“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.

“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”

From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.

“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.

“You say that like you’re any better.”

The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.

“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.

“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”

“Mmh, that’s not true.”

“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”

You frown. “She was sick.”

“She had dust on her nose.”

You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.

Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”

“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.

“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”

You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.

“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.

“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.

Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”

His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.

“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”

Your breath catches quietly.

“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.

“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”

You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.

Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”

Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”

Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.

“Any future is right if you’re in it.”

Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.

“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”

You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.

“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.

And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.

Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.

“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”

— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @usernamee18 @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie

[moemoe2]

This was soo well written!

[darkdemetyr]

THE THREAT OF INTIMACY

Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader | 7.4k

RATING (semi-soft)18+ | THE THREAT OF INTIMACY is about a beautiful bride marrying the man of her dreams. But when faced with what comes after the vows and first dance as Mr. and Mrs Barnes, you suggest that a particular arrangement be made.

Warnings contain Angst — insecure reader and depictions of negative thoughts and fear of sexual intimacy — profanity — SMUT 18+ mdni — virgin!reader/loss of virginity — unprotected sex — hurt/comfort — oral (female receiving) — le dasha of body worship —cream pie — mafia bucky being a huge softy for his wife.

It’s not so much of a grand show once the curtain falls. There hangs a greed of mischief and ominous silence. He looks at you, blue eyes piercing the exposed skin of your back, the white gown hangs an elegant silhouette on you. Its embroidered sculpts become melded into the fabricated folds as you stop midst the gate of your saunter forwards, each step a reminder drawing nearer as you do to the bed. 

Did you really have to do this? 

It was an era of change after all. But his seniors were old school, and so you expected him to be as well in the matters of the marriage bed. It is expected of you — the both of you. Your hands fish through the elaborate style of your hair, musing it loose and gaining a comforted scalp as you turn away from the bed and walk over to the large windows that extend from top to bottom, overlooking the twinkling space of stars fallen to earth. 

Being far away from it means you are torn from it. Once you step foot back in that place, you are no longer the girl you once were.

You are now Mrs. Barnes. A wolf among sheep. The queen of the Bratva. A cooperation of mobsters who have bought police eyes and silenced officials of the government. But was this status and power worth what is intended to follow? 

You didn’t have a real choice in the matter. Well, maybe you did. You fell for him, you won’t deny it, and you fell hard for him. Other pickings were not as savoury, nor did they explode with the chemistry you shared with him. But this wasn’t the only factor. 

It’d been clear that your hearts were set on one another. With the subtle whispers into the other’s ear, hugging and kissing, fingers entwined, or the more assuring hand on the low of your back. This intimacy had been a flavour sweet – loving – and you came to embrace these softer textures of your life at his side. His proposal was impossibly expected but even then, you couldn’t contain your surprise and eagerly said yes.

You never gave the thought of what came next exactly. The very intimate aftermath. Until his mother pulled you aside, a smile on her painted ruby lips as she guided you to walk with her through the hedged gardens. That conversation is one you will never forget. Her love is shocking, her devotion to her husband and family, you can hardly stand the thought of not loving her in return. 

But that talk shocked you. 

Half of it because of the gory details she regaled, but the other half because of your own mind. Your poisoned mind that festers with anxious insecurities. 

Of course it’s expected. Your virginity doesn’t exactly wave you as an expert, no matter what talks of womanhood you are subjected to. But by the standard of Mr. Bucky Barnes, his former bachelor days had given him what you lack: experience. 

What if I’m so bad that he’s repulsed by me? 

He’ll only need to take one look at me and that’ll be enough.

What if I can’t make him cum? 

What exactly am I supposed to do— I don’t think I’m ready. 

You continue on in your panicked, internal reverie, hand raised to rest your lips against your knuckles, the shine of diamonds catching in the dark reflection, a momentary blindness befalls you that then causes your stomach to writhe with unease.

“Hey,” your husband whispers, breath warm over the shell of your ear and his lips tease the curve of your exposed neck with light kisses. Your body flinches at the suddenness of his appearance right behind you, his chest to your back; you feel tears deep into the corner of your eyes, hot and wet and annoying. The stronghold of air chokes you in the back of your throat.

“Mm, hi…” 

Your forced smile is quick to fade, just barely passing back a glance at him before looking away. He catches this falter. His expression is shadowed by a troubled frown. He noticed the way you flinched before him. And that glistening of tears is hard to miss when it comes to you.  

“Talk to me,” he presses gently, “you okay?” 

His hands are strong and sure as he holds you, turns you to face him directly now, putting the window to your back. Your ring bound hand massages over your face with a breath hollowing out in a deep sigh. 

“Yeah. I’m good, I think we should get some rest. It’s been a big day.” 

Before you can step around him, his hand circles the entirety around your forearm, holding you in place.

“You don’t want to…” At the trailing end of his words with his blue eyes alluding to his meaning, the sting of tears prick your vision again and a flush paints your cheeks and neck red. He lets you walk away with the train of your dress flowing behind you like a silken shadow. 

“I don’t think tonight.”

Or any other night… 

Bucky’s throat bobs with a thick swallow, nodding as he watches you. Always a man who knows what to do, how to maintain composure — his power — he feels that confidence wane like the fading moon. Powerless.

The words brewing on your tongue are tart, poisonous and unpleasant. Not the sort you would ever want to say to your husband, no less on your wedding night. 

You’d ventured over to the vanity by now, you say beneath a shaken exhale, “I’ll look to hire a mistress.”

“Excuse me?” He gasps sharply. 

Your reply, voice short of anything joking or playful. You sit before the vanity and bend forward, unfastening the golden clasps on your heels before you set them aside. “I’ll have a mistress contracted for you. We’ll do everything else together but she will… provide the sexual affairs.”

“And you?” His question makes you pause midway of turning fully towards the mirror, only barely do you see him trail the outskirts of the room, just only in focus of your view. With a sigh, you pluck your earrings out, saying more so to your own reflection than him, “I’ve gone this long without sex, Bucky. I’m sure I can go on the rest of my life without it.” 

“No, no, we’re not doing things like that. I married you — I want you.” Why is that just too hard to believe? You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes in the mirror, so you look away, anywhere that doesn’t meet his gaze. “Honey, where the fuck did this come from?”

You don’t answer. The man is practically brought to his knees before you like a servant ready to obey you like a goddess. Treatment he committed to you, though you don’t feel deserving of. He spins you slowly on your stool until you face him, knelt before you, he tries to find the stunning awe of your eyes only to find you hiding away from him. “Did somebody say something to you? Who was it?” 

Quick to spare someone needless bloodshed, you stand abruptly, almost knocking him back and storm away from him by some feet, putting distance between you both, your voice carries over your shoulder, “Nobody said anything. I just think this arrangement will be better for us.”

You’re blinking back a curtain of tears that threaten to unleash. A wave rises high like a tsunami in your soul with these stupid, incessant thoughts. 

You’re imperfect. 

You’re ugly. 

Let another woman – a beautiful woman – please him. 

He’ll regret marrying you once he sees you.

Fingers ringing the course of massaging your temples, you are slowly being drowned by many, many thoughts like these. They're endless. They’re relentless and they are loveless. Not once do you give yourself the internal piece of mind that maybe, just maybe, there is hope in this relationship. That they are wrong. That he won’t judge or run from you. But who can say for sure?

It’s best to play it safe and keep what dignity you have left. Despite the spitefulness of seeing him become satisfied by another woman, it would be better than depriving him for the rest of his life. And you care more for his own happiness. It’s all you want for him. 

He speaks up again, his voice going stern in his verbal study. “So, let me get this straight: I marry the love of my life, the very essence I love and breath for, only to… fuck another woman. After I swore a vow to you.” 

“Bucky, you’re making it sound—”

“I’ll go without sex for the rest of my life than have some whore in our bed.” 

You spin on your heel, mouth agape. Finally you look at him long enough as he works to slowly approach you and he sees just how badly you’re hurting on the inside. “Bucky—” 

How quick he is to cut you off before you can even utter another heinous thing, now reaching you. “I wouldn’t stand at the altar for just anyone. I gave up that bachelor life to have you. I chose you. I want to have all of you.”

You mutter, mumble off-centred excuses that come out as broken noises on a record, and then you let out a shaken breath, chest feeling like it's being cleaved and ripped apart to the point your body trembles. You try your hardest to suppress your quiet sniffles as the flow of tears begin, fingers hastefully dapping away as to not smear your makeup; your only means of perfection that you’ve felt in a while.

When you saw yourself in the white dress every little girl dreams of for the first time in a bridal shop far too expensive for the average, then again in the dressing room with hair and makeup done to the nines, it all almost made you forget about the gut-wrenching aftermath once the reception concluded. That you were walking down that aisle with a purpose you would never come to regret. 

Was it all a foolish fairytale to idolise this facade of beauty?

The hand bearing his ring uses a force so gentle you think it’s the end, that when you look up, he will be gone. That your wedding dress will fade into your everyday jeans and grandmother’s patchy sweater you treasure too much to throw away, her scent still lingering there to inhale on a bad day. 

He drives your focus upwards until your eyes meet, your vision hindered behind a blur that wets your lashes as you blink. A vibrant colour of blue that once intimidated you now attends to assure you, to quiet your riled fears, but there is a reluctance to let your guard down this time. 

His hands cradle your jaw in his hold with a promise to never let you go. To never let you know this fear again.

“I won’t judge. I won’t run in disgust or whatever you think I’m gonna do. I think my vows can be credited to that, yeah?” 

Your bottom lip sinks inward slightly, teeth biting down hard on the plump of flesh, muttering a softly broken, “I-I guess.” 

“You’re scared.”

It is shame that brings your eyes to falter, chin wobbling until it crinkles. “Yes…”

It’s like he could read you, knowing that your next move is to shove him off – push him away – he leans down and presses his lips to your own. Warm, a little roughened yet still retaining a softened plush of texture, he breathes some sort of cooling flame that soothes you if not for a short while. A rattled, sharpened gasp teeters on the edge of your voice and he parts from the kiss with a low and silky drawl. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, love. We can take our time with this.” 

You’re hoisted into his arms, strength unyielding as he carries you over to the bed and sets you atop the mattress like porcelain. For him, he’s scared how easily it is to break you, no matter how hard you hide this fragility. You use the outside of your hand to wipe at your nose and exhale loudly, mind prattling on with your swirling thoughts. 

Pathetic. 

He’ll definitely need a mistress after that display. 

And all you’re better off getting is a toy. 

His family will ridicule you. He’s going to tell everyone that his little wife refused to have sex with him on his wedding night.

Poisonous thoughts. They aren’t going away. With a sniffle, you watch Bucky begin to strip himself down, leaving himself to his boxers. However much you admire the act in itself, it’s far too intimate than anything else. The idea of you doing that for him sickens you. You become repulsed by yourself. 

Your mind is a hideous beast. 

Like you.

Shut up!

You make this wedding dress look ugly.

“Come on, doll,” Bucky’s voice breaks through the hazardous cloud like a lighthouse awaiting for you ashore, guiding you to safety. He offers you a smile you try to match only to feel your lips twitch, muscles cringing as you keep the well of tears and cries inside. He invites you to join him and you move up the bed. You can’t bear to shed the second skin of your dress to reveal the lavish, risque lace and frilly lingerie you’d picked out at the encouragement of your bridesmaids.

You never really gave it much thought before until it was too late. This culture of intimacy you perceive as a threat. 

Your husband doesn’t question you. Instead he lays beside you, arms stretched out to invite you into his embrace. An invite you half-heartedly indulge in, inching yourself awkwardly to his side but remaining to keep some inches from him.

Head laid on the tucked shelf of your arms, hair mused to fall over your features, you intend to wallow in silence until exhaustion overtakes you into sleep. 

You’ve ruined his day.

“What are you thinking in that pretty head of yours?” The question is directed to you, you’re sure. But it also sounds like he’s asking himself for the answer to a riddle he cannot begin to understand. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your day…”

The contortion of his features almost has your body locking up into a tightly wound position, the form of his dark brows bevelling in the middle, eyes widening until the blackened pupils shrink into tiny dots. 

“What?” he sputters, “No– no, honey. This is our day.”

Our day?

There is a storm of emotion battling in his own eyes, however, he is just as quick to hide it from you. He trails again to caress the line of your jaw, his thumb strokes along your bottom lip. “Love, I will never force you into anything. Not your first time, not your hundredth. You hear me, yeah?”

Your eyes only look to stare at him with a stillness, before you absently nod. Then you turn, putting your back to him. You cannot bring yourself to look at him out of sheer guilt that no matter what, he cannot silence the honest and cruel torment of voices in your head. Not forever. They will find something to pick out and gnaw at to send you into this spiral. 

If you could do so without the judgement of your husband, you would cry and howl into your pillow for hours until the perfect mirage of your makeup fell apart, you’d spare the dress from being a ridiculed taint by being on you any longer. You’d be on the phone to your sister pleading for her to keep you company and distract you from this pain, you’d cry into her chest as she held you with all the strength she possessed. You’d ask your parents to call you beautiful, even though it’s a lie. 

But you keep it all in. And it breaks you so harshly on the inside that it cuts you like thousands of shards shredding you apart. 

You’re not sure exactly how much time has passed between the void of silence. You can’t sleep. The tyrannical storm of emotion swarming inside you makes it impossible to even try lest you break and let it all out, letting it show. 

“B-Bucky?” you squeak, clearing your throat and you hear him hum immediately in response, the weight of him rolling over until his body is a ghost along your back. “Can I… uhm, can I ask you something?” 

Aside from the odd hiccup and sniffle here and there, you hold firm to sounding as you were before, the bubbly and playful girl Bucky couldn’t help but tease until you were a flustering mess, the girl who attempted to flirt back only to fumble over your words and proceed conversation with a shy smile. The girl he fell in love with. The one he gladly stood at the altar for. Before the voices.

“Of course, doll. Anything.”

 Nervously your fingers flex and wind together, thumbing the fabric over your breasts, the enclosed circlet of cleavage pressed closely together. You wish you could giggle at the way you caught Bucky gawking numerous times in supposed awe of you throughout the day. He often is like that every time he sees you though, now that you come to think about it. 

Supposedly.

Not likely real…

I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?

With a heavy swallow coated heavily in your hesitance, you take a breath in hope that proves to fail to settle your nerves. “You’ve been with plenty of girls before me… you know how to please them, what did…” you pause upon a whimper, “were they all the same?”

The amount of strain behind your vocal cords makes you cringe in disgust. You sound like—

“No, they were all different. Unique to each girl.” You can almost sense the way his head props up to look at you. His eyes staring a cool layer of heat into your back. “Just like you.”

“How can you say that?” Your voice betrays the toxins of a heart and mind poisoned together over far too long. Bucky hears the loathe of self in your words, dry and cynical, unbelieving in his words and your own image. “You’ve never even seen what I look like… you don’t know how I’ll be, I’ve never—” 

Your hands press over your eyes in hope to suppress the tears glassing over your vision. 

“Hey,” Bucky admonishes with a low drawl, tutting you, “hey. I’m not expecting the fucking grandios of perfect sex. I’m expecting you and only you. I want what makes you and your body unique.”

You turn your head to see him, chin wobbling slightly. How he’d crawl through hot coals and glass for you, seeing the beauty of what you see are flaws. He then grins and for a moment, it disturbs you how he could smile when you’re like this. 

“I wasn’t the best for my first time. In fact, I’m telling you–”

“Bucky, no, you don’t have to,” you interject with a stifled cough. You shoot to sit up and your husband follows, chuckling. 

“No, I will tell you I was shit at sex. Horrible. My first time—”

Your hands paw and pat at his mouth to silence him to no avail, your chorus of hiccups and sniffles turn into shy giggles. 

“I–couldn’t–”

You giggle a little louder this time. “Shush, Bucky! No-ho!” 

“Couldn’t even– find the cl—”

Your fingers are a heavenly pillar even as they hold his lips prisoner from speaking aloud. He smirks behind them and plants delicate kisses to them, enamoured by the faint smile on your face and the softness of your eyes. Seeing you cry and be tied to these human emotions makes a fire burn in his chest. Like for the longest time, he’s finally found someone who can make him feel whole. If only he could help you feel the same. In the make of those blue, puppy dog eyes, you crack and scoff out a snort. “New York’s infamous Mob Lord…” 

He beams from ear to ear at the unfinished implication, taking the time to fall so hard in love with you all over again. He leans his forehead against yours with a rumbled, “Mhm.”

Mascara smudged under the barrage of wet lashes and tears, your lips part with a shaky breath. “Bucky?”

He hums again, so you press on, throat suddenly tight. “Do you think you could make me feel that way?”

His response is instant, deep voice trailing along the bridge of your neck, much like it had done earlier as his arms circle the lower curve of your arse and hoist you until you balance atop his thighs, keeping his weight on his haunches. “Moya zvezda, that and more.” 

Your arms drape over the burly muscle of his shoulders, breath mingling with his in hot gusts laboured with anticipation, you hear him groan as you ever so slightly lower your hips against his and he pushes you that little higher on the pedestal he holds you on, it’s height greater than any earthly accomplishments men can dream of. 

It’s why you’re his star. 

I love this man.

With all my heart. 

His front presses fully into you, he works to weave one hand beneath the shower of your gown and feeling along the sheer stocking attached to your garter; he groans again, more feral sounding in his sensational marvel of how perfect you are. How blessed he is to be the one to touch you like this. To hold and have you so intimately. 

At his touch, your body erupts with a shudder, momentarily staggered by the electric push and pull and thriving buzz between your legs; though the stir of arousal isn’t foreign to you, it certainly is a stark contrast with his attentive action. 

His lips smother the embers of your trembling gasps with a kiss, passion tasting as a fine wine on his tongue. The kiss is paced slowly to attend to your cautious nature, an utter surety that he won’t make any move against you. You take no part in stopping him as he pushes aside the obstructive barrier of your panties. 

The way his fingers are gentle to stroke your core has you keening, teetering on a choked whine, his work deliberate in focusing on the pearl of your sensitive clit and the slickened beginnings of your folds. His hands that have sinned many times now amend themselves with the purity of worshipping every inch, exploring you with the intent to please. His thumb rolls in drawn circles, eliciting from you mewls and heated pants of air too heavy to stay in your lungs, cooing at your slow induction. 

“Atta girl.”

I’m alright. 

“You’re doing amazing.”

I’m safe. 

His two fingers run along your entrance, causing your spine to arch slightly and he smirks, pulling from the kiss. 

“You like that, doll? Yeah?” he asks smoothly, seeing you nod shakily with eyes half lidded. 

Your hands entangle themselves to the bedded roots of his hair, tender as you can to pull with each spark that has your stomach tying knots and your muscles tensing, his thumb begins to roll a little harder and faster. At hearing the apparition of a moan escape you, he applauds you with his encouragement despite the way your hand covers over your mouth to silence these noises.

“Fuck, please again, zvezda. Please.”

“I want to hear you.”

“Please… fuck you sound so beautiful…”

In your stun over his pleas, your hand lowers away and you continue to let your moans lull him, hips moving at a slow crawl against his fingers that press to your core and with a single look you let him know you’re willing. He fights the tantalising grip of your fingers to reach your lips as he pushes two fingers past your folds. Your gasp is a sharp sound to his ears, one of alert that he seeks to comfort you through the kiss.

The trajectory to pull your hips away stabilises and you begin to find that rhythm with each grind and thrust onto his fingers, the waves of pleasure coming from your clit has your stomach tightening. 

“B-Bucky…” you whisper and he swallows your words with a deep moan. Your walls clench around the intrusion of his fingers, moreso when he adds a third, curling them as if to beckon your body furthermore to his touch, to yield your fears and let him set alight that bloom inside your core and unto your bliss. 

You pant harder, “B–ngh… Bucky… th-there.”

“Right there?” He asks with a sultry grin. Your voice comes out in a strangled response. “M—mhm.”

The voice of your whine is his commandment. He installs a level of dedication at gently fucking you with his fingers right where you needed him – wanted him. That swell inside you grows and grows, furthering into a maelstrom that leaves your body shivering, unexpected of where this sudden burst will implode. 

“Good girl, you’re doing so well, doll,” he praises with a low timbre, groaning with a prided grin when you tug a little harder at his hair, your softer nature betraying to act out this darker side of yourself; this almost forbidden wanton. 

I feel…

Your hips move to become greedy and much to Bucky’s approval, feeling the swollen bulge of his cock straining against his boxers has you weak and some instinct to move against it drives you, a louder moan slipping past your lips. Bucky’s mouth leaves a heated trail of passionate nips and teasing flutters of kisses against your neck, spoiling you. 

You gasp and your hands fly to his shoulders to hold you at bay, the sudden shockwave a prelude to ride as your orgasm ascends upon you, he hears the feverish whimpers you make and he purrs, pumping his fingers, “That’s it, love, let go. C’mon, let me feel you cum for me. I’ve got you.”

The suppression of a scream hides in your chest, leaving only a choked sob to rack through you as you thrust and claim your first release, a hot flush of white behind your eyes blinds you, your muscles convulse in tensing and relaxing as you ride out your high. 

Your arms that wound around his shoulders squeeze a little tighter in your recovery, your breath timed to slow down after a few minutes but your body remains to quiver against him. The form of his aroused cock clear and unhidden has your core weeping for more.

“There you go, that’s it,” he coaxes softly with a smile while he eases a kiss to the corner of your lips, “how’re you feeling?” 

“G-good… really like… wow.” The words come out jumbled to you, as if you were still influenced by the strong wine at the reception, having made you reserve your consumption to a very limited amount. 

Bucky hums and withdraws his fingers, leaving you to mewl at the loss. The sight before you has you in some chokehold, a crimson heat flushes into your cheeks and down your neck, rendering your blood into fiery rivers beneath your skin, a sudden jerk picking up in your heartbeat as Bucky cleans the slick of your release from his fingers, the crystalised shade of blue dimming with a certain darkness as the taste of you rolls over his taste buds. 

He’s tasting me…

He moans with a thunderous growl. “Fuck… you taste amazing,” he grins, teeth gleaming with that cute, charming esteem. 

I do?

The warmth in your cheeks glows ten fold, bringing a sight for Bucky to admire. That cute girl who’s face becomes rosy with embarrassment. It’s like he could read your mind and the way he says your name has you at a loss of breath, drawing your attention back to the shine of his eyes. 

“You are exquisite…” 

Following in action as the continuation of his proclamation, his hand finds the spine of your dress and upon reaching the apex between your shoulders. He seeks to pause and his eyes seek out your permission, brows slight to bevel. “May I, Mrs. Barnes?”

The crescents of your palms brush the exterior of his stubble, every inch of your hands covered by the sensational prickling that leaves you like putty. How he stares at you with this amass of love and fondness that feels overwhelming at times. 

He’s just so… perfect.

The return of tears glasses over your eyes and you smile, brightly and toothy and nod, cupping his jaw in your hands before you press a softened kiss to his lips. You feel it in unison with him; it steals the breath from you both. 

“You may, Mr. Barnes.”

With your approval, he draws the zip undone. Anticipation lines your nerves like a trail of gunpowder ready to be set ablaze. He’s testing the waters, ensuring that this is what you want and when you give no indication of refusal, he glides the dress from your shoulders, revelling in the delicate sculpt of your body; the warm, ambient light hitting the surface creates a heavenly glow upon your skin. With the overhanging light above, it frames a golden halo around you as his sights steer upwards. 

Your gown drapes a sultry form over you, accentuating the mounds of your breasts pushed close together and the nakedness of your shoulders and neck. Bucky growls under a vice of hunger. But something lays in the glassy waver of his stare. 

“Please be real?”

His voice barely rises above a near shattered whisper. A man who fears losing you just much as you fear losing him. His voice pleads with you. Your lips part, jaw coming to drop slightly as your eyes widen.

Please be real for me?

“I-I am, Bucky. I’m real…”

The man before you exhales loudly, gasping for breath to keep himself drowning. “Good. Because I want this to be real.”

He doesn’t waste another moment. His mouth clashes against yours, hunger succumbing as he ravishes you with the heated intensity of his kiss, tongue running a pleaful line along your bottom lip. You part them and he awakens the stir of arousal flooding through your veins, tongues dancing in an artistic battle for dominance he undeniably wins. You moan a muffled song and he drinks every lyric of it, intoxicated by it. 

His hands are wild in their exploration, peeling your dress lower to reveal the laces and frills of your lingerie, not permitting you to shy away and hide from him this time, his hands feel every inch of it, mesmerised by the way it fits to you so beautifully that even the most talented of sculptures would struggle to capture your raw and enticing beauty to its complete and apex design. 

Your hands scour to claim the roots of his hair again. This time, you hold no restraint and he loves it. He loves the radiance of confidence you find in every following second. You are claiming what is rightfully yours as his wife. As his one love that he will kill and die for without question. Though time and mortal breath dares to intrude and part you, you find ways around the schemes, momentarily gasping for air within the clash of your lips, too far entranced to pull away. 

His hands glide up your sides until his thumbs are able to tease your stiffened nipples through the thin fabric, groaning at the noises you create from it, his touch sending those blissful tingles throughout your body. When time comes to see you both departed from your kiss, you each still remain to linger, tasting one another in the inch spared between you, chests heaving madly and brushing together. Dress pooled to a rolled belt over your waist, Bucky drinks in every detail of your body. 

Why does he look at me like that? 

His nose buries into you, nestling into the warmth and softness of your body as he utters phrases of praise to your skin, a trail of his devotion painted upon your skin with the invisible ink of his love and adoration for you. 

“You feel what you do to me?” he asks, strong hands guiding your hips down to roll in unison with his, the swollen mound of his erect cock still suffering in confinement has you hiccuping in your stun.

Though your voice is light, you nod as you answer. “Yes.”

“That’s how fucking hot you are,” he says with a deep, velvety drawl, his words slightly muffled by the way his mouth caresses you. “You have me so hard right now, fuck, the things I wanna do to you, doll.”

His confession has you blushing. 

He can’t possibly mean that…

He can’t help himself. He’s a man enslaved at your whim. Though you try to bring this madman to his senses with an embarrassed huff of his name, he only leans in to claim your lips with his, the melding of hunger brings you both into that feverish haze again. Tongues entangled with one another, Bucky’s hands paw and pluck the garments of your lingerie from your form, peeling away the details of floral patterns and lacy sheer to feel the heat of skin below, the way your muscles twitched under his touch. 

You moan between the kiss and allow your hands to feel the soft tresses of his hair between your fingers, carefully weaving through the darkened locks and nails scratching at the roots against his scalp, a rumbling purr escaping him. 

The rock of your hips move together, a desiring fire burning in your core to the point it borders on a painful ache between your legs. Your dress is discarded, left aside with your undressed garments to be reclaimed at a later time. He lays you on your back, your head nested atop the plush cushion of the pillows, bodies flush together without leaving so much as a morsel of space apart. 

Entrapped by his lustful kiss, you thrust and grind your heated sex against him with shocking eager, a whine is tugged from your throat, unsure.

Bucky is quick to assure you of your arousal, that its intoxication is a vice wanted. He uses one arm to support his weight above, caging you, as his other takes hold of your thigh and gropes at it fervently while somewhere in the mixture haze his boxers are tossed aside. His swollen tip oozes with glistening, droplet streams, his size heavy and long that has a gasp escaping you. 

W–will he fit?

Such worrisome thoughts are snuffed out like speckled embers as he deepens the kiss, tongues gliding together and moans and limbs entangle. His tip brushes over the sensitive spot of your clit and your hips take languid actions against his practised thrusts. 

“It’s going to hurt at first,” he mutters across the skin of your jaw, “but it won’t for long. I’m right here, moya zvezda, I promise.”

A crystalline glint appears on the waterline of your eyes, a tender smile on your lips as your lips connect with a chaste kiss. 

“I’m ready, Bucky…”

His blue eyes take the time to carefully read your expression. For a man so immersed in being so gentle and caring with you, you have come to know that with the very same hands he caresses you with – he has broken jaws, bloodied and bruised noses and strangled the very life of more than one person. He can tell when a man is lying just by looking into his eyes. 

He sees you’re telling the truth. That you want this with him. You want him. Cock nudging at your folds, you push your legs a little wider to better accommodate his size after hearing him chuckle at the crimson blush creeping into your face, flustered at the thought of his entire cock sheathing inside you. 

“Gonna fit all of me, my sexy little wife?” he’d teased with a wink. 

His eyes retain their focus with yours as he pushes the head of his cock into your cunt, meeting the slight of resistance and surged forward, a sigh heavily laced on his breath that has his head bowing to press his forehead to yours, eyes scrunched tightly. 

A hitched note on your throat is silenced, cut out with a high pitched whine as he sinks deeper and deeper, breaching past the wall of your hymen. Your nails mark their bite into his shoulders and down his back with angry red scars, tracing over the blackened inks already imprinted there. 

Your walls constrict around the intrusion of him with a searing pierce that brings your tears to streak down your temples, chin slightly trembling, you feel Bucky’s lips hover over yours. 

“O-ow,” you mewl, “It hurts…”

“I’ve got you, zvezda, I’m here.”

Your chest feels tight, suffocated, but his words comfort you. You cling to him tighter, thighs trembling at his sides and you feel his hand resume its place there, gentle to knead and rub soothing circles as he coaxes you through the blight of your pain. 

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” he whispers to your lips, the crinkle of a smile forming on his features. Just as quickly as it had come, the pain subsides and you feel so full at the point where your bodies meet, you finally nod for him to continue. 

He goes slowly. 

He sets a rhythm paced to ease you into the forcing motion of his cock gliding through your hot, velvety walls that clamp and shudder with each movement he makes. Your gasps turn to softly sung moans as you begin to grind your hips to meet his and he smiles down at you. “There you go, love. That’s it, you’re taking me so well.” 

“This body… so perfect, so beautiful… I love it, I love you.”

Another moan escapes you. He heaves a deep breath with every thrust, still focusing hard to keep this steadiness, until you moan for him, 

“Bucky… please, I-I need…”

“What do you need, love? Tell me.”

“I– need more– please.”

He groans, the thought of ruthlessly fucking you with abandon crosses his mind in flashes, the way you’d look spread out while being pummeled by his cock that ruts into your pretty pussy until you’re stuffed full of his cum that it overspills as a creamy ring around his girthy base. 

To fuck you the way of a mafia lord. 

“You want that, sugar?” he asks, his voice sudden to drop lower into a silken, deepened purr with a darkened smirk. “You want to be fucked the way a mafia queen should be? H–hmph, you want it harder? Faster?”

You choke on the release of your words, sounding breathless, “Y-yes!”

Your walls clench tight around him, a series of moans spilling from your parted lips as he then picks up his pace, the incentive of your permission driving him to thrust harder, his hand fists and squeezes the flesh of your thigh within his grasp, holding you fast to him as he strikes deeply into your pussy. His muscles bend, curve and tense and your hands greedily explore every single portion of him, granting you this chance to be upheld by the prison of your thoughts that may hold you back later.

You howl, whine and cry – all for more, for him to keep going, to not stop. His body arches over yours, hands now ahold of you at the hips he uses the advantage of his strength and position to forcefully piston himself back and forth, back and forth until you’re writhing beneath him  Your hands attach themselves to the veiny reins of his wrists, your hips arched up until your lower half is lifted for his leisure to fuck into that spot that has you seeing an galaxy of stars.

“Bucky– Bucky, oh Bucky!” you cry out. 

“Fuck— yeah baby, fuck you sound beautiful, shit— baby, keep screaming my name, I want to hear you.” Each word is intensely laced with an exerted breath or guttural groan. “Fucking hell, zvezda, you look fucking amazing like that—” 

“You’re taking my cock so well.”

“I’m never getting over the sight of this.”

His eyes burn with lust at the sight of your breasts bouncing without restraint, the shudder of your body with each clash of your thrusts, how your face contorts so beautifully with pleasure and the holstered grip of your legs hooking around his waist repeatedly only to falter each time after several pumps, only kept upright by his hold. A knot coils inside you, a tidal wave of pleasure coursing through your veins that sets your nerves aflame and your vocal cords to strain with every sound you make. The more and more he slams his cock into you, your neck is forced to arch back against the pillows with a pleasured shriek. 

You call out to him, “Bucky, I— I’m gonna… ah!” 

“Cum for me, doll, I wanna feel how tight your pretty pussy is around me.” Your back arches further as his tip continues to hit that spot and the sensational toying of his thumb rolls on your clit, eliciting a flourish of sparks to ignite until you’re suddenly overcome with a flush of white, that euphoric hit crashing over you while heat pours into every inch of your skin with your eyes rolling back.

You chant his name like a sacred prayer, the meaning of your vows imbued within your slurred, intoxicated mantra. He pants, hot and heavy in your ear,

“Shit, shit— fuuuck, baby— ‘mgonna cum, gonna cum for you. I want my seed in you, I want it in you so bad.”

His thrusts increase, the sound of skin slapping skin is erotically loud. You don’t want it to stop. You don’t want him to stop and so you beg him to keep going. 

You continue to whine, low and cooing, walls stretching and clenching around him, milking him of his release that sweeps over him with a long, baritone and throaty moan. His head presses into the crook of your neck to suck at the skin of your collarbone, marking you with dark bruises of his love and possession as he paints your pussy with his seed. The air is faintly filled by the sound of oozing slick of your combined orgasms that leak and drip around his still thrusting cock.

The erratic pace in which his rhythm held eventually wanes, instead he moves to a slow-crawling grind to ease you off your combined highs. His chest rises and falls and you allow your eyes to admire his form above you, A balance of skin and ink layered in a thin coating of sweat, as is your own, the muscles of his body rippling with each motion he makes. 

His hands release from your hips after he’s lowered you back down to the bed, allowing your body to succumb to the exhaustion undoubtedly taking hold of you. Your gaze meets his own, the colour of them haloed by the shine of tears and his heart yearns for you. 

He fears he’s done something wrong and his hands quickly raise to caress your face, thumbs stroke over your cheeks. 

“Moya zvezda, are you—”

“I’m…” you trail off, blinking rapidly to see him through the watery veil and you grin up at him and nod. He’s relieved to see that smile, coming to mirror it himself. 

She’s okay. My girl’s okay.

You reach your hand up, the warmth of your palm contrasted by the cool adornment of your ring. Bucky leans his face into your touch. “You stayed… you didn’t—” Though your words fail you, Bucky sees what you mean to say in your eyes. 

“Of course. You’re everything I ever wanted…” Your brows furrow, touched by the sincerity in his words. Before you is a man whose heart is held in your very hands. And his heart is one you wish to cherish, hold dear and never break. To think you almost bargained him off to another woman— 

“Have me again tonight, zvezda. Have me any other night. I promise, I will be there every time, every moment.”

He doesn’t want a mistress. He wants me. 

Those voices are gone, replaced by newer, kinder ones.

You’re perfect. 

You’re beautiful. 

I’m not scared anymore. Not with him. 

You now realise that intimacy was never the threat. The voices in your head were. 

@mostlymarvelgirl @hollyseb @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @identity2212 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @boobsbeesbongos @mrsnikstan @floralwsloki @mcira @schneeflocky @greatenthusiasttidalwave

[bonky-n-steeb-deactivated202508]

I'm a fiend and you're all I need

— husband! bucky barnes x wife! reader

summary || Bucky is the sweetest husband ever. But you are greedy — you want more.

warnings || dom!bucky. dom/sub dynamics. unprotected sex. spanking. pussy slapping. degradation. praise kink. punishments. breeding kink. subspace. spit kink. pain kink. choking (metal arm kink). housewife kink. corruption kink. sex toys. filthy bucky. possessive bucky. a lot of dirty talk. dacryphilia. petnames (sugar). horny thots. PWP — MINORS DNI 🔞 if any of this makes you uncomfortable then please do not read!

I have decided to not do taglists anymore, so if you wished to be notified of my newest updates please follow @bonky-n-steeb-lib and turn on the notifications!

the reader knows what she wants and we stan her in this house!

“I have to tell you something.” Bucky stopped wiping his wet hair and stood still when he heard your words. He was only wearing a towel over his waist as he exited the bathroom and your eyes roamed freely over your husband’s chiselled body.

“Umm, yeah.” Bucky had just now returned after a long mission and you had missed him dearly. Bucky was the best husband you could ask for, caring, protective, handsome, understanding, loving, well, you could go on and on about how much you both loved each other.

But you were greedy — you wanted more.

Bucky was a thorough lover, he always made sure you were satisfied before him. But he was a little too gentle. The former assassin constantly feared that he’d hurt you with his super strength, despite you assuring him otherwise.

Whenever he was gone, you satisfied yourself with the little vibrator hidden behind your makeup pouch. You started soft and sweet, imagining Bucky pressing gentle kisses to your body, but you always orgasmed to the fantasies of Bucky being rough with you, calling you names and fucking you hard.

But now you’d come to the realisation that you couldn’t keep on doing that anymore. You couldn’t keep fantasising about your own husband. You needed the actual thing. Bucky understood you better than anyone else, but you were still scared to say your thoughts out loud.

“Actually,.. it’s about.. it’s about our bedroom life.” Bucky was your husband, and yet your palms were getting sweaty with nervousness. Bucky’s eyes narrowed down at you and he hummed for you to continue. “I just.. I just need a little more.” You stuttered.

He titled his head before walking closer to you. Water droplets were running down his freshly showered body and getting absorbed in the fluffy towel. His metal hand was glinting in the lights and you gulped when you thought of your fantasy, that metal arm around your neck.

“I love what we have.. but, Uhh, I won’t break if you go a little hard.” Your voice wavered a little at the end as he stood right in front of your face. His body was pulled taut and he looked like a predator stalking his prey.

“Don’t tell me, show me.” Bucky’s voice was octaves lower and it never failed to make you wet between your legs. Your hands shook a little as you took his metal arm and placed it around your neck. His eyes widened for a minute before his lips stretched into a predatory smirk.

His cold vibranium fingers curled around your neck and your breath left your lungs. You closed your eyes and relished in the feel as you finally got what you’d wanted. But then let go of your neck before inserting his finger into your open mouth. “Is this what you want?”

You nodded enthusiastically as you sucked his finger obediently. You swirled your tongue around the digit until it became warm. He pulled the finger back and pushed it in and repeated the action until his finger was drenched in your saliva. “Good girl.”

Your eyes comically widened and you nearly came on spot when he called you a good girl in his raspy voice. “Say hydra and I’ll stop.” He bent low to whisper in your ear. Goosebumps erupted on your skin when Bucky took your earlobe between his teeth and nipped.

When he kissed you, it was hard and deep and possessive. His tongue invaded your mouth and his teeth worried your lips until you were a panting mess. You ran your hands over the hard planes of his body while he kneaded your ass.

You both had missed each other a lot, and couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. You tucked your fingers in his towel and untied the knot. The towel fell on the ground to reveal his hard length and you unconsciously licked your lips at the sight.

Desperate to be closer to each other, you didn’t waste much time in undressing yourself. “Hop on, sugar.” You loved when he called you sugar and you excitedly jumped on the bed. His corded muscles shifted underneath his skin as he crawled up to you.

You spread your legs and ran your fingers through your glistening folds. You circled your clit as Bucky watched you with hungry eyes. You dipped two of your fingers into your clenching hole and let out a soft moan. “Bucky, please fuck me. Fuck me hard!”

“Don’t you worry sugar. I’ll give you all you need.” Bucky grasped your hand and pulled it away from your core. He suckled on your fingers which were wet with your slick and you loved feeling his hot mouth around your fingers. He spread your legs further apart and you gaped when he spit on your already wet folds.

“This pussy is mine.”

Butterflies were dancing in your stomach as you saw Bucky get all possessive over you. His fingers rubbed your pussy until his saliva was mixed with your slick. You sucked in a breath when you felt Bucky rub his hot length over your cunt.

Usually, Bucky took his sweet time preparing you and making you cum at least once before he actually fucked you. Bucky had a cock which was adequate to his super strength and both of you were aware of that. But tonight, he did no such thing.

You sobbed when Bucky pushed in his thick cock without any preparation. The stretch was delicious though a little painful, but you got off on the pain. He was met with resistance halfway through so he pulled back and thrusted in until he went a little deeper and he kept doing this until he was balls deep inside you.

“Fuck sugar. You’re so tight. I don’t fuck you for a few days and you get tighter than a virgin. God, I gotta feed this hungry cunt, look at how it’s pulling me in.” Bucky was a talker in bed, but usually he murmured sweet nothings in your ear. But hearing him say all this filth was making you dizzy.

He didn’t give you time to settle as he started thrusting. “Oh! Oh fuck Bucky! Yes please!” You cried out when you felt his cock rub all your right spots. “Please Bucky, I wanna feel you so bad. Harder Bucky. Please fuck me harder!”

Bucky once again placed his vibranium arm on your throat and squeezed. “Did I tell you to talk? I just wanna hear you moan and scream my name. I’m the one who decides how this goes sugar. Not you.”

Tears collected in your eyes as he grinded against you and made you feel every single throbbing vein on his cock. “You’re gonna be a crybaby? Poor thing. Can’t even take what you so clearly begged for.” He mocked you and you were loving every second of it.

His words were making your brain short circuit. You always knew Bucky controlled himself, but now it felt as if you’d unleashed the monster. He increased his pace and started fucking you hard enough for the bed to rattle against the wall. “Bucky…” you kept moaning his name.

He pulled out and you whimpered at the loss. But then he pushed your feet up on his shoulder and nearly folded you in half as your thighs rested on your stomach. You suddenly felt more bare than you ever had as your core was spread out for him.

This time, he pushed his cock deep into you in a single stroke. He was reaching much deeper than before and you choked on air as he started earnestly fucking you. “See, you took me so well this time. This is what I call a well fucked hole. Gotta keep you open on my cock 24x7.”

“Fuck Bucky!” Your eyes rolled back in your head just from all his dirty talk. You clutched your bed covers for dear life as he nearly split you in two. “You’re gonna cum sugar? I can feel you clenching around me.” You nodded dumbly.

“Go ahead and cum for me like my good little wife.” You most definitely saw stars as you came around his cock. His hand around your throat was restricting your air flow and your lust addled brain made you cum harder than you ever had.

You whimpered when Bucky pulled himself out and held the base of his dick to stop himself from coming. A vein his forehead stood up as he panted wildly. “Bucky,..” you licked your dry lips and continued. “You’ve not cum and you’re still hard.”

“I know sugar. We’re not over yet.” His smirk was devilish and brows furrowed with confusion. “What?” You meekly asked. He pecked the corner of your lips and cooed at you. His eyes were like that of a hunter who had a prey fall into his trap.

“Did you use your little vibrator when I wasn’t here?” Your orgasm had left you hazy and everything was difficult to comprehend. “Huh?” How did Bucky even know? “Aww, you’re so cute. But I know I haven’t fucked you dumb, not yet. Did you really think you could hide that pathetic thing from me?”

“I… I… no…” you couldn’t find words to respond and Bucky just chuckled. “You’re such a whore.” You gawked at his words but you couldn’t deny that they still aroused you. Bucky’s eyes searched your face for any discomfort, and when they found none, he visibly relaxed.

“I told you sugar, this pussy belongs to me. And you have no right to play with it without my permission.” You were right, you had unleashed a monster. “I was so proud of you sugar because I thought you were my good girl. But turns out your just a whore”

“No… no Bucky, I am your good girl.” You wanted to be Bucky’s good girl more desperately than you’d ever wanted anything else in your life. “Don’t worry sugar, I’m gonna make you my good girl again.” You couldn’t get if it was your post orgasmic haze or if you were really dumb, but you didn’t understand what he was saying. “Means?”

He quickly flipped you around and you squealed in surprise. His hands ran over your back and you moaned as you felt the dual sensation of hot and cold. Bucky bent down to whisper in your ear, “I’m gonna punish you for being a bad girl.”

“Hnngg..” your brain stopped working when he said that. His hands kneaded your ass and your gulped at the realisation. You were shivering like a leaf on a windy day as his hands took your time warming up your already heated body. “Are you gonna be good?”

“Yes..!” You nearly screamed when you felt his metal hand spank your ass. You knew it wasn’t at all a hard blow for him, but for you, it was a whole another case. Your previously accumulated tears finally sprang through and you openly sobbed in your pillow.

The pain you felt at first very quickly melted into pleasure. Bucky’s flesh hand was reassuringly rubbing your shoulder and grounding you. He didn’t give a warning before landing another blow on your other ass cheek. This time though, you moaned.

You knew his hand was going to bruise you up, and the thought of you carrying the marks your husband left on you made a warm feeling flutter in your chest. He landed the next two spanks in quick succession and your previously taut body nearly melted into the bed like warm butter.

“Just one more sugar.” You were ready for another one but tonight, Bucky was all about surprising you. You shrieked when his flesh hand came down on your throbbing cunt. Your legs twitched from the blow as his hand landed straight on your clit.

“Sshhhh… you were so good for me. So good.” Bucky’s degradation and praise were like the perfect combination of fire and ice. It felt as if he pushed you from the cliff but pulled you back right when you were about to fall.

Bucky had ruined you and it was all you ever wanted. You cried out when he lined his cock with your hole and pushed in. He entered you slowly, making your over sensitive walls feel every thick inch of him. His cock felt bigger than usual and you were so full, you could barely move.

Your body and mind felt like molasses and you went pliant on the bed with a soft sigh. Bucky held your hips tightly as he started fucking you again. Your mind went completely blank and the only thing you could think of was the way Bucky’s cock rammed into you.

You tried crawling away a little as everything felt too much but Bucky held you back tightly. “No sugar. Why are you running now? Didn’t you ask for this? You wanted to be my cumdump, didn’t you? That’s the only thing you’re good for; keeping your husband’s cock warm.”

Bucky was grunting in your ear and you were loving the sounds he was making. He had lost all his control and was rutting into you like an animal focused only on his primal instincts. You felt the coil get tighter in your core and you knew it was about to snap.

“I’ve always thought about making you a mommy. Fucking you so deep and good that you swell with my baby. Wouldn’t that be nice? You all full and round with my child. God, I can’t wait to knock you up.”

You imagined what Bucky was saying and that was enough to make you cum. Your throat was hoarse from screaming before and you just silently writhed on his cock as you came. Soon, you felt his hot seed fill you up and your orgasmed prolonged further until you were floating in a love drunk haze.

When you came back to your senses, you were being carried in Bucky’s arms. You smiled dopily and nuzzled into Bucky’s neck, you always loved that Bucky could pick you up like you weighed nothing. You sighed dreamily when he lowered you down in warm water which you lately realised was your bathtub.

He settled behind you and you cling to him like a koala. “Hello sugar. How are you feeling?” His voice soothed you. “Good.” You didn’t think you were capable of saying more than single words. “Hmm. Did you like that?” He asked as he pressed soft kisses to your face and hair.

“Loved it.” You mumbled and Bucky chuckled lovingly at your drunken state. “You’re so cute sugar. I love you. And thanks for telling me what you wanted.” You hummed lazily before muttering back, “I love you too.”

You were falling in and out of haze as Bucky gently washed you. Your love for your husband grew ten folds as he knew when to be gentle and when to be hard. “Bucky?” He hummed back in interest as you closed your eyes and laid back on his chest. “What do you think of bondage?”

[oh-for-fic-sake]

Weighted Decisions

Henry finds you trapped under his weights and isn’t very pleased.

Masterlist

Warnings:Ddlg, Spanking, Swearing, Little space, Using a Paci,Ageplay and a little fluff at the end. THIS IS NOT A FUNISHMENT FIC.

A/n:so this isn’t smut but more me practicing writing ddlg I hope you like it.XX

Taglist: @two-unbeatable-beaters​ @thatgirly81​

Keep reading

[widowvivi-deactivated20251003]

tongue-tied

pairing. best friend!bucky barnes x virgin!reader

synopsis. the constant questions about your sexual activity, your experience and how many guys you’ve kissed become tiring, the insecurities of not knowing a single thing in the bedroom shining through your personality, so you decide to ask the closest person in your life—bucky—to help you, which he gladly does, but not before ruining you for other men.

warnings. 18+ mdni, explicit content, smut, unprotected sex, piv, loss of virginity, crying during sex, fingering, use of nicknames (many idk), oral (m&f!receiving), messy makeout, gentle sex, size kink, praising, finger sucking, choking, manipulation, a little bit of blood, dumbification, anal sex, overstimulation, dacryphilia, gaslighting, hair pulling (f!receiving), dom!bucky. wc. 3.9k

vivi’s thoughts. literally had to listen to club songs during writing this, but nvm! the beginning is here, enjoy the sweetness and slight innocence of this series while it lasts (wink wink). shoutout to my bucky’s girls for supporting me through the process of all this 🩶 also i added one more chapter for y’all… ‘cause i wanted to make it longer and had many ideas for this!

series masterlist. // series playlist. // main masterlist.

chapter one ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‘TONGUE TIED’ || next chapter ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ‘THE PULSING’ (coming soon)

The packed club buzzed with loud, ear-hurting music, sweaty bodies clinging to each other as the clacking of expensive champagne glasses grew louder with the night erupting into something deeper.

Despite being in this bar with your friend group, it wasn’t what you preferred, much likely settling for a calm evening with your nose buried in thick, almost nearing thousand pages books that made your brain distract itself from reality.

You were basically dragged into the place, but didn’t make any effort in protesting against their reckless decisions, letting the flow take you wherever it wanted.

It might’ve been two hours since your grand arrival, the atmosphere smoothly shifting into an ease where many laughs were shared, embarassing stories passed around in the group and strangers occasionally inviting one of the girls for a song.

The group spread through the club’s many dance floors, dividing the genders as you all found conversation topics without the men constantly annoying you.

Nat—as the most addicted woman among the group—casually brought another round of strong drinks that burned down your throats, making you scrunch your noses in agony.

“To… nights full of surprises, making out and hopefully good sex,” she raised her glass, the girls quickly following along, finally making you raise your glass too with a shy smile on your face.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to celebrate her words, it was just foreign to you.

Making out—sure, the sloppy kisses shared with your college boyfriend maybe counter, however with the sex part, you weren’t introduced to it yet, never having the chance or opportunity to ‘jump into it’ as Wanda always said.

And just like that, the bliss of the drink started coursing through your veins slowly, but surely.

Alcohol flew through your system, loosening you up and making you neglect the responsibilities that felt too heavy on your back in the real life, allowing yourself to unwind your mind and body just for one night.

You could see the metal armed man standing off with the boys on the side, the younger blonde beside him shamelessly flirting with a rather charming woman.

As his ice cold blue eyes met yours, something in your gut twisted as he grinned, raising the yet untouched bottle of beer into your direction, unconsciously reminding you of the rules you set for yourself.

From the moment you met him through Nat, Wanda and Yelena—all he did was scream trouble, too cocky, too full of himself.

You gave him a chance at the start of your knowing each other.

And to your surprise, he was patient with you, remembering things that even your system didn’t seem to register after a while, making coffee for you back at the compound as an unspoken routine between you developed.

He was the person you’d call your safe space, his character growing on you from day to day, showing you a side of him that he didn’t let anyone else in the tower see.

Or maybe he was putting on an act, although you doubted it.

Over time, he of course found out about your situation—everyone in the compound did, asking you about it in the little teasing tones, often using the dumb encouraging lines and stubborn actions.

Bucky didn’t, you didn’t know if it was because he understood it, which he mostly didn’t, due to the favouritism between the dames in the forties he mentioned in his stories.

You’ve reasoned it with him not caring enough to bother you with the topic, which you deeply appreciated.

“He’s so hot, man,” the exclaimed sentence that fell from the red head’s mouth brought you back into the club, the busy night surrounding you like a blanket again, “I’d suck his dick if he gave me one chance.”

The confusion in your look must’ve been more noticeable than you thought, as Yelena leaned into your ear—trying her hardest not to stumble over her own legs, “Barnes, she’s talkin’ about Barnes,”

She nodded with her brows, as if answering the million questions running through your head, but not before the alcohol blurred them together.

A chuckle escaped you, “Are you seeing things?” You teasingly asked, throwing another shot into yourself, drowning the worries away, the euphoria overtaking your body quickly.

She now giggled with you as you scanned Nat’s face, finding the stubborn seriousness there—written all over her face, giving her immediately away.

“You serious? Look at him,” her head turned into the direction, drawing your attention to him, his body mostly as he shrugged off the leather jacket from his figure while exposing his too tight shirt, as if coaxing you to look.

And you did.

The time seemed to slow down just for a heartbeat, his arms flexing when reaching for something that didn’t need your focus, as if you were only seeing him.

Slight laughter erupted around you, “You’re staring, baby,” one of the girls announced, before continuing, “and i’m not blamin’ you, you’re lucky.”

Turning your gaze now toward the Maximoff who voiced the words with so much underlying confidence behind them, you were met with a grin plastered on her face, making you feel like she knew something you didn’t.

The girls audibly laughed, leaving you standing there like a deer in the headlights—confused and curious, “What’s that supposted to mean?”

Letting out a small chuckle, you tried to ease the emotions bubbling in your throat, anxiously reaching for the drink that sat on the table between you, abandoned until this moment, burning down your throat.

Almost drunk gazes met yours, before humbly responding with, “Don’t you see it? How he looks at you? Girl, I’m jealous.”

Rapidly responding with a firm shake of your head, you brushed the out of mind accusation to the back of your mind, barely registering that they even said something due to the impulsive and hardly believable verdict the sentence held.

The russian sisters chimed in, “Yeah, like I’d beg him to look at me like that,” raising the glasses again, Nat spoke with the same teasing tone in her voice, “to Barnes.”

Hell no.

Excusing yourself, you slipped from the loud group without anyone noticing or turning their heads after you as your legs took you to the dimly lightened corner of the dance floor, leaving you alone with your spiralling thoughts all over the place.

He was your best friend—right? The doubts suddenly doubled, overtaking your mind like the plague, pulling you just where they wanted.

Confused. Befuddled. Desperate for answers, and maybe, desperate for him.

For his rough hands on your soft body, the contrast driving you insane. For his soothing voice in your ear persuading you to take it like a good girl. For his cock to—

“All good?” A voice asked somewhere behind you snapping you out of the vulgar fantasy, sending stubborn shivers down your spine without your permission.

Of course, he’d show up now, not an hour before, no. He had to sneak from the boys to check on you, just when you were clouded with possible images that contained him and your body in rather questionable situations.

Meeting his eyes for the second time that night, your cheeks burned, heat pumping into them, betraying the expression on your face, “All good.”

You echoed with uncertainty, the alcohol swirling through your body, making your knees buckle, your mind short circuit, your brain focus on him. Him. Him.

“Don’t look like it,” the concern behind the words that rolled out of his mouth should’ve caressed you, not turn you on more than you already were, “y’can talk to me.”

With that, the flesh hand reached for you, tucking an abandoned hair behind your ear as he absentmindedly licked his lips, as if he was doing it on purpose.

However he wasn’t, that was just your imagination.

It felt amusing to you, what? You were supposted to tell him that you’ve been constantly thinking about how his touch would send you into ecstacy? How your thighs clenched just at the possibility of him burying his face between them?

A drunken giggle left you as your hands flew to his chest for stability that you desperately needed, “Everything’s fine, more than fine,” it had a meaning you didn’t dare to explain, but he sensed it, like he always did, knowing you like the back of his hand.

“Was just thinkin’, y’know? All the girls are—there, makin’ out with random guys that they’re gonna end up in bed with,” you rambled, scanning the room, not daring to meet his eyes in the slightest, “and I’m here, lonely, drives me crazy.”

The last words were slurred together, his hands flying to your waist gently, making the assassin before you feel like the biggest gentleman in the world, maybe even in the universe.

“Doesn’t mean that you should be like that,” he reassured the worries in you, just slightly, “you’re savin’ yourself for someone that’s worth it.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement that you’ve tried convincing yourself with every night—that you weren’t untouched because you were terrified of it, but because you were saving yourself.

And when the sentence echoed through you more frequently, you grew to believe it.

His cold, metal hand now cradled your jaw delicately, setting a contrast to the situation at your hands, to the humiliating whining you were keeping up in front of him.

Bucky left no option but to meet his orbs that spoke volumes to you.

“That’s okay.” He whispered, his voice carrying through the space like a wave that came crashing down on you, utterly ruining you even if he didn’t realize it.

Except it wasn’t, nothing ever really was, you just got better at hiding it.

Your hesitant statement echoed off the walls, “What if I don’t want to?”

He didn’t seem to catch onto the meaning of your words immediately, searching your face for more possible answers—but finding none, just the need in your eyes and caress of your soft palms against his chest.

The crowd mindlessly pushed you against each other, the heat now shared with his, “What’s that supposted to mean, baby?” he asked curiously, never faltering the caressing motions on your jaw.

His voice was smooth as the nickname fell from his lips so casually, making your knees buckle under you, threatening to give up under your weight.

Composing yourself, your tongue swiped across your mouth, as if daring him to look—and he did, slowly and thoroughly, the motions already loading into the files in his memory to replay later.

You weren’t sure where the courage came from, if it was from the alcohol, his touch or the fact that the club screamed with the vibes to just let go and enjoy the moments spent inside.

“Save myself for someone,” you cleared, your gaze on his never faltering as your words continued, dipping into an intimate atmosphere, “maybe I want someone to finally do it, take it. The innocence. Teach me.”

It felt like you were offering yourself to him, and maybe you were, it was confusing for you, nevertheless Bucky’s head was spinning.

He didn’t want to rush you, God, that was the last thing on the planet he’d want, but if he said that the hope and invitation in your announcement didn’t feel welcome to him.

“Yeah? Who’d that be?” He asked, the thumb shifting from your jaw to the slope of your throat, pressing just right—not to cut off your air, just to make you aware of what you were getting yourself into before jumping into the adventure.

The people around you were long forgotten, the girls being tucked into a deeply buried corner of your mind, the drinks getting to your head, reaching their peak at their effects.

You didn’t answer, not verbally at least.

Leaning in, you sloppily pressed your wet lips against his soft ones, tasting the beer he consumed earlier in your mouth now, making you suddenly aware of how close he was.

His calloused hand cradled the back of your neck, positioning you just how he wanted, your lower back almost painfully pressed against one of the wooden tables.

It didn’t matter who saw, you were praying that someone would—to see that you’ve done it, that you’ve finally broken the dry spell.

He suddenly pulled away, taking your face between his palms carefully, acting as if you were a fragile glass he didn’t want to break just yet, “You’re drunk, babygirl.”

Shaking your head, determined to refure his accusation even if he was being responsible and truthful, which at the moment, you weren’t.

Just desperate to get it over with.

“I’m not, I know what I want,” you said, massaging his shoulders as if that was meant to loosen him up and make him agree to the reckless ideas coursing through your list of things you wanted to do tonight, “really, y’can trust me.”

Raising his eyebrow, he chuckled as his fingers curled around your smaller ones, removing them off of his shoulders in attempt to sober you up by the action, “And what do you want?”

“You,” simply stating it as a fact, something in his steel blue eyes snapped, darkening as you voiced your decision carefully, “I mean it, I wanna—“

Interrupting you and not letting you mutter another word, he pressed his lips against yours, taking the iniative into his hands, demanding entrance into your mouth with his slick tongue.

Your mind was clouded with desperation, pleasure, need and hunger as your lips parted for his wet tongue, letting him in swiftly.

His movements were confident and authoritative, taking over the kiss, setting the pace just for you to be able to catch up without struggling, but for it to have an effect on both of you.

Tongue pressing against his, the initial self-consciousness disappeared in the speed of light, feeling brave and bold in his arms, the dance of your tongues beginning.

No mercy was given, his hands finding the back of your neck with precision, blocking out the loud music that spread through the club like a rough wind colliding between trees in a forest.

You were getting lost in him, in his mouth that was on yours, claiming you like nobody has ever done before, making you only focus on him.

A desperate whimper left you, breaking the kiss in need of a proper breath, your lungs already reaching their limit as you pulled away, his saliva obscenely clinging to your mouth.

His thumb swiped across the corner of your lips, gathering the liquid onto it, “Clean it, baby,” the sentence made your walls clench bluntly, your tongue darting out just enough for him to place his digit into your mouth.

“Good girl.” He praised, the smile on his face slowly turning into a malicious one as he watched you suck the saliva off of his finger, making it your mission to make him proud.

It was the alcohol talking, acting instead of you—but you couldn’t care less.

“Please, Bucky,” your whine came out almost as a humiliating whisper, the usual quiet confidence you carried gone, replaced with bulky hunger, and even if you weren’t sure what you were begging for, but it was the least of your worries.

He chuckled, pulling out his digit and pressing a kiss sgainst your forehead, “Let’s go home, huh?” He offered, keeping you upright with a hand on your waist.

Words were useless as you nodded without thinking, “Just need to tell the girls—“ you stopped yourself, looking around for Nat, even Wanda or Yelena to inform them that you were leaving, and when they weren’t anywhere to find, you let out a defeated “—actually, don’t need to.”

His hand found yours, guiding you through the crowd with a soothing caress on your delicate palm, securing you close to his side.

It wasn’t your plan to leave with him, not initially—but here you were, letting him take you to his apartment without a single second thought popping up in your head, the possible warnings signs useless.

You trusted him, and that was all that mattered, and if he was about to take your virginity that night, you wouldn’t be mad.

When you reached the almost pitch black parking lot, the difference between the hot temperatures inside the club and outside, under the night sky were rapid, shivers crawling over your flesh without you wanting them to.

Before you registered it, Bucky’s leather jacket slung over your shoulders—enveloping you whole, the scent of it filling your nostrils.

Mumbling a quiet “Thank you,” without meeting his eyes, focusing on the path that lead to his vintage truck standing off on the corner, his hands already reaching for the keys.

He opened the passenger door for you first, exposing the gentleman side of his personality to you as if to remind you that he wasn’t all rough and awkward, but thoughtful and caring too.

The drive to his place that lay on a street in downtown of Brooklyn, was uncharacteristicly quiet, neither of you daring to voice and admit what had happened back at the club.

Ignoring the topic was a rather strong statement, preferring the term of letting it escalate naturally into something that you didn’t want to mess up.

Bucky’s emotions were overtaking him, bordering on the edge of his sanity snapping every second that you sat in that seat beside him—your legs crossed and shoulders slumped against the piece of his clothing.

He would let you set the pace of how you wanted to continue once you would enter his place, not hustling you into things you didn’t want to fully do just yet.

“Isn’t this like—illegal? Driving drunk?” You asked, trying to ease the elephant in the car that you both smoothly avoided.

And even if it was meant seriously, he took it like a teasing remark that you came up with intentionally.

His eyes flickered to you, grinning, “Can’t get drunk, all that super-serum coursing through my veins makes it impossible.”

His voice was smooth like velvet when he answered the curious question, focusing on the midnight road carefully, making it his unspoken assignment to drive as smoothly as ever, just so you’d be comfortable.

Before you had the opportunity to enter through the wooden door of his apartment normally, his mouth was on yours again for the second time of the night, already feeling the warmth return to your lower abdomen and seep into your bones.

Clumsy teeth crashed into each other, greedy tongues danced in a tempting harmony, hands searching for places to grab onto in the heat of the moment.

Wobbling through the halls by memory, the soft and welcoming sheets met your back as he laid you down onto the small bed with tender touches, his mouth travelling down your neck.

Out of instinct, your legs made space for his figure, clasping him into you like a clip that didn’t want to let go, impatiently pressing the heels of them into his lower back.

Your hips drove up into his, seeking pressure that hasn’t been given to you, “Please—Bucky,” you repeated the sentence from the bar, now laying in his quiet bubble, not in the loud atmosphere.

The intoxicating liquid was slowly disappearing from your system, making your mind clearer, your senses higher and the spot between your thighs more flooded by the minutes ticking down on the clock.

“What’cha begging for, baby? You gotta make it clear,” his voice was taunting, pulling you into him as he kissed your collarbones—but never wandering down south.

It made you needy, wishing for him to be giving you more of his attention, more of his rewarding hands on the skin that silently begged for them when words weren’t enough.

“Fuck me, please,” it almost sounded like you were a pornstar, like you’d voiced the sentence thousands of times before, the truth being far away from the accusations.

His touch was there, and suddenly it vanished into thin air as he pulled back, his blue eyes scanning your flushed face, your spread thighs revealing the white lace that was teasing him.

He didn’t say anything, softly shutting them and hiding the evidence of your arousal that seeped through the flimsy underwear, soaking it through and through.

Immediately sitting up, composing yourself and looking at him, searching for explanations in his guarded expressions that shifted from furrowed brows and lips pressed into a thin line to his palms running over his face.

The feelings that coursed through you were mixed, mostly questioning your actions—what did you do wrong? Did you mistook his responses for something that wasn’t there?

Doubts surrounded you until he softly spoke, “What we—you talked ‘bout,” he started softly, kneeling in front of you and placing his palms over the bare skin of your knees, “it’s better if we discuss it in the morning, baby.”

Your lips moved in a failed attempt of asking, his thumb pressing against them as if he already knew you like the back of his hand.

“I’m not sayin’ I don’t want to teach you, make you understand,” pausing, his digit stroked the apples or your cheeks, quietly calming your racing thoughts down.

“But not today, not when you drank, wouldn’t do that to you, especially if it would be your first time, babygirl.”

The clearance felt like something so soft that it would melt in your palms, untying the complicated knots your mind created with ease, and suddenly—the heat of the moment subsided, leaving you there speechless.

He saw it in your face, the momentary confusion that turned into a relaxed expression in a beat.

You managed a cooperative nod, feeling embarassed now—more stupid than ever. You’ve spread your legs for him like a whore that you weren’t, reading the situation in a different way than he intended it to come out as.

With that, his lips met yours in a relieved yet lingering kiss, silencing the relentless uncertainty inside of you without even having to try, “I’m taking the couch, yeah?”

You would’ve tried to press if the circumstances were different, but you didn’t, letting him choose the direction of where the night would be heading into.

“I’ll bring you clothes to sleep in,” those were his last words before reluctantly turning and taking the path to his messy closet, picking out what he thought were the most suitable pieces for you.

He brought them to you, sharing a quiet, “Goodnight,” between the two of you as he set the fabric onto the now slightly crumpled sheets.

In an usual scenario, you’d stay up thinking and rewinding the memories of the night—but the old, yet pleasantly comfortable bed kept you from doing so.

And before you drifted off, the last noises you heard were his soft steps outside the bedroom and the shower running, both of them helping you into the well deserved sleep.

📋 series taglist — @sheriff-bodecker @buckyfmd @opheliabbarnes @fucky-barnes82 @umbreoni @colettebarnes @metal-armed-muse @54nboo @kqtholins @barnesandashes @demiebarnes @kiatjuddae @blowingbarnes @roshniiiiii9 @overwintering-soldier @literallyjustuhgirl @maplesyrizzup @canyoufeelthel1ght @loki-licious-945ad @iannepeyt @amoremarveloustime @sebastians-love @vibraniumavenger @fluorjscent @quantumwindstranger @its-in-the-woods @catclaw1 @stargirlsmooch @biggestfangirl @letterstodevil @colonyofpotatoes @herejustforbuckybarnes @peanutbutt3rcup @mrgrungusthefrog @leleynsversion @charliesangel67 @laniirackssss @dollaems @butterfly-lover @yes-ilovetowrite @justalittle47 @fleurenoir @pretty-girl-rock-3 @adalvsseb @linolovebott @messybwlfdrama @timelylovergirl @galaxygoddess30 @miraclediviner @wintrsoldrluvr @honeygirl724 (if you’re crossed out, i unfortunately can’t tag you, you’re tagged in the comments probably!)

[touchstarvedirl]

Welcome Home (Here Now & Forever)

Pairing: Best friend!Bucky Barnes x Bratty Jealous!Reader

Word Count: 3,064

Warning(s): NSFW, best friends to lovers, yearning, exploding sexual tension, fluff, reader pretending to be clueless, fingering, feral!reader, Jealous!Reader, Bratty!Reader

A/N: (MASTERLIST)

I wouldn’t have an explanation for this if it wasn’t an ask by the lovely @weasleytwinsexpert . But it is so I should be in the clear!!!! EXCUSE ANY TYPOS I WAS ITCHING TO GET THIS OUT

Summary: The allure to your best friend becomes clear when your ex is out of the picture. The sexual tension is too much handle and even if you won’t do anything Buck will.

The fact of the matter is you’re going to die if you don’t get filled to the brim with dick.

It’s an ugly truth but there’s nothing that can be done about it besides… being filled to the brim with dick. You need it, want it, crave it, and it’s to blame it for the reason you’ve been making everyone around you insane with your behavior lately. Up until two months ago you had a very specific solution for this problem; Dylan. Dylan was a dark-haired, bright-eyed drummer from a band dedicated to being just good enough that they would never have to get regular jobs. He was good for late nights, early early mornings, long weekends, and even lunch breaks. He was bad for everything else.

Until two months you could deal with the other women, the weird on and off, the bizarre estrangement from even the thought of commitment, and the embarrassment of the rock mediocrity of The Sacred Heart. What you couldn’t deal with was your best friends’ disappointment. He hated Dylan with every fiber of his being. You could handle that too but once Buck saw Dylan with his dick in another woman at a club while out for a drink, then consequently pummeled him to the floor there was no way to remain Switzerland between the two of them. One had to go and fast because the other was prone to violence on your behalf.

Since that Friday night when Buck came knocking on your door with blood on his fist, there’s been a gaping Dylan-sized hole demanding to be filled. You hadn’t known yourself to be so needy before, you just hadn’t realized Dylan was just oh so happy to oblige your urge. God, did you have urges. There were the morning urges that the showerhead dealt with, the lunch break urges that a quick trip to the car and then the empty parking lot around the corner dealt with, and the late-night urges that the very useful dildo and vibrator combo kept at bay. The other urge, the most annoying and persistent of them all, was still unresolved. The urge you had to be touched, caressed, pressed against, and pushed around.

It is making your life a living hell and by proxy; everyone else’s in a 10-mile radius. Your sister has taken to creating an online dating profile for you just so she can handle phone calls with your snapping and over exorbitant sarcasm. Your coworkers are switching shifts just to avoid you, casting looks at one another behind your turned back when they’re stuck without an out, your friends send you daily get dick warnings before an invite to the hang out, and Buck… Buck is making it so much worse.

Dylan in some way was clouding your vision, the very great vision of seeing Buck clearly. In the last two months the knowledge of your best friend being an absolute masterpiece crafted in the depth of your deepest desires became known to you. A fate you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. He’s tall, and built too hefty to be as swift as he is, something you used to love making fun of him for but now can’t find the humor in, the idea just makes your mouth dry. Buck takes his time, with everything. When he cuts cucumbers and dices onions, when he washes the dishes and dries and puts them away, when he helps you get out of a tight dress. Buck has pretty fingers, thick, calloused ones that are always filed, cut, and clean.

If it were just this, just Buck being attractive, way too attractive, you could live with that. In slight agony maybe but you could live. It’s the added knowledge that you may be in love with him. With Dylan gone Buck so easily slipped into boyfriend-like behavior that felt right. It made even Dylan’s best attempts at relationship imitation look flimsy. Buck knew you needed something before you could put words to the feeling, he talked about your day and remembered stupid things that he brought up to make you smile. He’s always done that, you guys had always done that for one another, so why the fuck did it feel so different now?

Both realizations hitting at once were making life hell. You wanted to fuck your best friend who you are also in love with, neither conclusion dependent on the other. It made you stare for a few extra seconds when Bucky was in your kitchen wearing the apron you bought him, and made you gawk when he found himself laid underneath your sink cabinet with his shirt rising higher. It made you want to cancel plans with him so you could deal with it alone.

“You don’t have to bring me dinner, Buck.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asked and you could tell from the way he sounded he was already in the truck. Already on his way to feed you and cuddle with you and love you.

“Buck.” You said, trying to be stern.

“Yeah, Y/N?”

You sucked in a breath, forgetting all the fight you had built up, his saying your name scratched an itch that made your leg shake. “Italian?” You squealed out, hopefully.

“Enough Italian. How about Sushi?”

“Extra sweet chili please!"

“Yes, I know. Promise I won’t forget. I’ll see you in a little bit pretty girl.”

“See ya.”

…

In some odd turn of events Bucky fucking Barnes doesn’t turn up to your apartment for another hour and a half. By the time he’s finally found himself in your apartment, unloading greasy brown paper bags looking fucking amazing while doing so you’re half past pissed. “You can stop glaring at me, honey. I have an explanation. If you’re interested in hearing it before you rip me a new one.”

“I’m not.”

“Had to take a detour to Steve's place.” he continued as served you your sushi, opening the to-go container, supplying you with your chopsticks and soy sauce. “He needed a favor.”

“Did he ask you to go to the goddamn moon?” You grumbled, fitting your chopsticks in your hand.

“Sharon needed a ride to this Gala she’s going to, she wanted Steve to take her but he’s busy that night. I agreed to take her but I didn’t feel like renting a tux, had to swing by to make sure Steve’s fit before Friday.”

“Hold on.” You pushed your food away. “You,” You pointed your chopsticks at him accusingly, “were late because you went to pick up a tux to take Sharon on a date in?”

Buck shook his head not at all phased by your abhorrent attitude and leaned forward cupping your chin in his palm and flicking the pad of his thumb across your lip to discard a grain of rice that had stuck. You didn’t heavily breathe in his air or have to force yourself not to close your eyes in anticipation. You definitely didn’t...

“Didn’t say anything about a date. Just escorting her.”

“That’s a date!”

“Even if it seems like a date, it’s not. Only one I’m going on dates with is you.” He supplies, so fucking - charmingly. Another stupid reason you’re falling deeper into the pit of being in love with my best friend.

“Stepped on my shoes without apologizing Sharon? She introduced me to her friends as Buck’s neighbor when we first met. That Sharon?”

You blew out a harsh breath as you picked at your Sushi, anger stopping you from picking them up with accuracy. Without another blink, Buck is up across the small space of the kitchen and back, replacing your chopsticks with a fork. “It’s not a date, baby girl. I promise.”

“You’re gonna fuck her, aren’t you?” You spat. Bucky shot you a weird look, tonight’s first indication that he wasn't exactly a fan of your attitude and definitely not of the accusation. Buck huffs out an amused — whatever the fuck that was, and you roll your eyes because what the fuck is so amusing about this?

“I didn’t say anything about having sex.”

“You’re going to stay though, I know you. You’re gonna drive her, stand next to her all night and you think I don’t know you’re going to fuck her? God, you are such a hypocrite.”

“Why’s that?” Bucky asks curiously, eating as if you’re not trying to wage war on him.

“I can’t fuck Dylan but you can fuck Sharon the rudest, meanest bitch I’ve ever met. That sounds fair to you?”

“I am not fucking Sharon.” He says solemnly, surprisingly forfeiting an opportunity to throw jabs at Dylan.

“If it was me-” you continued blowing right past whatever he was saying, “if I even mentioned seeing Dylan you’d be giving me that fucking look and a whole lecture about how I deserve better.”

“And you think these two things are the same?” Buck questions and you can tell you’ve begun to get to him.

“How the hell is it any different, Barnes?”

Bucky took a deep breath and the irritation you’ve been pouring into him all night is finally beginning to show. He closes the lid of his go box, and wipes his hands, pushing it away towards the farthest end of the table. “It is just an escort. True, I’m not going to leave her alone at the party but that has nothing to do with sex.”

“Whatever. Do whatever you want, I really don’t care. Fuck her, fuck everyone.”

Buck laughs again like all of this is funny. Getting up to deposit his food into the refrigerator. Prancing past you into the living room flopping down onto the couch. “It’s a favor to Steve. That’s the only reason I’m doing it.”

You continued going at your food, ignoring him with much effort. The craziness of this whole situation doesn’t escape you. Buck is not yours to be jealous over, and yet he is stroking your inflated ego by making you think he owes you an explanation about where he goes and with whom and that’s only making you feel bolder. It’s making you think this ridiculous attitude of yours shouldn’t budge.

“D’you want me to make it all better?” You hear behind you.

“The hell are you talking about?” You mumble with a mouthful of Shrimp Tempura.

“Come here, Y/N.”

You huffed, puffed and rolled your eyes all the way through; closing your takeaway and wiping your mouth, taking a final swallow and stomping towards Buck, “What?” You asked putting yourself directly in front of him, crossing your arms, pouting, and employing every other childish mannerism you could think of.

Bucky doesn’t kiss your forehead like he usually does to calm you, he doesn’t press his large hand against your forehead to calm you, he doesn’t do anything that he normally would to calm you down. He does something completely the opposite. He pulls you down onto his lap, presses his warm palm against the side of your neck and tucks his thumb underneath your chin to force your gaze. “D’you want me to fix it?”

You blink, startled by the abrupt change in the atmosphere. “Fix what?” You sighed, deciding to concede. He’s been through enough with you today, you have to save some gusto for tomorrow. “You already agreed, I’m sure you can’t back out. It’s fine. Have fun with your girlfriend, tell her I said hi.”

Bucky shakes his head bringing his lips to your ear. “I’m done talking about Sharon.” He presses his fingertips into your neck bringing you closer, and glides his thumb across your jaw. “I’m talking about us. Do you want me to fix it?” He asks again.

You almost let out another clueless ‘fix what?’ but the caress of his breath on your earlobe tells you it would be brilliant to do otherwise. You can only bring yourself to pull back to stare at him, awestruck. Buck was asking about — no way he was. But Buck stared at you boldly with no intention of hiding or backing down letting you know that’s exactly what he was asking about.

“Don’t think I’ve noticed? All snappy and irritated.” He recalls, while z his eyes sweep over you fondly. “Angry and jealous, know what you need. You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes.” You whine, desperation stopping you from the way you would normally wince at the sound of the need in your voice.

“All you ever had to do was ask.” You let your head loll to the side to give Bucky more access to do whatever he pleases. He takes what you give him, nuzzling his forehead into your exposed skin. “I can almost smell it on you. You need it so bad, don’t you?”

You nod unabashedly, relief filling you that finally someone seems to fucking get it. Thank God, it was Bucky who did.

“Been having to take care of yourself. That’s not fair, is it?”

You shake your hard as you force yourself into Buck’s grip, pushing further into his personal space, pressing your chests together. He follows obediently where your movements lead him; a full grip on your ass cupping underneath putting your pussy in his hands. Tsk tsk tsk. You’re already soaking wet, doll. What am I gonna do with you?

You could cry, you think you will. Hopefully he makes you.

He’s skillful with his hands; your panties pushed aside briskly, a sloppy circle rubbed onto your clit to collect your juices, slow travels up and down your slit. “Fuck. My poor baby, I’m sorry it took me so long.” His talk should be degrading, it should be degrading how easily you cave to his advances without so much as a conversation about changing dynamics because you’re so damn hungry for it. His tone is so sincere, so remorseful that you know he’s taking this seriously. He truly regrets not getting you what you needed earlier, not being the one to give it to you.

“It’s okay if I take care of you?” He asks as he hovers at your entrance.

Buck hisses as he enters you with anxious care and he pumps his fingers into your faster; and he loves how you press back against him so you can feel more, so it can overwhelm you. He doesn’t worry about how you’re bucking against him taking the full force of his fingers because he knows you need it.

He holds your back tenderly, he keeps cooing to you, murmuring soothing words. I’m here, baby. It’s gonna be okay. It’s a complete 180 from the way his fingers are treating you, like this is just some back alley fuck l that you both need to blow off some steam not what it is; a love letter being penned in your slick wetness from your best friend you, an open confession of his adoration.

It’s obscene; the squelching sounds of your cunt being pounded by Buck’s thick fingers, the way your fat pussy announces Buck’s frequent intrusion and departure of your already fucked out hole.

You feel yourself dripping down your legs but nothing can stop you from widening your stance as mucha s the position allows, pressing your face harder against his chest, opening yourself up for him with both hands gripping into your ass. You’re drooling, and your eyes are stuck in a constant roll that Buck admires.

“C’mere.” He whispers, taking your chin in his hands forcing your gaze up to his. “Is that it? Is this what you needed? Look at me, gorgeous. D'you get it now? It’s my job to take care of you. I love you.”

It’s beautiful; it makes your heart swell and you’d be able to express that if Buck wasn’t timing the rhythm he was stuffing you with his fingers to the beautiful words he was dedicating to you.

“Right here, hm?” He says it before it happens; the words don’t hit you til moments later when he brushes your spot. Once softly, experimentally after he’s slowed down. And once he knows, once a high pitched moan crawls out of your throat, once he knows, he meets his once again hitting that sweet spongy spot buried between the gummy walls of your cunt he lets you know that it’s okay. He doesn’t want you to be embarrassed when you squirt your pleasure all over his fingers. “Right there, baby. ‘S what she needed hm? Just a good stretch, hm?”

“Buhg— fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK—“ you gasp as you begin to shudder. “Can’t! ‘M gonna cum - gonna cum - shit!”

Bucky groans, the first sound of his pleasure all night. “I know.” He hooks his arm under your leg and forces you open as the extreme force of your impending orgasm is asking you to close them, “Take it, take it, come on. Cum for me.” He growls. “Give it all to me.”

Tears sting your eyes and you’re gripping his shirt so hard it may rip. Access to words forsakes you; all that’s left to do is grunt, moan, scream, shake and cry. You throw your head back and try not to die as Bucky just gives and gives and gives and gives you every drop of his strength.

You cum and so so much more. You fucking spray yourself all down Bucky’s fingers and hand, leak out and let your pleasure darken Buck’s pants as it spreads. You cum, and cum and you keep fucking cumming.

You can’t think. You collapse on top of Bucky dead to the world as far as you’re concerned. Bucks already decided you should stay just like that; fucked dumb and speechless in his arms. His perfect girl.

“S okay.” He coos hauling you onto his hips with no effort. He speaks softly even as you lay nearly lifeless in his arms, cunt still dripping from the fruits of his effort. Your stretched, puffy cunt sticking to Buck’s waistband as he brings you to the bedroom.

“I’m gonna take care of you, baby.”

[buckmepapi]

“He wouldn’t care where you were or who you were with, he would often come up behind you at the shared kitchen counter and spear himself into you like a rabid dog in heat” PLEWSE IF YOU EVER HAVE THE TIME COULD YOU BLESS US WITH A DRABBLE AND MORE CUM IM OBSESSED

Squirt || Bucky Barnes drabble

Oh, you little horn dog, your wish is my command! ✨🌸

Let’s see what my horn knee™ brain can come up with…

This drabble is intended to be a stand alone not connected to the other one. They have an established relationship, they have a safe word etc.

I’m warning you it’s absolutely filthy and I should go sit in a corner and think about what I’ve done.

Warnings: smut 18+ only, semi public sex, rough sex, squirting, buckys dirty mouth, creampie, breeding, daddy kink.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!avenger!reader

A/N: not proofread.

Join my 1.2k follower giveaway

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Bucky just couldn’t help himself.

Not when you were here in the shared avengers compound living room, wearing a cute little pink tennis skirt and white thigh highs. Bucky thought he might combust right there.

He had just come back from his morning run with Steve, shirtless and glowing with sweat, he turned the corner to the living room / kitchen area of the compound and stopped dead in his tracks.

There you were, leaning over the counter eating a bowl of berries with one hand on the spoon shovelling it into your mouth and another hand holding a book you were reading.

You were so engrossed in your book that you didn’t hear the way Bucky lowly growled as he saw you bend over further into the counter to get more comfortable, unknowingly showing the very bottom of your baby pink lacy panties. Bucky brought his flesh hand down to adjust the raging hardness in his grey sweatpants and staggered over to you with determination in his lust blown eyes.

You looked like the perfect slutty little housewife. That sordid unexpected thought in Bucky’s mind sent a further rush of arousal of precum to dribble from his red and leaking tip, forming an obvious wet patch on the front of his joggers.

God, he couldn’t wait to marry you one day. The thought of being able to come home to this everyday, in your own home? Even the thought of him seeing you naked and cooking for him made him feral with want. The term ‘barefoot and pregnant’ came to mind as he settled behind you wrapping his large palm around your abdomen and growled as he pushed into the pillows of your ass.

You jumped when you felt his unexpected embrace, causing you to push yourself into his clothed cock as he hummed lowly in satisfaction.

“W-what..what are you doing?” You said softly.

You knew fully well what he was doing. You just loved to rile him up by acting all innocent, when he knew you were the furthest thing from it.

“Can’t I hold my beautiful girlfriend?” He said teasingly as he rutted into you painstakingly slow, his hand pressing harder against your abdomen.

“Mmm” you replied dazed, your eyes already fluttered closed as his hypnotic ministrations began to distract you from your surroundings.

“Lookit you” he slurred, already drunk on your scent as he reluctantly leaned back from your warmth to trail his hands up the sides of your thick soft thighs. His hands rested at the top of them, just underneath your hip bone, he pressed them tightly and squeezed, forcing you back against his crotch hard, causing you to let out a pathetic whimpering mewl. “Looking so fuckin’ hot in this lil skirt, babydoll. Fuck, the way your pillowy thighs just fill out those socks mmmmm fuck, makes me wanna take you right here baby, bend you over this counter and watch that fat ass bounce on my cock”

“Oh god..” you moaned louder this time, eyes rolling back into your head as you reached behind you to grab the back of his brown locks.

“Hmm? You want that, sweetheart?” He hummed against your neck, his sharp nose trailing up and down your sweet spot, continuing to roll his hips into your backside as he very tentatively licked and sucked behind your ear. “You wanna be my good little girl? Let me slide right in?”

Gasping for air as you opened your eyes and scanned the room. No one was here but you’d never be able to live it down if one of your friends walked in on you taking Bucky’s abnormally large cock. “We can’t” you said breathlessly. Bucky chuckled at your unconvincing tone.

“Why not, baby?” He said feigning a disappointed tone and a pouty face. He slowly lifted up your skirt and cupped your cheeks, pulling them apart and watching the tight ring of virgin muscle clench and pulsate around nothing in tandem with the pulsing and clenching of your soaking wet tunnel. He nearly fucking drooled at the sight.

“All I have to do” he continued as he pulled your underwear to the side “is push your little panties to the side” he wasted no time in then pulling out his heavy and angry cock from its confines and swiped the sensitive head around the globes of your ass, leaving a trail of sticky precum in its wake. He then slowly meandered down to your desperate cunt teasing your entrance with the tip of his thick member, grabbing his cock harder and swirling the bulbous head around your hole in a circular motion, feeling it catch on the ridges of your opening. He stopped and suddenly filled you all at once without warning “and push right inside that tight pussy. No prep needed huh, baby ?”

You lurched further forwards over the counter as your felt the rest of his thick cock breach you and force it’s way further into your tightness “mmm fuck, babygirl” Bucky whimpered as his head fell to the crook of your neck. “Can’t help myself when I see you, gotta have you full of my fat cock whenever and wherever I see you. But this? This outfit? Y’got me so worked up right now, sweetheart , shit, I don’t even care if someone walks in and sees us , oh fuck baby just like that, I’ll just keep taking you even then, when you beg me to stop, I’ll fucking pound your tight little c-cunt harder and let everyone see how your pussy stretches around me”

“I-I-I’m , Im gonna , I’m gonna fucking cum!” Bucky slapped a hand over your mouth as you screamed

“Dumb stupid baby. Shut the fuck up” he growled thrusting harder and harder with each word “you gonna fucking cum on this cock already? I didn’t even fucking touch you”

The bowl of berries you were snacking on for breakfast tumbled to the floor and smashed as you threw you hands across the counter to drastically search for something to hold on to.

“Ohh fuuuckkkk” Bucky groaned deeply as he felt you clench impossibly hard making his hips stutter as he struggled to move “baby, getting so fucking tight I can hardly move, baby ease up or I’ll hurt you, ease up, shit~”

you had no idea what he was saying, your eyes had found permanent residency in the back of your skull as you drooled through Bucky’s fingers still wrapped around your mouth. Your legs were buckling as you began to reach the precipice of something you’ve never felt before. Intense desire was bubbling below you, tingling through your spine all the way to the top of your head all the way back down to your toes. The toes that of which were now curling , Bucky’s grip on you was causing your feet to lift ever so slightly off the ground.

Your muffled screams behind Bucky’s hands got more frantic as you felt your intense release moments away.

“Fucking cum on me, baby. Give me that fucking cum, cmon sweetheart. Need it. Need it bad. Need you to let go it’s too Damn tight oh shit baby come on!” Bucky sent a particularly hard thrust and the end of his desperate plea and that was all it took for you to go completely silent and stock still as your body released squirts upon endless squirts of your creamy cum onto the kitchen floor below you. You screamed as the full amount of the all over bodily sensation of the orgasm rolled over you a second later and your knees buckled nearly sending you to the floor.

“Fuck, baby! Did you just fucking squirt? Shit you’ve never done that before, oh fucking hell, baby” Bucky continued to pound into you as the embarrassing sounds of your leaking wetness increased with every thrust of his hips inside you. “You fucking squirted and I didn’t even touch you. You’re so fucking perfect babydoll. God, you fucking squirted all over the damn floor” he moaned unabashedly as he glanced at the small puddle beneath you.

“Fuck yeah baby” he growled as he moved his hand from your mouth to press down onto your abdomen again, feeling the bulge of himself inside you “you gotta be quiet, sweetheart. You don’t want anyone to come in here and see you leaking all over the floor like a little whore,do you?”

You whimpered shaking your head “n-n-no”

“No?” He mocked “then be quiet, sweetheart. Stop being a stupid little baby and listen to what daddy tells you”

“Oh god feels so good” you slurred struggling to still hold yourself up.

Bucky let your feet reach for floor as he stopped rutting into you , making you moan in inmparience, he slapped your ass hard “stop being a greedy little whore and work for this fucking cock”

You began to push back on him, Bucky stood there hands ghosting your hips as he let you take control watching the way his cock would disappear inside of you and come out shiny and white.

“There you go, baby. You got it” he moaned and panted as he felt you push back hard on him, slamming your ass into his pelvis over and over again, feeling his bulbous tip kiss the end of your cervix “shit baby, yeah get it get it get it get it” he rambled as he watched the way your ass was bouncing on him “love watching this fat fucking ass bounce on my cock” he growled as he delivered a harsh slap to your right asscheek.

You mewled louder as you began to undulate your hips in a hypnotic movement that caught Bucky off guard and nearly sent him weak at the knees “fuuuuuck”

“You nasty fucking bitch, yeah work that fucking cock, work it baby” you were panting, sweating, shaking and struggling to catch your breath as your own goal was to keep fucking yourself on his impossibly thick cock, wanting to hear him lose it and fill you repeatedly

“Wanna fucking give you my kids baby” he said suddenly as he matched your thrusts, the combination of his words and you thrusting in tandem caused you to jerk forward away from him and scream out in pleasure

Buckys hand immediately slapped over your mouth again “where the fuck you think you’re going, huh?don’t you fucking run from this dick” he roared as he pushed you painfully into the counter forcing you to stay in position and take his onslaught of devastating thrusts

“Don’t you ever fucking run from this cock, take it, take it all, take every fucking inch like the good girl daddy knows you can be”

“D-daddy..c-can’t…c-ant take anymore, please oh god please”

“I don’t give a fuck” he said with a harsh snap of his hips “I don’t give a fuck if you can’t take it, because you fucking will. I’ll make you take this cock till it fucking hurts”

Whimpering was the only thing that could be heard from your small form as you struggled to take him

“You gonna be a good girl and take daddy’s kids, baby? You want me to dump this big fat load into your fertile pussy?”

You nodded, not having the ability to form a coherent sentence

Bucky grabbed you by your hair and yanked you back to his imposing form “I asked you a fucking question” he snarled “I said do you want me to nut in this fucking pussy and make you a mommy?”

“Yes! Yes!” You screamed “want it, daddy” you slurred

“Yeah? How many kids you want baby, fuck”

“As many as you’ll give me, daddy”

“Good fucking answer baby, good fucking answer”

“Daddy’s gonna keep you so fucking full all the time. Don’t think I haven’t fucking noticed that you have your implant out , shit. Know you’ve got, fuuuck..know you’ve got to go back and get a new one but we’re not doing that, are we, baby? I’m not fucking joking, you’re cancelling, shit baby yeah like that, you’re cancelling your appointment and I’m gonna fucking knock you up”

“Fucking cum for me baby, need one more, need you nice and open to take my load, come on baby come on come on” he was chanting now as he began to frantically run two fingers back and forth over your sensitive and swollen bud

“Fuck daddy fuck”

“Yeah baby come on, come on, I’m so close, need my special little princess to cum for me”

“Fuck daddy yes! I’m gonna cum I’m gonna cum!” Your heat clenched Bucky’s cock in a tight grip again that felt oddly familiar and then Bucky knew you were gonna squirt again and it drove him feral as he picked up the pace of his hips and the movements on your bundle of nerves

“Oh shit, you gonna fucking squirt again for me, baby? Yeah fucking do it fucking do it, do it now!” He roared as he forced his hand so hard onto your abdomen that it brought your orgasm to the forefront and squeezed more of your juices on to the floor below

“Daddy…m’cumming..cumming…” Bucky was losing his mind, he’d never heard you so fucked out and far away before, and he’d never acted this feral himself before either.

“Shit baby here it comes, here it comes” grinding against you as he whined into your shoulder, sweat dripping down from him onto your shaking form his spine tingling and his balls tightening against your dripping pussy“gonna fucking cum in you..oh shit oh shit oh shit yes yes yes!” He roared loudly as he stilled his hips burried deep inside you, his moth hung open, knees shaking as the most powerful orgasm he’s ever had overtook him. He slammed his metal hand into the granite counter besides your head as it cracked underneath him, gripping it tight as ropes after ropes of high pressured spurts of sticky white nectar forced its way inside your hole and coated your walls. “Oh shit, still fucking cumming” he whined as he tried to pull out only to realise that it was still overflowing from his tip “god there’s so much fucking cum it won’t stop god why won’t it stop” he said as he moaned and rutted into you gently, hearing you cry and whimper beneath him made him growl again “shh baby” he said soothingly as he rubbed the lower part of your back in gentle circles “it’s almost over baby, just a little more” the squirts of his impossibly large super soldier serum load were starting to dwindle now as he began to soften slightly “that’s it baby that’s it” he said lowly as he reached for your stomach feeling the way your belly had swollen at the amount of cum he had poured into you “there we go baby, took all of daddy’s load” he said as he very slowly pulled out from you making you quietly sob, he adjusted your panties to hold in his load for now until he could get you back into his room.

Bucky left the kitchen in the state it was in, including the puddle by the counter. Nobody would know what it was, they’d assume it came from the bowl since it was dropped on the floor and smashed anyway. He’d come back to it and clean it up and explain it was his fault, but right now he wanted to take you back to your shared room and watch you slowly push his cum out and have himself fuck it back inside of you till you were bursting. And that’s exactly what happened after he scooped you up bridal style and carried you over to the elevators.

A/N: why do I say drabble and then write 1k notes 🤔 my horn kneeness gets me carried away lmao

[touchstarvedirl]

Lights On

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2,830

Warning(s): NSFW, body worship, body image issues, (vaginal penetration) fingering, Reader is shy, and can read as curvy, Established relationship, slight orgasm denial (??? not too sure honestly, dry humping

A/N: Unofficial, loosely considered Parts 1 (Speechless) and 2 (All For You) - Same amount of fluff, and smut for anyone wondering. Masterlist is pinned!

Hiiiii just stopping by, not officially back yet or maybe I am I’m not sure yet. p sure I’m not tho :)

On the low this “series” is about what I want and for some reason DONT HAVE. LMFAOOIMSOSERIOUSIFYOUGUYSKNOWAGUYLIKETHISPLEASEGIVEHIMMYNUMBEROOOOOOOOO. But I guess you guys can enjoy too or whatever.

Summary: You make a request that Bucky doesn’t like and he says his peace ~ Reader is feeling a bit body conscious and Bucky’s decided that just ain’t okay.

Keep reading

[touchstarvedirl]

Can i request a first big fight between Bucky and redder ending with fluff ? 🥺

Special To Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Word Count:  3,039

Warning(s): Profanity, Angst, Argument about death and safety

A/N: Take a shot every time you read fucking + Masterlist & Part 2

Summary: Firsts are the worsts, especially when neither you or your devoted boyfriend Bucky are seeing each other’s point of view. 

   “You’re not a fucking avenger Y/N, do you think you just go charging into war like a fucking bull?”

   “You were hurt, you were bleeding, what the hell was I supposed to do? Stand there on the corner like a fucking mannequin?”

   “What the fuck were you gonna do? Use your magic to patch me up, fight him off? How FUCKING reckless. You are not special, do you understand that? You could’ve gotten hurt, or died.” He’s so angry, his mind so boggled that he’s not choosing his words correctly, or carefully. “The fuck would I have done then?”

   Buried in the bad choice of words Bucky was begging you to understand that there wouldn’t be an him if he’d lost you. You were always the first priority. 

   “Right,” You scoff, “I’m not like Nat, right? Nothing like Wanda or Steve. I’m not special to you at all.”

   “Is it clicking?” He’s tapping the side of his temple repeatedly.” Are you getting it through your thick skull? Don’t ever do that shit again. You see me hurt you run the other way. Catch a cab to another fucking country if that helps!” You jump at the bass in his voice, another thing Bucky misses in his unquelled rage.

   Had he known the way your body was close to trembling he would’ve stopped, not even begun saying what he did. It was a mistake, one he hadn’t meant or thought through completely. But it felt intentional to you, and a long time coming. Not special. He’d always thought that hadn’t he? That you weren’t special, you were never going to be on his level or any of the people he held close. You weren’t an Avenger, and that is always what it’d come down to.

   Bucky was so scatterbrained he couldn’t stay still, pacing heavily back and forth across the floor of his room, hands in and out of his hair. Wasn’t it enough that he had to face leaving you alone whenever the situation called for it to fight off whatever decided to crack open a can of evil and wreak havoc but now... now he had to worry about you running around as if you were invincible. Were you trying to drive him mad with worry, with guilt?

   He was sure he was going to blow up, explode. His unshaven face was flushed from his angry yelling, veins protruding from his forehead and neck while he paced. Not even the knock on the door could part the tension for a moment when Nat stuck her head in to check the temperature. 

   “Guys, is everything okay?” She gives you an apologetic look, knowing first hand Bucky was no fun to be around when he was this angry.

   You sniffle, straightening your back. “What do you mean? Everything’s fine. I’m just heading out, catching a cab to another fucking country if that helps.” Bucky scowls as you turn your back to leave. What did you have to be mad about?

   You retreat from the tower in record time, purposefully not giving yourself enough time to break down. That part didn’t come until after you were behind your locked apartment door. 

   In the meantime back at the Tower Steve and Nat were trying to put some things together for Bucky, 

   “I’m not apologizing, I’m not fucking sorry. Are you brain dead? She could’ve gotten killed, is no one understanding that? I - Is everyone on an alternate FUCKING planet right now?”

   “Why are you still yelling Bucky?” Steve questioned on tiredly. He was tired from today’s events and their aftermath and the aftermath of the aftermath. It was too much math.

   “Because I’m ANGRY.” He shoots up off of the couch again. “How could she be so stupid? She could’ve been wounded, ki-” He stops himself, knowing even thinking about it made his chest begin to ache in ways that would take him hours to soothe. 

   “You don’t think she knew it was stupid? You don’t think that she knew running onto that sidewalk, that anything could’ve happened? She knew but she didn’t care, muscle head.” Nat shoots back in your defense.

   “She didn’t care that she was putting herself in a life threatening situation because she wanted to see you. She wanted to help in any way she could even if it was just being there.” Steve added.

    “Exactly, she didn’t care. She can’t just do whatever she wants because she feels like it. She has to fucking understand that.” Realizing there was no way to articulate his feelings, not in a way he could manage and would be understood by them he backs away. “It’s none of your damned business anyway.” He dismisses the conversation, retreating to his room for the foreseeable future.

...

   A week and five days. There was a new record to beat now, the longest you and Bucky have ever gone without speaking to each other. Not that you were miserable but if misery did have company at the moment, it’d be you. To make matters worse, your sink was broken at the worst goddamn time in history.

   Your brother and father were out of town on a road trip to pick up some furniture, your landlord out of the country until next week and no way in hell you were paying plumber prices, no goddamned way. There was a fix it guy that you knew but at the moment it didn’t seem, well it wasn’t appropriate to call at the moment. 

   Your ring tone interrupted your problem solving session and you whipped it out to see Natasha calling. You sigh deeply, you weren’t in the mood to talk about him but you wouldn’t miss a call from her, while she was his first she had become an integral part of your life.

   “Hey...”

   “Don’t answer the phone like that, I wasn’t even going to mention him.”

   You frown, “You just did...”

    “Shut up, you made me. Anyways, what’s going on. Steve and I wanted to see what you were doing.”

    “Not meeting or making up with him if that’s what you wanted to know. But plans with a friend, the coworker I told you about. Going to pick out something for that new client we have that he’s got a crush on. Then I’m going to hack my leg off and put it on some plumber’s counter to get my fuckin’ sink fixed.”

   “Look who’s mentioning him now. The coworker with the cute butt in the slacks, or messy hair always in the pink shirt, and why don’t you just ask Steve to fix it?”

   “You did it first, cute butt, and are you crazy? Steve’s the summer home and Bucky gets him in the divorce and it would seem like I was - no, that would be so out of line.”

   “You and Bucky are not divorced.” Nat says strongly. “You’re not even married you nutcase, but you guys aren’t done just... taking a break. Summer home? What’s wrong with you? Steve would love to fix your sink, just saw him last night nerding out over his new wrench set.”

   “No-”

   “I’ll ask him. And even though it doesn’t matter cause you’re insane, what am I? Who gets me in the divorce?”

   “No you won’t, and you’re the rebellious teen. You don’t listen anyway so we won’t decide who gets custody because wherever we tell you to go you’ll just go the other way.”

   “Once again, insane. Also, already asked him while you were sorting through who gets what in the divorce and he says he’ll be over by 3, have fun with cute butt!”

   “NATASH-”

    “Bad Reception. BYEE.”

   The line disconnects and you huff and attempt to call her back, which she declines. You text her that you’ll be out at that time, but home by 6, she sends an okay disregarding your disagreement and began getting ready.

...

   Bucky knows how to fix a sink, surely. But he couldn’t access that part of his brain when all he was thinking about was you. Where you were, who the hell ‘cute butt in the slacks’ was, and why you wanted to meet at this time and you weren’t even home.

   He bounces up, hitting his head on the pipe when he hears your footsteps in the hall. He stands up off his knees off and wiping his hands on a hand towel that was lying around, his face scrunching in confusion hearing not only your footsteps but someone else’s. 

   “- me get you some aspirin and water. I told you to stop doing that, you’re so hard headed.” You open the door and step to the side letting Daniel in. “The aspirin is in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.” You point down the hallway  “It’s just a left, I’m going to get your water.” 

   Daniel goes ahead and stops, turning his head to the side when he sees Bucky standing in the bathroom, his eyes traveling up and down his stature, frightened. Gulping he tries calling out to you, but his voice becomes strained, “Y/N…?” He manages to choke out.

   “Yeah?” You’re rounding the corner with a chilled bottle of water, tugging your scarf off.

    “Help.” 

    “Who the fuck is he?” Bucky questions roughly, eyeing Daniel, making him cower next to you. 

   Your eyebrows furrow. “He’s none of your business. What the hell are you doing here?”

   “You asked me to come.”

   “No, I didn’t.” The tense stand - off and the knowledge of Bucky being able to crush him under the weight of just his pinky toe was making him feel uncomfortable, his headache completely forgotten about. “I’m going to go home, this is uh-”

   “No, stay.”

   “Good idea.” You both speak at the same time confusing poor Daniel even more, irritating you even more.

   “Don’t talk to him like that. Do you think you can just talk to everyone like that?”

Daniels’ eyes dart between the two of you and just the heat of Bucky’s glare is enough to persuade him. “Thank you for your help Y/N, see ya on Monday.” He sprints toward the door.

   “Your aspirin!” You call after him.

   “Headaches gone, surprisingly!” He heads out, without another word, Bucky chuckling at his departure.

   “Did you think that was funny? I didn’t even ask you to come here, I asked Steve.”

   “What?”

   “Well, Natasha asked him, even though I told her not to because I knew it would cause problems.”

   “That’s what would cause problems? Heh.” You narrow your eyes. “So you do understand consequences? No wonder. I get the cold shoulder but Steve gets invited over to fix the sink.”

   “Get out.” You sneer.

   “The sink isn’t fixed yet, and I haven’t annoyed you enough yet, actually.“

   “Why did you even come here? You don’t care that my sink is broken. You just wanted to see the aftermath of your bitchy outburst. Our first big argument so you think I should be rolling around in the covers ready to die?”

    “Do you even know what the fuck you’re talking about sometimes?”

    “God, have you always been so insufferable?”

   “Look,” Bucky sighs, “I thought you asked me to come. Obviously, Nat and Steve were sticking their noses into our business. I didn’t just break in, I used my key. We would-”

   You hold your hand out, completely uninterested in whatever else he was to say. “My key.”

   He rolls his eyes, “This is insane. Going through all this because you don’t like being told you were wrong.”

   “Give me my key and just go. Go find some superhuman and go have stupid superhero kids or something. Go find your something special.”

    “Why is this happening?” He questions throwing his hands up. I ask you to not to commit suicide and now I should go find someone else? You can’t be serious!”

   “You’re not special. Do you remember that? Do you remember those words because that’s what you said. I can’t fly and shoot laser beams, I just have a knack for getting in your way. So, I want you to go find your something special and leave me the fuck out of it.”

   Bucky’s shoulders drop, his whole body slouching as it clicks. “That’s not what I said.“ He denies mournfully.

   “Don’t tell me what you said, I know what you said.” I’ve played it in my head like a record.

   “It’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.”

   “Give me my key.” You hold your hand out again, expectantly.

   “I meant special like Banner and that fuckin’ asshole Stark, I didn’t mean-”

   “My key, Bucky.”

   “That’s not what I meant at all.“ He urges.

   “The KEY. Give my key and get out of my fucking apartment.” Bucky looks at you eyes wide. “I don’t care what you meant, or said, or want or wish. I just want my key.”

   “No. Not until you hear me out.”

   You groan in frustration, snatching your hand back. “What is there to explain? You’ve been clear with what you feel. But since you want to stay so bad, take your shit while you’re here.”

   You stalk off into your bedroom with Bucky trailing behind you. “So stupid I must have been to ever think I would ever be permanent to you.” The first thing you zero on in is the pillow he gave you on your first Valentine’s day together. A red and white heart shaped pillow with your and his initials on it, which you sling it at him.

   “To think you could ever,” You stumble for the words while scanning for another trace of him, “value me in the way that you do your team.” His hoodie that he left (you stole) the last time he slept over. You ball it up in your hand and hurl it at him. “We’re supposed to be teammates too.”

   Something else, you need something else. Your eyes hungrily rake over your room once again. “Y/N,” He stops seeing that you’ve begun to fixate on something else, your dresser. More so his drawer in your dresser. “Y/N please-” You’ve already ripped the drawer open rendering his pleas useless. 

   One by one, each sock, t-shirt, or pair of underwear goes flying out in his direction. “You don’t think I know I’m not special? I have to wait around so fucking un-special,”  A pair of socks you throw hit him in the nose, “for you to get home after every mission. Being dismissed every single time superhero business comes up because I’m not,” you stumble again but only momentarily, giving you enough time to chuck another balled up pair of socks at him. “Not worthy, don’t qualify to be in your stupid hero club.”

    “You don’t think I know you all think I’m weak and useless. Just a distraction?” The drawer is empty and so are your hands, and for the first time since you begin you look straight up at Bucky, eyes welled with tears, that he can clearly see the effect of his mindless words.

   You hate the way he looks back at you, frowning and sad, his stupid, stupid blue eyes, now tiny pools of realization and regret. “Baby, had I known-”

   You shake your head, no. You don’t want to talk it out or hear his apology. He’d said exactly what he meant whether he intended to or not. You start another search for something else, anything else that was his, or as much his as it was yours. The vase. Your eyes lock and he follows your gaze, not the vase.

   You’d painted it together at a couples art class that you dragged Bucky to, and he had never much loved it being that neither of you were exactly artists, but he did love that it was shared, yours and his, made together by both of you. You both go for it at the same time, Bucky reaching it first, holding it over his head. “Stop.”

   You didn’t embarrass yourself trying to reach for it. “Just take it and get out. Take all of your shit and get out of my life.” 

   “There is nothing else I need more on this planet than you, just knowing you’re alive. You are special. Maybe not in the way they are but you’re special to me in every other way, in the most important ones.”

   “Losing you would be catastrophic in ways I can’t explain, can’t even begin to make you understand.” He places the vase down slowly, coming around to stand in front of you. “You are irreplaceable. There isn’t another you somewhere in a storage room, there isn’t someone else who can just swoop in and take your place. You’re the only you I have, baby.” He pauses, sighing. “What would I have done if I’d lost you? If I had to pick up whatever was left of you, my future, and bury you?” He presses, though his voice becomes shaky. “You don’t have an answer.”

   “What would I do?” You push away from him. “What should I do knowing you’re hurt or somewhere dying and there’s not a damn thing I could do? You think it’s easy for me to just let you go, to stand by all the time?”

   “No, it’s not. I know it’s not. But it should be easy for you to trust me. Trust that I’m doing everything I need to, to make it home to you every night. Trust that Steve and Natasha, even Stark and Banner, Sam are good enough at what they do, to bring me back to you.”

   “Neither of us can take a heartbreak, but one of us can take a bullet.” You look away from him, but he pulls you in, nudging your chin upwards. “I need to be more specific when I say things, better with my wording. You’re the most special thing to me, and I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry if I ever made you feel like that wasn’t the truth.”

   Your tears finally begin to fall, you look down but Bucky presses the palm of his hands against your cheeks. “Okay?” he leans to stare into your eyes. You nod your head. “Okay.” He pulls you into his arms, pressing you face against his chest, rubbing you back softly.

    He lets the moment pass, kissing you on your head as you slightly pull away, just to give yourself space to breathe, taking it as an invitation to address a pressing question he’s had.

   “Was that guy ‘cute butt in the slacks’? Do you really think his butt is that cute or was Natasha just trying to make me jealous? Just tell me I won’t get mad.”

[buck-starss-deactivated20241223]

Bucky’s babydoll | B.B

>> Your best friend gives you a present that makes clear who you belong to, to your best friend, Bucky. <<

Pairing: BestFriend!Bucky Barnes x BestFriend!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.934 Words

Warnings: Minors DNI, 18+, best friends to lovers, fluff, collar, smut [daddykink, oral (m!rec), deepthroating, spitting, ball worship, praises], aftercare, love confession

Authors Note: Dividers made by me.

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

His ocean blue eyes roam over your smaller frame, a smile tugging at his lips as he tilts his head back to look into your face. Bucky is currently sitting on his bed while you present one outfit after another to him — you were shopping, and now your best friend has to tell you if he likes the outfits or not. He nods, leaning back and resting on his forearms, smirking at you.

“You know, you always look pretty. In a dress, in a hoodie, with bun or without,” Bucky says, his beautiful eyes light up when you twirl in front of him to show him the back of the dress you're wearing. You giggle and turn back to face your boyfriend; you take a step closer, towering above him, and grin down at Bucky.

“I have one more outfit for you to rate for me, oke?” You ask, making your best puppy eyes because you know that Bucky will do everything for you then — even though he would do it anyway, for you he would collect stars just to make you happy.

He nods, pushing himself up while he watches you leave the room to change into another outfit. The spark in his eyes he always has when he looks at you doesn't fade away when he gets lost in his thoughts; it only grows because the only thought that makes sense in his mind is about you. Bucky is in love with you forever already; when you moved in with him, it didn't take long for him to stop dating someone else and try to be as close as possible to you. You've been his best friend since the two of you were small kids, but his feelings only grew with the years.

The brown-haired man told his mom when he was around five that he was going to marry you one day, that he would be the one who makes you happy and the one who loves you the most — little did she know that he really meant it and that the feelings the kid had only turned into love over the years.

Bucky hates when you go out with your friends to parties, but he knows that it makes you happy, and luckily, you often ask him to join you. You don't date anyone either, which gives him hope that you could maybe be in love with him just as much as he is in love with you.

Little does Bucky know that you feel the same for him, that you’re craving his touch, his love, and that you would prefer sleeping in his bed every night with his strong arms wrapped around you instead of sleeping on your own. The blanket wrapped around was not even close to Bucky's warmth and his scent that you love so much. You even watch movies you hate and scare you because that's the easiest way to explain to Bucky why you need to sleep next to him and why he has to hold you close — to protect you from the dragons and other monsters from the movies.

“Bucky, you ready?” You ask, walking through the door. The moment his eyes catch you, his jaw drops open, and he struggles to sit still. The blood rushes into his cock within seconds, and a low groan leaves his plump lips. “Do you like it?”

Your grin tells your best friend everything he has to know; he knows you're teasing him. But did you know that you would get such a reaction from him? “Fuck, babydoll. Never seen someone as sweet and sexy as you before. But you— you can’t just wear that,” he growls, reaching his arms out for you.

You walk a step closer, letting Bucky place his big hands at your waist and pulling you into his lap, your legs dangling on both sides of his while he pulls you closer to his chest. Bucky's cock is pressing hard against his sweatpants; when he pulls you closer, your crotch rubs over his bulge, and he groans, causing a needy whine to slip past your lips.

“Such a tease, walking around with my hoodie and just panties underneath. You know what you're doing to me, don't you? Making me so hard, babydoll,” he growls, leaning forward until his nose brushes along your neck, his lips moving over sensitive skin, and you start thrusting your hips against his hard cock.

“D-Daddy, please,” you whine. Bucky's eyes widen before he smiles even wider. You never called anyone that before, but around Bucky you feel safe and cared for, plus his size makes you feel so small always, but he never uses his size to scare or force you — only to curl you into him and hold you close while his big body is wrapped around you, making sure nothing can scare or hurt you.

“Mhm, say that again, babydoll,” he grumbles. “You know, I bought something for you... I wasn’t sure if you would like it, but now I’m pretty sure. When I give it to you, you’re mine.”

You whine, nodding your head. Right now, you would agree with everything he says as long as he helps you with the aching feeling between your thighs. “W-what is it?”

He chuckles, his big hands moving up and down your sides. “Close your eyes,” he says, waiting until you do it. Then he reaches over to his bedside table to pull something out of the drawer.

With a soft hum, you feel his hands around your neck, something cool as well, as a soft click almost makes you open your eyes, but you try to keep them closed to make your best friend proud of you.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now, doll,” he says, his lips so close to your ear that you shiver. You slowly blink. Bucky smirks at you, his eyes staring into yours. “You look pretty, all of you. Now everyone knows you’re mine, babydoll.”

He takes his phone, smirking at you. You do the same, smiling at your best friend as he takes a photo and turns his phone to show you. Your eyes widen as you notice the collar around your neck; it’s pretty, your favorite color, and something is written on it. ‘Bucky’s babydoll,’ it says, and you grin at him, leaning forward to place your forehead against Bucky’s.

“It’s perfect; thank you, daddy,” you say. Your eyes light up with excitement when you stroke the fabric with your small fingers, sighing softly. You grin at your best friend, pulling him onto the bed, and slide down in front of the bed, looking up at Bucky with widened eyes, looking all innocent while you crawl in between your best friend's legs.

“Whatcha doin’ there, babygirl?” He asks, looking down with a wide smirk across his plump lips. You bring your hands to his thick thighs, slowly inching closer to his clothed cock with a smile. His ocean blue eyes roaming over your face, down to your collarbone, and along your arms to your hands, which are dangerously close to his crotch. “Babydoll?”

You don’t respond to him, just moving your hands as slowly as possible until your fingertips slip over the growing bulge in his pants. Bucky grasps your wrists with his big hands, pressing them down on his thigh while he looks at you with narrowed eyes.

“What are you doing? Tell me, what do you want to do?” Bucky knows exactly what you’re doing and what your intentions are, but he wants to hear it from you. He wants your permission, your assurance that you really know what you do instead of doing it because he gave you the collar and uses this moment to 'thank him'.

“P-please… w-want your cock, Bucky,” you whimper, tilting your head to the side and looking up at Bucky. Your head rests against his thigh as he smiles down at you, one hand removing from yours and slowly moving up your arm again to your cheek.

“Yeah? You want daddy’s cock?” He asks, and you immediately nod. Then he nods, letting go of your other hand too, and unbuckles his belt. “Then you have to lean back, babydoll, or else I can’t give you what you’re asking for.”

You do as you’re told, leaning back to let your best friend get up and take off his pants and boxer briefs. His leaking cock springs free, and you lick your lips, staring at the huge length and the prominent vein running along his shaft.

“Like what you see?” Bucky smirks at you, sitting back down, earning a nod from you as an answer to his question. Bucky grasps a pillow from his bed. He taps your thighs to get slightly up, giving him the opportunity to push the pillow between the floor and your knees. “Don’t want my best girl to get sore knees while she sucks daddy’s cock, huh?”

You shake your head, eyes still focused on Bucky’s cock. He chuckles, sitting up straight, and runs his hands through your hair, tilting your head back.

“Be daddy’s good girl; get what you need so bad.” His soft voice makes you almost melt, but you manage to get out a soft 'yes, daddy’. Your fingers trailing along his thick thighs once again until you reach his cock.

You wrap your fingers around his shaft, slowly moving your hand up and down. With your thumb, you collect some pre-cum and use it as a lubricant to make your movements easier. Bucky groans, watching you intensely with his blue orbs.

“Good girl! Doing so well for Daddy, yeah, such a good fucking girl,” he praises, his fingers curling around your strands, pulling at your hair softly. You moan, lowering your head above his cock, and kiss the tip of his dick.

Bucky throws his head back as your soft lips touch his sensitive tip. Your tongue is grazing over the slit, and you moan against him, sending vibrations through him. His fingers tightening in your hair, tugging softly on them.

“That’s it, good girl!” Bucky mumbles, watching you as you take him into your mouth. Your warm, wet mouth is taking his sensitive length slowly deeper, causing your best friend to turn into a groaning and panting mess. “You look pretty like that, with my cock in your mouth. Taking me so well, babydoll.”

You take more and more of his cock into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat when you’re a bit more than halfway into your mouth. A soft gag comes from you, and Bucky pulls you immediately away, tilting your head back to look into your face.

Tears well up in your eyes, your chin coated in your saliva, and his pre-cum and Bucky can’t help but groan at the way you look. Your eyes widen, and your lips form into a soft pout as you try to pull forward to get his cock back into your mouth, but Bucky's grip is firm to hold you in place.

“Daddy, please,” you whine. He shakes his head, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you unconsciously part your lips. Bucky smirks, collecting some saliva in his mouth before he spits it into yours, grinning as you immediately swallow down and part them again for him to spit into your mouth once again. He spits into your mouth again, chuckling as you sigh happily. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Always, now don’t push too far; I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, oke?” Bucky slides his thumb once again over your lips, waiting for you to answer, but he only gets a pout from you. He can’t help but to lean forward, capturing your lips with his, moving his lips softly against yours to get the pout off your lips.

As the two of you pull away, you’re panting softly, then nodding. “C-can I try to take your cool deep down my throat? P-please?” Your puppy eyes make it hard for him to say no, so he nods but holds you still firmly in place.

“But you tap my thigh if it’s too much. If you want to stop and you don’t try to do more as you feel comfortable to make me proud, oke? I’m proud of you; you don’t have to take my cock completely for that, babydoll,” he tells you the conditions.

“Yes, daddy!” With that, he loosens his grip and lets you lean forward to his cock once again. You take him almost halfway down your throat; just before you would gag around him, you stop and take a moment to breathe. You look up at your best friend with a pleading look, asking him to help you.

Bucky inhales deeply; your mouth feels perfect around him, and he wonders how your pussy would feel around him and how much you would squeeze him there. He smiles softly at you, his fingers gripping your hair tightly once more. “Remember, tap my thigh if it’s too much. And breathe through your nose; it helps. You can also take my balls in one of your hands, softly, but to steady yourself a bit.”

You nod as much as possible with his dick in your mouth, smirking a bit before tapping his thigh to show him that you understand. He then inhales deeply once again and pushes you down his throat, groaning loudly as he feels the tightness around his huge shaft.

You gag once again, trying to breathe your nose while you dig your fingers into his thighs to steady yourself. You would love to feel his balls; they look so big and heavy, but you don’t want to squeeze him too much.

Bucky holds your head in place, giving you a moment to get used to his size in your throat before pushing you further down and then letting go, so you can move your head on your own. His pants and groans are music to your ears, chasing shivers to run down your spine, and the aching between your thighs gets worse, but his dick is just too good to not suck him off.

You move your head slowly, twirling your tongue around the tip as you let his cock slide almost completely out of your mouth before you take him down your throat and move your tongue around the underside of his shaft. You bring your hand to his balls, kneading and rolling them in your palm. Bucky throws his head back, his plump lips parting and breathy moans leaving his lips.

“You’re feeling so good; your throat feels so fucking good, babydoll. Doing’ so well for me, so fucking well,” he mumbles, thrusting his hips up and your nose pressing against his pelvis. You smirk around his length, inhaling deeply and swallowing thickly shortly after, causing Bucky’s eyes to widen and his hips to buck once again. “So tight, feels so fucking good.”

You swallow once again, feeling his cock twitch in your throat, and without warning he is coming down your throat, letting you swallow all of his cum. Bucky pants, sweat running down his forehead as he pushes you away, tilting your head up.

“‘m so sorry. You were feeling so fucking good, couldn’t help myself, had to come down your throat, sorry,” he says, his fingers trialing along your cheek and jaw to your lips. You grin at him, licking your lips; you don’t mind that he came into your mouth, not at all. His cum is salty and musky on your lips, and you can get enough of it.

He leans forward, kissing you. You immediately kiss him back, fingers digging into his thighs. He tastes himself on your tongue, growling. “Now, get up on the bed, and let Daddy make you feel good. You were so good for me, babydoll. Making me feel so good.”

“B-Bucky, I-I can’t,” you mumble, leaning your head against his thigh once more and sliding your fingers up and down his soft skin. His cock twitches the closer your fingers move toward it, and you smile softly. Bucky narrows his eyes, looking with confusion written all over his face. “I- you’re my best friend, and I do love you; I’m in love with you, but if you see or touch me down there, it’s- if you don’t love me back, you know?”

“But I love you, babydoll, more than everything,” Bucky says, looking straight into your eyes. “Do you think I gave you the collar because I just want to be your best friend? No, because I love you, I want you to be mine, if you want to be mine.”

You nod, smiling. “I-I want to be yours, but only if you’re mine then too!”

“Of course, I am yours as much as you’re mine, doll,” he says, chuckling before leaning down and kissing you. “Now, get on the bed, and let me make you feel good; then I will mark you, all of you. And after we can do whatever you want, cuddles, cooking, showering, whatever you want else, another round, more than one round, you just have to ask. ‘Cause you’re Daddy’s good girl, and you only have to ask, and I will collect stars for you. Because I love you!”

“I love you too, Buck!" You giggle as you get on the bed, making it comfortable, and Bucky gets out of his shirt before placing himself between your legs to finally get his snack before he is going to make you his and mark you in his bites, kisses, and cum.

Taglist: @pono-pura-vida @sergeantbarnessdoll @rogersbarber @kimmie113080 @sebastianstanisahotmf

[marvelobsessed134]

LORD HAVE MERCY 🔥😩

[notafunkiller-deactivated202605]

she chose me

Summary: Steve's hopes get crushed when he wrongly assumes you'd choose him over Bucky.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x agent!female reader

Warnings: 18+, no condom (but f is on birth control), teasing, pet names, jealousy, sergeant + sir + daddy kìnk, vibranium arm kìnk, language, degrading, praising, no mention of y/n etc.

Word Count: 6.9K

Bucky Barnes masterlist

A/N: I really hope you’ll enjoy it! This was inspired by the "She chose me." TikTok trend.

Please, do not repost or translate without my permission!

You’re all quiet, watching the back and forth between Cap and Bucky. Not even Sam intervenes.

“You didn’t-”

“This is just not gonna work, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, with an expression you like to describe as bitchy. He’s so sassy without even intending to, and you wonder how bitchier he’d be if this wasn’t his best friend talking.

“Let’s see if people agree.”

He looks around waving at you and the rest of the team while Sam just snorts, covering his mouth with his hand.

But you’re not amused because you have no idea how to handle this diplomatically.

“Whose side are you on?” Steve’s tone is deep and authoritative, making you feel a little uneasy.

You don’t know how to talk to Avengers sometimes. You are on friendly terms, even when you train. Sam always cracks jokes, Steve shares stories and gives advice, and Bucky is Bucky. Nat and Sam call him The Machine for a reason. But he’s a really good professor and an even better observer. He pays attention to every recruit and remembers what they need to work on. You find him extra intimidating because he’s also the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. No exaggeration. And it’s not in the usual clean and golden boy way you are used to, anyway. He’s been through shit and it’s showing in the way he carries himself and doesn’t talk much when it’s not needed.

But you pay attention too, and this is why you think you were chosen to lead the recruits for this mission. You are on good terms with the Avengers, and Bucky probably approved the idea of working with you because you didn’t piss him off like most do. You know he hates chit chat, you learned how to read most of his stares and to not take it personally when he makes remarks about your fighting skills. They’re not your strongest asset, but you have a flair and you come up with the best solutions under pressure. You managed to pin him down once for a few seconds, and that is probably your greatest achievement.

But in moments like this, you don’t know how to say things without upsetting one side.

“You won’t get in trouble, don’t worry,” Bucky adds confidently. You’re not surprised when four out of your six colleagues agree with Bucky. They explain quickly why, emphasizing how much faster and efficient it would be if you followed that route, but their voices are still trembling. And you get it. Telling Captain America to his face you prefer his best friend’s plan over his will always be a risk. But if he gets mad, that says more about him as a leader than about anyone else.

Sam raises his hands in the air defensively, probably enjoying this as a show, but based on the looks he shares with Bucky, it seems like he agrees with him too.

You try to find your words, knowing you’re the last one from your team to speak, but before you can even open your mouth, Steve already smiles, pointing at you with his index finger. “Look at this, though! She agrees with me… She chose me.”

His grin is cold and a little arrogant. What you don’t notice, though, is the intention Steve had when he decided to use those exact words, but Bucky does. And he clenches his jaw at the same time his vibranium hand curls into a fist; a silent response to the not-so-innocent assumption that Steve made.

After a few seconds, Bucky leans in, his gaze steady and confident. “Did she?”

There is no way you would pick Steve’s plan. You are too smart and you have too much integrity to pick his side just to kiss his ass. He raises an eyebrow at you this time, a confident smirk forming on his lips. “Did you really choose him? You really think his plan would work better, doll?”

You feel surrounded by Bucky… attacked even. Your cheeks are getting hotter, too, and you know there is nothing you can do to hide your redness. Doll… He called you that when he turned you again on your back the day you managed to pin him down. It’s something about the way he says it that makes it absolutely deadly. Your first instinct was to be offended, but you reminded yourself he is a man born in 1917. He lived his twenties in the 40s, and doll was used as slang for sweetheart.

Taking a deep breath, you tilt your head slightly, directing your response to Steve. “It’s not about choosing sides, but considering all perspectives for the best outcome. And your plan, Captain, has its strengths, but I’m inclined to agree with Sergeant Bucky.” You bite your lip. “It’s about finding the most effective strategy for the mission, not a personal preference of any kind.”

Steve’s smile falls off, but your attention shifts back to Bucky’s grin that lightens up his face.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Well, then,” Steve sighs. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

You don’t realize he’s speaking to you until he says your name.

Surprised, you jump. “Yes, of course.”

*

Steve leans back in his chair, a slight smile playing on his lips as you write down the last details. “You know, I value your insights on the mission.”

You look surprised because how can he value your opinion when this is your second mission only? He’s Captain America!

“Oh?”

“I trust your judgment, and your training is going great. If you and the team chose Bucky’s plan, then we do it.” You see his jaw clench, though, so you know it’s not easy for him to say it. Even if it’s his friend… interesting. “Maybe, when all is over, we could grab a cup of coffee and talk about other things. What do you think?”

You’re silent for a couple of seconds, trying to realize if he means it in the way you think he is. There is no way, right?

Just in case, you offer him a friendly smile, “Thanks, Cap! I value our teamwork too. Coffee sounds great after. It could be a good way for all of us to unwind as a team.”

He nods, sighing. “I’m glad you’re on board. I’m looking forward to that coffee, even if it’s with the whole team. And please, call me Steve.”

So he was flirting…

“Thank you,” you pause as you stand up. “I’m gonna talk with Sergeant Barnes so we can get things ready for tomorrow. Have a good night, Steve!”

*

You knock only three times before the door opens and a Bucky dressed in shorts and a white tank top lets you in with a smirk.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you nod as you take a step inside his bedroom. He only stays here before and after missions when he is too tired to go to his apartment, so you don’t expect to see any personal objects there except for a few clothes.

“What happened to Bucky?”

You look at him surprised, tightening your hold on the tablet you are holding.

What?

“Sir?”

Bucky closes his eyes for a second. “Earlier, during the meeting, you called me Sergeant Bucky.”

Shit!

Maybe you should start calling him Sergeant Barnes in your head as well to avoid these fucks up. You feel so embarrassed that you want to disappear. You don’t want him to think you disrespect him in any way. His rank carries a lot of weight and trauma.

You clear your throat, slightly flustered. “My apologies, Sergeant Barnes. It won’t happen again, sir.” You offer him an apologetic smile while trying very hard to maintain a professional tone.

Bucky’s smirk softens as he places his flesh hand on your shoulder. You feel your legs transforming into jelly.

“My point was, doll, there is no need to be so formal. We’re off-duty here, and titles aren’t necessary. Just call me Bucky.”

“Alright, Bucky,” you smile. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but I came to discuss the plan for tomorrow. I talked to Steve and we agreed it would be wise for you to lead the way as Mr. Wilson-”

“Steve?” Bucky interrupts before you can finish your sentence. He doesn’t even bother to look at your tablet, either.

“Yes, we talked in the office.”

“No, I get that. But you call him Steve? What happened to Cap?” Bucky knows that might sound really childish, but he can’t help it. What is Steve trying to do?

Was it some kind of test? Did you misunderstand everything with Steve?

“Oh, Cap allowed me to call him Steve earlier. I am sorry if it sounded disrespectful.”

He squeezes your shoulder even before moving his hand to your chin, raising your face, and you feel yourself blushing again.

The blue of his eyes is so intense that you can’t see how anyone would be able to survive it.

“You apologize too much, doll. I don’t like it.”

You can’t breathe. “Sor-” You pause, realizing he is right. Apologizing is second nature to you. It feels wrong when you don’t, and you do it without even thinking about it. “I guess I do that a lot. I’ll work on it, Bucky.”

“I’m not your teacher right now, doll.” He smiles, letting go of your chin. “Just remember, we’re not all about formalities here. Relax a bit.”

Easier said than done. But you need to keep it together and ignore the urge to grab his face and finally kiss him. So you focus on talking about the mission and the members of the team. You talk about all of your colleagues, and Bucky helps you take notes. He switched so easily from friendly to the sergeant mode, which is fascinating.

He explains step by step your positions, the way things are gonna happen and even two back up plans. Two!

You’re not overwhelmed by the amount of information, but you’re quite surprised by how much he talks and how well he answers every possible question any of you could have. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him speak for more than a few seconds continuously so you try to focus on every word.

Only when he finishes and you close your tablet after sending everyone the plan, do you see him relaxing again.

With a smirk, he asks you, “How did Steve take it?”

“He was fine with the plan, even suggested if we feel like doing it, to get one or two more members. But based on what you said, we won’t need it.”

“He has a point, of course, but if you said you don’t think you need it, good.” You try not to stare at his lips as he speaks, but it’s so hard. “And I meant how he took that you chose my plan. That you chose me.”

You meet Bucky’s gaze, trying to keep your composure, “Steve seemed more than okay with it from what I saw. He values the team’s decision. Plus, it’s not about choosing sides, and-”

“And not a personal preference of any kind,” he interrupts just to quote you, and you don’t know if you should feel flattered he remembers word by word or to prepare yourself for a negative reaction. To be honest, your head is spinning and him being so close makes it worse. “I heard you very well, but I’m curious…”

He extends his hand and carefully tucks your hair behind your ears. You swear you can hear your own heartbeat going crazy. And if you do, so does he.

“About what?”

“Would the answer be different if it was about personal preferences, doll? Would you choose him?”

You freeze. You are simply in shock because this cannot happen to you. From Steve asking you out earlier to your crush basically doing this. You’re confused and a little tired, but you didn’t imagine all of this. Does Bucky want you? Is that it?

You take a deep breath praying you won’t choke on the words. “In a hypothetical scenario based on personal preferences, Bucky, I would still not pick him.”

Your voice is trembling, but you maintain eye contact even after admitting it. You didn’t choose Bucky’s plan because of your crush, so you shouldn’t feel embarrassed or exposed. He’s the one who let you call him Bucky, who touched you and asked you that. You don’t know if he counts romance as a personal preference, but there is an urge inside you to find out. You wonder how he’d taste, if he’d kiss you back if you kissed him first, how your mission would be if you crossed the line. Your thoughts are foggy.

“So you’d choose me.”

You clear your throat. “Yes.”

“Over Captain America.” His grin is so boyish and cute that it makes you smile. He looks younger and less… burdened when he gets like this. Bucky chuckles, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Well, well, well. Looks like I got someone not kissing Captain America’s ass for a change. That’s really rare. You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?”

You mask your gasp with a cough, deciding to play along, a sly grin forming on your face. “Maybe I just have a thing for underdogs.”

Bucky’s eyes light up with amusement to your annoyance but also excitement, and he leans in, taking the tablet from your hand and placing it on the floor without a care. “Underdogs, huh? Ouch, that hurt a little. I thought I was your favorite super-soldier.”

You can’t help but giggle, feeling enough encouragement from his reaction to touch his vibranium arm just to feel it. You got the chance to do it only for a couple of seconds and it always fascinated you, especially the golden pattern. The fact he can feel everything because it’s connected to his nerves is insane to you. It probably is to him too. “Oh, you are. And my favorite teacher too. But a little competition never hurts, Sergeant Barnes.”

You can see he feigns offense. “Competition, huh?” Bucky’s playfulness turns into a serious tone as he adds, “Well, let me show you why I’m the only choice.”

And without warning, he closes the distance between you and kisses you.

You gasp, taken aback, but you bring your hands to his face and hip before you deepen the kiss. He’s not as gentle as you expected, his left arm flying to your ass and bringing your hips closer to his immediately.

You moan when you feel his hard on so close to your pussy, and tug on his hair a little.

“Aren’t you a naughty girl?” He lowers his lips to your jaw. “I could basically smell how wet you got earlier as soon as I called you doll. And so did Steve.”

You want to open your eyes and tell him to stop talking about his friend. You don’t want to be turned off, but he already continues.

“He thought he stood a chance with my girl.”

“Your girl?” You whimper when his teeth graze your neck before his tongue licks on the spot. He intends to leave a mark, you have no doubt, and you absolutely love it.

“Mine.” His whisper makes you shiver. “I want to mark you. The thought of having you covered in hickeys during the mission makes me so hard it almost hurts. Gonna show everyone you belong to me.”

“Do I belong to you, Sergeant Barnes?” You take a step back but let your hand linger on his chest teasingly. “Because I don’t remember you asking me to dinner.”

Bucky grins. “Dinner is a classic move, and I adapted very well to the present. But of course I can stop with the kisses right now, and we can have some late dinner.”

You roll your eyes at his unbelievably good answer. Fucker!

“This is not what I meant, Barnes, and you know it.”

“I don’t know it. But I want to know something else.”

You don’t even doubt he means something dirty because it’s too obvious.

“Like what?”

“Like how your pretty pussy tastes while you come all over my face.”

You gasp at the no-filter words. You’re so used to Steve’s warning you to use proper language, that you did not expect it.

“I thought men your age were all about being proper and refined… Don’t they teach subtlety in the 40s etiquette class or did you skip it?”

You tease him on purpose, and he knows it. You are well aware what a nerd he was in school. Such a nerd that it was displayed in the museum. You snort. You were a nerd too, so you love it.

Bucky chuckles, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he brings his hands to your pants, unzipping them without warning. Holy. Shit. The way you love this. He reads your body language very well and he has his super soldier senses.

“Well, doll, proper and refined went out the window with the 40s, right? Because otherwise you’d not be standing here letting me undress you.”

You raise your eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement on your face. His energy is so light, and he looks like a man without a worry in moments like this.

“You’re the one who offered to show me what the little upgraded version of you can do, after all.” You take off your shoes before pulling down your pants as soon as he drags them to your ankles. You can’t believe you’re about to fuck James Bucky Barnes! “Why would I say no?”

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride, doll. Gonna make sure you have the time of your life.”

You snort, amused by his eagerness, and decide to take off your shirt yourself to see his reaction. And he doesn’t disappoint.

He grins like a child, his hands flying straight to your back without taking his eyes off your chest. And before you know it, your bra is on the floor and Bucky cups your breasts, bringing your left tit to his mouth.

If you gasped when you felt the cold touch of the vibranium, now you moan loudly, enjoying the way he licks around your skin. He avoids your nipple on purpose, so you decide to take matters into your own hands quite literally and get a grab of the top of his hair, forcing him to suck on your nipple.

“Fuck! I didn’t expect you to be so whorish,” you say without realizing, and you feel his snort and breath on the wet patch he left with his tongue.

Bucky’s grin turns into a sly smirk. “This is what you call whorish? I guess I’ll give you an experience you won’t ever forget.”

“Talk less, do more.”

You want to enjoy more of this. You have a mission in a few hours, and it might be just a one time thing anyway since he is Bucky Barnes. You don’t want to get your hopes high.

Bucky lets go of your breast with a pop and moves up, raising your head so he can kiss you.

It’s electrifying, and desperate, and not enough. You move your hands to the bottom hem of his tank top and lift it, interrupting the kiss so you can take it off completely. You just want to feel him, all of him.

You step back for a second, wanting to look at him properly, but you notice a change in his eyes that he, of course, tries to mask.

“Why are you nervous? You look like a fucking god! I should be nervous here.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker with vulnerability.

“I guess I’m not used to someone seeing my scars or my,” he waves toward his vibranium arm, and you frown.

“I will sound totally weird, but they all make you really cool, Serge.” You trace down a few scars when you see he is completely relaxed and continue. “Do I have to lick them all to make you believe me?”

You move your hands under his shorts before he can answer, though, finally touching his cock. You both moan at the feeling. He’s hard and thick, and the head is wet. You bring your fingers to his lips, smearing some of the precome before leaning in to suck it off.

You’re not prepared for his moan or for the way he attacks your mouth, and definitely not for him to snap your underwear using his flesh hand. Not even his vibranium one!

You moan into his mouth. He makes you feel like you’re floating and you need to fuck him right then.

“You’re not just whorish, you’re a whore!” You pause when you feel his fingers close to your entrance. “No wonder why you didn’t belong in the 40s.” Then you move, allowing him to touch you. You don’t realize what you said, and when you do, in the middle of dragging his shorts down, you curse yourself in your mind. It sounds like the most disrespectful thing ever. This man’s fate was changed by monsters who cryogenically freezing him and brainwashing him, and you are selfishly talking as if he belonged to you. “I’m sorry that was awful of-” But he interrupts you before you can get a chance to properly apologize.

“You like that, don’t you?”

A wave of shame surges through your body. Your cheeks are burning.

“I’m really sorry,” you take your hands off his shorts and look away, not even peaking at his cock. You ruined it, didn’t you? “I will just go.”

Bucky shakes his head, puffing. “For such an amazing agent, you’re not a good room reader, are you?”

Your eyes finally drop to his cock, which you’ve been trying to avoid in the last minute out of shame, but there’s no need anymore since he’s teasing you. He’s just a bit longer than average, and he’s really thick, and the veins do not make it ugly at all. You are curious how it’d feel in your hand, how much it’d twitch, how Bucky would moan.

“You aren’t a good room reader, either then, Barnes, since I’m not getting dicked down and my hair pulled, am I?”

Something snaps in him, and it’s visible in his eyes. You don’t know what to expect so you just watch him. But you can’t. He is so quick that, despite your crazy training, you don’t anticipate his move. His hand wraps around the hair from your nape and fists it hard enough for you to move along with him.

“Wanna be dicked down? Fine by me, get on your hands and knees.”

You’re surprised, of course you are, but his tone is firm and you find yourself nodding and doing what he told you. You know you can say no; there is nothing in Bucky’s energy that makes you feel unsafe or as if you have no choice.

At the same time, he lets go of your hair just so he can take off his shorts completely.

“Are you not gonna make sure I’m wet enough for you?” You ask when you see him getting closer to you again, even though you are very wet. You just want to push his buttons.

“I can smell you if I focus on it, let me remind you.” He smiles. “I know you’re soaked, and you wanna be dicked down. Or are you backing off?”

Challenging prick!

You roll your eyes. “I’m not scared of your dick.”

“Good, because he wants to be friends with you.”

You close your eyes, cringing. “God, you were this close to turning me off.” You raise your hand in the air, putting your weight on the left one as you bring your thumb and index finger close to each other to show him exactly what a thin line this was.

Bucky laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna make you forget it in a second.”

Your first instinct is to want to tease him about the second remark, to ask him if this is how long he can last, but you’re too horny now. And you also need rest for the mission tomorrow.

“How, uh…” You pause not knowing how to ask this properly. “Can you, uh, make babies?” You cringe at your words. “I mean, widows can’t… and I just wanted to know if we need a condom to be extra careful since you might be extra fertile because I am on the pill and I have no idea how sex with a super sold-”

Bucky’s lips press against yours suddenly, making you stop talking.

“Breathe.”

“I’m breathing,” you whisper and he cups your face.

“Not enough. We can use a condom if you want, but I’ll need to check where I can find one. Or we can go bare if you trust me… I can pull out and you are already protected, so there shouldn’t be a problem, I think.” He pauses to kiss your lips again. “But we can still use a condom anyway to be extra careful as you said.”

You frown at that, suddenly more desperate to feel him bare than ever before.

“No, I trust you. I have never done it without a condom before, and I assume you didn’t have much time to uh… have sex.”

Bucky snorts amused. “Now why do you assume that?”

“You look like you haven’t been fucked since 1945.”

The fact he doesn’t even deny it makes you feel even bolder, so you reach for his cock and place your thumb on his wet head while wrapping the rest of your hand around the length. “Are you gonna even last for a second once you’re inside me, Sergeant Barnes?” You snort when you see him trying to hold back his moan by biting his lip. It makes you feel happy. “Or do you even manage to get inside me before- ahh!” He is predictable this time as he pulls your hair, so you laugh.

“Are you familiar with this whole red, yellow, green color code?”

You gasp. “Yes, read about it, never needed it. But how do you know that?”

“I read about it, too.” His grin is so wide and beautiful that you melt again.

“Quite naughty of you, Serge. Reading dirty books. Needed some ideas?”

Bucky smirks, kissing you again and again. “Gonna need a review after I finish with you.”

“You finishing with me?” You smile. “Big words, Barnes, but no action.”

He knows you challenge him, and you don’t try to hide it. Do you have to beg for his cock for him to finally fuck you? He is edging you on purpose at this point.

You let out a whimper in anticipation when he moves behind you.

“Are you sure you’re fine with no condom?”

“Ihm, I’m not ovulating anyway,” you whisper, trying not to sound too eager. But you are. You want to get dicked down, indeed. And you wanted it for months.

His silence makes you a bit nervous, but the sounds of him dropping to his knees behind you, followed by his hand grabbing his cock and positioning it at your entrance while squeezing your hip with the metal arm.

You love the sensation of the coldness, but you love even more when he leans in to kiss your back before he pushes inside you.

It takes two tries, though, for him to be able to push halfway inside you because you kept pushing his dick out of you instantly. You managed to take him only when he brought his fingers to your clit and rubbed a bit.

You still laughed though because the sounds were too funny and his little frustrated whimpers were hilarious. The amusement turns quickly into more horniness when you feel him stretching you without even being fully inside you. You dreamed and daydreamed about it… fantasized about it, but it still wasn’t even close to how it actually feels. How full it feels. It’s like you cannot even think, your body is weak.

“Fuck,” your voice is cracking. “Deeper.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispers.

“So?” You bring your hand to his ass, trying to show him you really need it deeper. “Why do you make it sound like a bad thing? Or are you trying not to come, Mr. Super Soldier?”

“You have quite a mouth on you, I think you need it-”

“You talk way too much. Are you nervous or-” It’s his turn to interrupt you with a thrust. Such a deep thrust your head is spinning. He’s not fully inside you, you realize, but he doesn’t try to, instead, he starts to fuck you, taking your breath away. His fingers leave your clit, grabbing your hips with both hands.

There is no question anymore, just fucking as you wanted.

And it feels like heaven. You try to keep your eyes open just so you look at him over your shoulder, but it’s impossible.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You groan. “No, you did, n-now fuck me harder.”

“Well, well,” he slows down and you almost wanna die. “This is not how you talk to your Sergeant, is it?”

He can’t do this!

“Fuck you!”

“What does my baby want?” His thrusts are too slow and teasing, just like his voice. “Use your words, beg for it.”

You’re not turned off, surprisingly. Not at all, on the contrary, the firm tone he uses, the words… you’re getting hornier, if that is even possible.

“I love your cock, Sergeant, so please give it to me. Fuck me harder and faster. Need you to pull my hair, and choke me, and… be rough.” You would be embarrassed if you weren’t so desperate. You know he wouldn’t make fun of you for this, so you trust him.

“Only mine.” You take a deep breath relieved when you feel his right hand wrap around your hair. “Do you hear me? Answer me.”

You nod, unable to say anything because he starts to thrust hard and fast, just like he did before he stopped. Your tits are jumping at the impact, and you have to dig your toes into the floor.

“Use your words. If you want my,” he moans. “If you want my cock and my hand wrapped around your neck, you have to use your big girl words. Tell me you’re only mine.”

You can’t hold back your tears this time. You love it so much, you can’t believe you waited so long to have him.

“Only yours.”

“No Steve.”

He lets go of your hair, wrapping his hand around your neck. No pressure, not moving it, he’s just holding it there.

“There’s n-no Steve, Sergeant. Only you. My pussy belongs to you. I o-only want to get filled by you.”

You know he’s smiling without needing to look at him.

“You love your Sergeant’s cock, don’t you?” You have no idea how he’s able to speak while thrusting so hard. He’s a fucking robot, indeed. “No one else could give you this, no matter how much they tried.”

You feel the building in your core. You’re so, so close already, so you try to place your weight on only one hand and bring the other to cover his, and before he can say something, you encourage him to choke you by pressing his fingers on the sides of your neck.

You moan so loudly you surprise even yourself. You sound like a cat.

“Please, sergeant, please, choke me.” You repeat your move and you close your eyes. “Please, daddy, I’m so c-close.”

He pauses for a second, and you don’t know why.

Before you can ask what’s wrong, he doesn’t just start to thrust inside you again, he dicks you down just the way you wanted. It’s as if he fucks the air out of your lungs every time you exhale. You’re crying and screaming at this point, so loud the whole floor must hear you. But you’re not ashamed. You feel so close you can almost taste it.

You barely hear his whimpers, but they’re there and they’re so beautiful.

You get no warning when he decides to squeeze the sides of your neck: gently at first, but then? Perfect. So perfect you come without warning, not being able to even say his name. You just scream some nonsense, your hand dropping from his to the floor so you can ground yourself properly. Your whole body is burning, and burning, and burning, coming alive for what feels like an eternity.

He doesn’t wait even for a second after you come down from your orgasm. Instead, he gets his dick out of you, grabbing you by your ass and raising you in his arms. Still weak, you barely have the strength to wrap your legs around his waist and your hands around his neck. He’s sweaty but not that hot. His metal arm is making you cool down.

“Daddy’s gonna take good care of you.” His lips find your forehead and you fight the urge to kiss his neck. You feel so small in his arms… and as if no one can hurt you.

You’re smiling like a fool when your back hits his bed, and so is he. Such a beautiful, blinding smile.

You let him spread your legs before you drag his face down so you can kiss him. You bite his lip hard until he opens his mouth, moaning when you feel him entering you again. This time, you’re relaxed so he thrusts inside you so much easier.

“Gonna make you come again around your daddy’s cock..”

His hands wrap your legs around his ass when he starts to thrust again.

“You’re quite… into it, Sergeant Barnes. So dirty!”

He gently grabs your jaw. “Tongue out.”

You do it, opening your mouth and waiting, and waiting until you finally understand what he’s about to do.

Instead of being grossed out, as you expected, you eagerly swallow the saliva that he lets drip from his mouth, which lands on your tongue.

You bat your eyes as you start to move your hips to meet his thrusts halfway, and that sends him into a frenzy.

“Fucking hell, you don’t want to sleep tonight, do you?” He asks sarcastically, but you don’t have enough air to tease him with a stamina comment. “You want me to make you scream and swallow my spit and come till we have to go to that fucking mission. Till your beloved Steve needs to come to us himself and hear us covered in come but still fucking.” You moan at the idea of your teammates finding out about this. You get awful comments anyway; at least you can get him for real and rub it in their faces. “You would like that, wouldn’t ya? Having all my undivided attention on you, not caring that my best friend is mad…” The thrusts are so deep that your head falls on the pillow instantly. You cannot keep your eyes open for even a second and you’re crying again. “Not caring my pal wanted you so badly he even tried to take you out tonight.”

“Sergeant-”

Thrust after thrust. You grab his forearm as tightly as you can so you can have something to hold onto.

“He thought he could have you, that you’d choose him. Come on, love. Come on, scream my name, let them hear. Let them all hear whose cock you cry for. Who is the one you belong to.” His balls slap against your skin so hard they tickle you. But not even that can distract you from almost reaching your orgasm. His words, his cock, his possessiveness…

“Sergeant, please. No one but you, can I… c-can I touch my clit? I’m so, so close.”

You don’t have to, though, because he is quick enough to bring his flesh hand between your bodies and rub your clit just the way you need it.

“F-fuck, coming,” you manage to warn him before the pleasure hits you. It’s so overwhelming you see white, digging your nails into his forearm.

You don’t know what you call him… daddy, Bucky or sergeant, but it doesn’t matter. You hear his praise, how you’re his good girl, and his words encouraging you to come for him.

When you can focus again, you kiss him with everything you have.

“Need you to come for me, Sergeant Barnes,” you whisper between kisses. “Need you to come inside me, need you to fill me up with your come, sir.”

He hisses loudly, his eyes being more grey than blue.

“Don’t tease me.”

“I mean it,” you make eye contact, wrapping your legs tighter around him. “Not the heat of the moment. I need your come, daddy. I’m on birth-”

He kisses you so hard your teeth end up hitting, but you don’t care. This is everything.

“Gonna come, gonna give you what you want. Gonna make you my come s-slut. Is that what you needed?”

“Yes, yes.” You’re so excited to watch him finish you don’t even realize how much you like being called his come slut until he says it again. “Come on, Sergeant, come for me.”

After you say that, it only takes him two more thrusts to finish, moaning your name.

His eyes close, and you notice how pretty his eyelashes are. And the little moles on his face… his mouth semi-open and his hair in all directions.

You want to witness this every day.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in to kiss his nose and cheeks, letting your hips move at the same time.

“C-can’t… doesn’t stop,” he manages to groan, and you bring your hand to his nape, caressing his hair as he rides out his orgasm.

When he finally finishes, though, his head falls on top of your breasts, his mouth finding your nipple and playing with it before sucking it fully into his mouth.

“Easy, Bucky,” you moan, but he keeps going, though.

You have to pull his hair, to make him stop.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I need to uh… I’m tired.”

You’re back to your shy self. But his smile still makes you feel so relaxed.

“Got you tired, huh?” He winks, giving your breasts a kiss before pressing his lips against yours. “Fuck, I’ve never been so aroused in my entire life. Won’t even mention how happy I am.”

“Me neither,” you whisper.

“Well, we need to get used to it.”

You laugh so happily that you think your chest will explode. It’s surreal.

“You owe me that dinner after all.”

“A million dinners.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Trying to charm me?”

He pecks you one more time before getting out of you with a whimper.

“I’ve already done it.”

It’s weird to be empty like this again, but seeing your come and wetness on his pubic hair or dripping out of your pussy just to soak the sheets beneath you distracts you. You made a mess.

“We need to clean this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says distractedly as he uses his index finger to push some come back inside you. Jesus! “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You smile. “You’re a whore.”

“Your whore.” He slowly gets out of bed, grabbing his shorts from the floor.

“Want me to go?” You ask all of a sudden, gaining a confused look from him.

“Why would I want that? Unless you do, of course…” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to fix it a little. “But I want you to stay.”

“Saw you dressing.” You bring your knees up just to put your chin on top of them. You feel extra shy.

He smiles. “Just gonna get you some water. I don’t want you dehydrated.”

*

Bucky knew Steve was in the kitchen as soon as he went down the stairs. He smiles casually, not giving him a second look as he goes straight to the fridge. It’s not like he hasn’t seen him in shorts or shirtless before, and Bucky knows he knew exactly what happened upstairs.

“Can’t sleep?” Steve’s tone is so obvious Bucky almost laughs.

“Not sleepy yet. What about you? You’re alright, punk?”

“Yeah,” he says, taking a sip from his own glass of water; his hands tightly wrapped around the glass.

“Still mad about earlier? You know I’m right.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s all good.”

Bucky sighs dramatically. He loves Steve, he is his brother, but sometimes he is so annoying.

“Well, try to get some sleep. I suggest you wear some earplugs or something, though,” Bucky suggests casually, taking a whole bottle of water. “We wouldn’t want you too sleepy tomorrow. And the night is young.” He even winks at Steve, making him clear his throat.

“Buck…”

“Not a super soldier perk, I know, but you understand, right?” The smirk he suddenly gives Steve is almost sinister. “She chose me after all, and I gotta let her test-drive me. Have a good night!”

Even though he turns around, Bucky doesn’t miss the way Steve’s hold gets so tight that his glass almost breaks.

Bucky doesn’t regret it. He had it coming when he thought you’d choose him.

[rosesaints]

reckless fever, lover girl!

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now. word count: 10.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, oral (f! receiving), soft dom bucky, light bdsm undertones, bucky barnes being whipped (he gets the baby fever first let's bffr), kind of feral bucky, you think you guys are in a situationship when he's fully looking at baby registries, nipple play, yearning, angst, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, self-induced angst, multiple orgasms, talks of pregnancy and starting a family, marathon sex, riding, fingering, body worship, size kink, bucky picks the reader up, he talks you through it, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie notes: this is the most unhinged, feral thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy!

The baby gets handed to you like a bread basket.

No warning, no instruction manual. Just, “Here, can you hold her for a sec?” from someone—one of the off-duty OXE staff maybe, or someone’s civilian cousin. You don’t catch a name, just a flurry of motion, and then—

She’s in your arms.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

“Sweetheart,” he says, low and wrecked, “I’ll do it again. And again. All night, if that’s what it takes.”

[ohwowimlonley-deactivated202208]

Satiated - Bucky Barnes

Warnings - smut, swearing, kinda hair pulling, praise kink, size kink, innocence kink, subspace, oral (f receiving), fingering, cockwarming, fluffyyyyy, teeny lil bit of angst, terrible writing, idk it's just nAsty lol. Established relationship btw!

Characters - dom!bucky barnes x virgin!fem!reader

Summary - y/n wants bucky to be her first. Bucky doesnt know shes a virgin. Smut ensues.

Authors notes - this has been in my drafts since I first started my tumblr so it's terrible for the first bit but it gets better (hopefully?)

---

You was so sure that this was it. Tonight would be the the night. You were finally going to give up your virginity. To Bucky.

You meant to tell him that you were a virgin. Really, you did. But it just never came up. You had been with Bucky for just over four months now. There was no point in keeping it from the others, mostly because of how clingy you were with him. It was strange for you; being this clingy - this needy - with someone. You'd never felt anything like it before. Granted, you'd never had a boyfriend before Bucky, he was your first kiss too. Not that he knew any of that, of course. But with him you felt so at home. You didn't think he'd need to know. It wouldnt make any affect, right?

You'd set the mood, you thought, just right. You didn't want to throw sex in his face so you opted for your LED strip lights to be set to a light red with the main light off. You were wearing his longsleeve Beatles tshirt and a pretty cute lingerie set that you bought in preparation. You decided against wearing shorts, after all, the mission was to fuck the guy, why let another bit of clothing get in the way?

"Hey doll, I'm back," Bucky's infuriatingly attractive voice rang out. He'd just gotten back from a HYDRA mission. You knew he hated going on those missions, especially when you weren't with him. You rushed over to him.

"Hi there darling," you wrapped one arm around his neck and the other went under his shoulder, crushing the life out of him in a hug. He returned it with equal force which made a grin wriggle its way onto your face.

"How was it?" You pulled away and smushed his face in between your hands, "are you okay? Did you need to go to the medi lab? Do you need another hug? Do you want to eat? I think I have some snacky things in my mini fridge but-"

"Doll, I'm fine," he interrupted, moving your hands from his face and putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder, "I didn't get hurt and I'm not hungry. I will take you up on that hug though. Can we watch something shit and cuddle? I missed you."

You almost melted at his little pout, "okay baby, why don't you climb into bed and I'll sort out some of The Flash, yeah?"

He leaned down to kiss your forehead before pulling away and getting under the covers. You went to turn on the TV and pulled up The Flash. You were well aware that Bucky was staring at your ass, which was sticking out of the bottom of his tshirt, giving him a peek of the lavender lace that barely covered you.

When you were done, you turned to see him with blown pupils but a calm smile on his face. He beckoned you over and you skipped towards him happily, your high ponytail swishing behind you. You jumped onto the bed and wiggled under the duvet with him.

Bucky immediately wrapped has arms around you and pulled you literally on top of him. You whined at him and squirmed.

"Buckyyyyy I can't seeeeeee!"

"Don't whine doll, you said so yourself that it's shit. So just stay here with me, yeah?" He held you tighter against him so you complied.

"Y'know, I have the best boyfriend, like, ever. Like it's not even funny anymore you're just awesome," you rested your chin in between his ribs and smiled so wide it was almost a grimace. He rolled his eyes at you.

"You're a sap, dollface," he was smiling, though, so it proved that he liked it.

You sent him a wink and sat up so that you were straddling him over the hips. His eyes bugged out for a second but he tried to play it cool. He leaned up to peck you on the lips.

"Hey there, princess," he murmured, smiling softly.

You kissed him again, deeper this time and with more passion. Bucky didn't seem to object so you pressed further, tounge edging into the seam of his lips and parting them. He grunted in response and sucked in the muscle, sitting upright now. His hands wandered down to your ass and squeezed, gently at first but his grip got firmer when you whined into the kiss. Bucky smirked and pulled away, eliciting another whine from you.

"What's got you like this, little one?" You shivered at the nickname. He noticed.

You distracted yourself from his words by rolling your hips on his. The sensation of it was sending chills down your spine making you shiver and your thighs tense. You could feel yourself getting... aroused.

"Like what, Buck?" You wiggled a bit on his lap, finally feeling that hardness under you that you'd never felt before.

"Like this," he muffled a gasp from your movement, "all... horny,"

You bit your lip and buried your face in his neck, groaning at his words, "stoooooop!"

"Whyyyyyyy? I just wanna know!" He insisted.

He wrapped one hand around your waist and the his prosthetic metal one in your hair. He pulled you back by the hair at the nape of your neck, the tiny bit of pain made you let out a moan.

"What's going on with you?!" He'd never seen you like this before.

You looked down, still firmly sat on his now very evident erection and played with the fingers of his flesh hand after prying it from your waist.

"I just- I can't-" you groaned at your inability to form a proper sentence.

"Just take a breath," you nodded, "and tell me what you want."

"I want you," you whined, "bubba please,"

"What do you mean doll- like-" you interrupted with another roll of your hips, praying that he understood. "Oh, oh,"

You nodded helplessly and grinded against him more, desperate for him to help you with the wetness that had built up from the friction between the two of you.

"You mean like, now?" He tried not to respond to your unintentional teasing but he was hard as a fucking rock because of you and your flimsy lilac panties, "y'know we don't have to if you don't wanna,"

"Baby please!" You weren't trying to be bratty, he was just taking so long and after 25 years of never orgasming, you were a little frustrated.

"Jesus Christ! Calm down doll, if I didn't know any better I'd say this was your time," he joked. But you tensed up. Oh god. Did he know?

You laughed it off, but Bucky's supersoldier senses made him acutely aware that your heart rate sped up and your breathing stopped.

"Doll if it's your first time we don't have to-"

"But Bucky I wanna! I promise. I wasn't even gonna tell you because I knew that you'd treat me like glass-- and- and that's why i never said that you were my first kiss either-" you cut him off but he returned the favour with an incredulous gasp.

"I WAS YOUR FIRST KISS? AND YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TOLD ME?!" He sounded angry. His grip on your hips tightened and you winced.

"I- I'm sorry Bucky! Just didn't wanna make you worried I-" His grip tightened more, vibranium fingers digging into your bones, "ouch Bucky!"

His hand instantly retracted and he looked mortified, staring at your skin that was already yellowing from his grip.

"See doll! This is why you should've told me! I could hurt you, darling! I don't ever wanna do that," his eyes were still glued to the still-forming bruise, tears welling in his pondwater eyes.

"You could never hurt me, Buck! Not really; not on purpose!" You protested. He didn't seem convinced in the slightest, more focused on the purplish red pigmentation coming to life on your hips.

"Oh honey, it's okay! It doesn't hurt and look, look, it's fading already," that was a lie, by the morning those bruises would probably be black and blue. Not that Bucky needed to know that, "and it's alright darling, it's not you're fault, remember? You can't always feel how strong your new hand is, yeah? My big strong Bucky,"

You could see him trying to fight a smile but he refused to meet your eye.

"C'mon Bucky! How am I ever meant to learn how to take care of you if you dont teach me?" You insisted. Bucky finally raised his gaze, along with his right eyebrow.

"Teach you?" He wore a smirk now.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

"Well, think about it, baby. I mean, I've never even kissed anyone. How could I possibly know how to- how to-" your confidence faulters almost immediately, failing to realise theres no need to be embarrassed when you're with your Bucky.

"To what, princess? To suck my cock? Y' wanna know how to suck m'cock? Or d'you wanna learn how to ride me? Hmm? Learn how to milk m'cock like a good little girl?" He teased. You shuddered against him, leaning further into his perfectly sculpted pectorals. "Oh, I think you do. I think that you wanna be my best girl, huh? My perfect little sub, yeah?"

You nodded against him, but that didn't seem to satisfy Bucky.

"Use your words with me, baby, yeah? Y'gotta use your words with me or else I won't know what you want," holy heck, even when he's dominating you to all hell, he's so sweet and gentle with you. It made you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.

"Yes, Bucky," you mumbled, reluctantly un-hiding your head from his warm body when a sharp tug at the roots of your hair prompted you away.

"Good girl, well done, honey," he praised you beautifully. You felt the urge to shy away from his compliments, but instinctually you knew that he wouldn't accept that.

"Thank you d- hmm Bucky," he obviously heard your blunder but didn't focus on it, opting instead to stroke soothingly across the expanse of your thighs.

"Okay baby. Just one more thing, I want you to have a safeword, m'kay?" You nodded, "this is just in case y'wanna stop or I do something you don't like, yeah? I won't go too hard on you tonight. Wanna make it all special for you. My little princess,"

"Thank you, bubba," shyly, you pressed a kiss to his cheek which made him grin widely.

"Can you tell me what you want your safeword to be, m'love?"

"I- uh," you were half tempted to give him a stupid answer but this meant a lot to him and you could see it in his eyes.

"C'mon, little girl, don't get all shy on me now," he lilted.

"I- uh, red? I think? I-it's easy to remember, I guess?" His hand had moved from your thighs to your ass, moulding it into any shape he deemed appropriate.

"Well done, princess," he rewarded you with a kiss to the forehead. Then the cheek. Then nose. Finally, the lips. As soon as he pulled away, you chased his lips with a pout and a whine.

"Now now, little girl. Dont get whiny," he lilted.

"Bubba kissy pleaseeee," you whined pathetically.

"Okay honey, but just know that you can't always get what you want with that cute little pout of yours," he relented, pushing his lips against yours. You whimpered into the kiss, grinding yourself down against him to relieve some of the pressure that had built up over your conversation.

He seemed to love it, grappling at your ass and pulling you further onto his raging hard-on. His tongue slipped into your mouth, licking over your teeth and smoothing itself over your own tongue.

"Lay down for me, little girl," he prompted, lightly tapping your bum and moving you to lie on your back. You scrambled to stay on top of him, clinging to his thighs and securing your arms around his neck, "it's okay, honey, I'm staying with you. Not going anywhere, yeah?"

"Staying," you echoed blearily, finally slipping off of him and lying down.

"Good girl," he confirmed, spreading your legs and settling in between them.

He tugged on the bottom of your shirt as a question to which you raised your arms and lifted up slightly. He pulled it off of your body and sat back on his heels to admire you. Bucky had never particularly been fond of the colour lilac but at that moment he had fallen in love with it.

"Sweetie you look... edible," he growled, "can I take it off?"

"Yes, daddy," your eyes widened at your own words, immediately covering your own mouth and retracting from his soothing hands. Your mind was racing 'oh god what did I just do? Does he hate me?'

"Say that again," he demanded, groaning and resting his head on your shoulder. You keened at that, letting out a sigh of relief that he enjoyed it.

"Yes, daddy," you brushed your lips to his ears, an almost tangible fog settling on your mind. It comforted you.

"Fuck," he lifted himself from your shoulder, undressing you quickly and throwing his head back at what he saw.

"I'm gonna fuckin' eat you for dinner," he rumbled. He moved your thighs even further apart, almost painfully so, and leaning down so his face was level with your pussy, "oh, honey look at you! You're soaking for me! So wet for your daddy,"

You whined and raised your hips in an attempt to get any type of friction. He pushed them down but ducked his head with you.

"Shh, it's okay baby. Daddy's here, I'll take care of you," he squeezed your thigh gently, "y' ready?"

"Please, daddy, pretty please," you tentatively moved your hands into his hair. He rewarded your boldness with a kiss to your pussy lips. It felt like heaven, even though he'd done next to nothing.

After that, he went all out; he spread your lips by dragging his tongue through them. Your fingers tugged on his hair as harsh as you dared, albeit not that hard. He seemed to love it though, moving to suck carefully on your clit. You let out a whiny moan, loving the new sensation. You'd never touched yourself before; never had an orgasm. This was all new to you and it felt so fucking good.

He suckled and pulled at your clit, slowly moving his index finger to your hole. He didn't enter you with his finger, opting instead to circle it gently, getting you used to the feeling if being touched there.

"Oh, daddy! S' good," you babbled, lost in another world of pleasure. He moaned against you when you tugged his silky locks harder. "D-daddy can you- can you please put your finger in? Pretty please?"

"Of course honey, but it might hurt. Hold my hand, 'kay? Squeeze it if it hurts, don't be afraid," he smiled at you oh so sweetly and offered you his metal hand. Your grip in his hair slackened and you moved your right hand into his flesh one, smacking his metal one out of the way.

"But honey," he protested, but you gave him no room to argue.

"Daddy! Wanna have your fingers in me please! I'll be a good girl I promise, jus' want your fingers," you argued. He complied, intertwining his fleshy fingers with yours and sitting up to get a better angle so he could position his metal ones by your entrance.

"Oh? Does my little girl want my metal fingers in her? Kinky little girl," he grinned at you.

"Yes daddy, please," you whimpered. Bucky kept his grin and pushed his middle finger against your entrance. You held your breath as it slipped into you. It was definitely painful, not unbearably so but still uncomfortable.

Your hand clenched around his while your other one sought purchase on the bicep of his metal arm. Bucky, always the detective, saw that you were struggling and gave you a moment to adjust.

"Tell me when to move, m'love," he urged kindly. You were more greatful than ever before for how beautiful his personality was. So kind. So loving.

It took you more than a minute to relax; muscles tensing and untensing around his vibrainium fingertips. When you were ready, you gave him the go-ahead so he started shallowly thrusting his finger in and out.

After that, it didn't take long before you were whining and begging for another finger. 'Another another another, daddy!' Of course, he had admonished you for being so bratty but he didn't turn you down. He thought you looked so pretty when you were begging for him.

"Daddy!" You whimpered, a strange pressure building between your thighs, heating up to an unbearable pleasure that you felt.

"Aw, baby, y'gunna cum?" He smiled. Before you could respond, he pulled out his fingers unexpectedly.

"Daddy!" You fussed, tingly feeling still strong in your core and thoroughly unsatisfied. The fog was like a blanket now; covering you up and keeping you warm.

"Shh, don't whine, baby. Don't want you to cum now and be too sensitive before I get you on m'cock now, do we?" Smoothing his hand over your hip, smearing your arousal over it.

"No daddy, sorry daddy," you conceded, terrified that you did anything wrong. You wanted to be daddy's good girl.

"No, sweetie, don't be sorry, you did nothing wrong," he reassured. You sighed, so thankful that you hadn't done anything wrong.

"Daddy?" You looped your arms around his neck.

"Yes, doll?" You rested one side of your head on his, still annoyingly clothed, pectoral.

"Can I have your cock now?" Glazed over eyes stared longingly at his own.

"Of course, little one," he pulled his shirt over his head, fucking finally. Your eyes stayed glued to his abs because 'fucking hell he's so fucking hot holy shit'.

"Thank you, daddy," your fingers pressed into his muscles.

"Sweetie, how d'you wanna do this?" He moved your hands from his abdomen gently so he could remove his jeans. Beneath them, you could see how truly massive he was and fuck he looks so good.

"Baby?" He asked again, snapping you out of your trance.

You didn't answer him verbally, instead moving onto his lap and settling comfortably on his raging erection. After his assault on your clit earlier, you felt extra sensitive and that pressure against your bare core made you convulse in pleasure.

"Okay sweetie, okay," he kept that calming smile plastered on his face, gently urging you to sit up so that he could remove his boxers. You kept his eyes glued to his face until it faltered in pleasure. Looking down, you saw it. Over eight inches and thick as all hell.

"Daddy?" Your head lolled to the side, watching as his hand moved up and down it at a moderate pace.

"Yes, doll?" Groaning, his eyes locked on yours.

"How will that fit in me?" He laughed at that, so fond of your innocence.

"It'll fit, little one, don't worry," he assured you, using his metal hand to gently stroke your hip.

You reached out to grab his cock but he was quick to move you away.

"No, sweetie," he moved your hand into his hair so you could play with it if you wanted to. You whined at him, claiming that you wanted to make him feel good, "you will make me feel good, honey. When I cum inside that sweet little pussy of yours I'll feel so good I promise,"

"Okay, daddy," you leaned against his broad shoulder as he circled your hips against his cock.

"Y'ready, princess?" He double-checked for what seemed to be the tenth time. You responded by reaching for his length and lining it up with your entrance.

Ever so gently, he slid you down onto his cock. If he hadn't opened you up with his fingers earlier, you would have been in a lot more pain. He kept his hands on you when you were all the way down on him; moving them to your tits and rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, causing even more pleasure to spike in your body.

You moaned loudly when he brought his mouth onto your left breast, suckling on your nipple, giving you the most pleasure you'd ever felt in your tits.

Adjusting took a few minutes but when you got used to it, you got impatient very fast. He noticed it when you grinded against him, shuddering at the immense feeling of his cock brushing against your inner walls. He couldn't bring himself to move away from your nipple, though, so he kept sucking while he moved both his hands to your hips and lifted you up so you were only halfway sheathed on his length. He secured you there so you were suspended on his cock, thrusting his hips up to meet yours. His pubic bone brushed against your clit and you were in heaven; his mouth on your tit, cock in your pussy and delicious friction on your bundle of nerves.

"Oh daddy! Feels so good!" You gasped out a breath, overwhelmed by pleasure and all of a sudden, you were falling. Falling deep into a delicious subspace. And there was that overwhelming buildup of pressure in your core again. "Daddy?"

He finally pulled off of your tit, leaving you cold without the warmth of his mouth, "yeah sweetie? What's up?"

Still thrusting up into you at a steadily inclining pace, Bucky found it hard to believe that this was your first time. You were so lost in pleasure that you hadn't acknowledged his words.

"Doll?" He punctuated his sentence with a sharp thrust to your g-spot, making you see stars.

"Daddy? I-I feel-" you didn't know what you felt. Full. For sure, you felt full. Bucky's girth was splitting you in two.

"What d'ya feel, doll? Y'gunna cum? Gonna cum all over daddy's cock like my good little girl?" He teased you, kissing along your neck, bruising it whenever he saw fit.

"Yes daddy! Please, please can I cum?" You begged.

"Of course, little one, cum on daddy's cock," he encouraged. As soon as he gave permission, you let go.

You'd never felt pleasure like that, vision going white and violently clamping down on Bucky's cock, causing his eyes to roll back into his head and cumming inside of you. You fell blindly even deeper into the blissful state that made you feel oh so warm and fuzzy on the inside.

You didn't stir for a while after that. Not until Bucky gently attempted to move you off of him.

"No daddy! Nonononono!" You scrambled to stay leaning against his chest, "no movin daddy, stayin here,"

"Honey, we have to get you cleaned up," he reminded you.

"Daddy no! Have to stay with daddy," you insisted. He ran a soothing hand through your hair.

"Okay, princess, we can stay here," he relented, "but 's not daddy anymore, is it? 'S Bucky again, remember?"

"Nuh-uh, 's daddy. 'N I'm daddy's baby," you babbled, reaching to play with his fingers.

"No baby, it's Bucky. C'mon, baby, y'gotta come back f'me, yeah?" He urged you ever so carefully, scared that if he pushed too far then you would go deeper into subspace.

"But daddy-"

"No baby, say it with me 'Bucky', yeah?"

"Bucky," you repeated. "Bucky!"

"That's right m'love! Are y' back with me now?" He asked.

"Yeah, 'm back baby," you muzzled your face in his neck, hyperaware that his cock was half hard again in your cunt but your legs ached too much to do anything about it.

"Well done honey, how d'you feel?" He checked.

"Satiated,"

"What in all hell does that mean?"

"Your a 100 year old assassin and you don't know basic English?"

"I'm American!"

"You speak English!"

[lokischambermaid]

Welcome Party - Steve Rogers x Established Relationship YN 🍆⛓️🪶

Summary: Steve is late back from a mission. He joins you at the party, still in his dirty tactical suit, and knows exactly how to make it up to you.

Contains: Semi-public sex, voyeurism and exhibitionism, fingering, cock warming, soft dom Steve.

Words: 2,600

A/N: A follow-up to Resident Expert (part one) and Tactical Suit (part two), with Welcome Party intended to be read as part three. Can be read as a stand-alone, though.

I’m gonna be a little late, baby. I’m sorry. x

You would be forgiven for thinking that being in a committed, loving relationship with Steve Rogers and having mind-blowing passionate sex wouldn’t have a downside.

In truth, there were very, very few negatives. The ones that existed would garner zero sympathy from the women who eyed him hungrily whenever you walked into a room with him, his hand squeezing yours as he leaned in with sweet words of affirmation. “I love you, baby. You look so beautiful tonight.”

He was married to his mission, though. His job. His responsibilities.

He was late.

Times like this, alone at a thriving party, you realised fucking Captain America wasn’t perfect. But it was pretty damn close.

You finally caught the barman’s attention and ordered a mojito.

“Hey baby.”

You turned in the direction of the sultry tones to see a redhead. Natasha.

“He’ll be here soon, beautiful. And in the meantime…. you got me.”

If you didn’t know better, you would think Romanoff was hitting on you. Or perhaps it was muscle memory. Using her sensuality as a weapon was as natural as breathing.

“Natasha’s a little…. fluid,” Steve had told you one Sunday afternoon, stroking your arms reassuringly after you queried Natasha’s sexuality.

“You look beautiful. Steve’s a lucky guy,” she sipped her cocktail and walked away, swinging her hips.

Yep. Definitely hitting on me.

You thanked the bartender and gripped the glass, feeling cold moisture against your palm and your fingertips. You walked to the balcony and looked down over the revellers, anonymous faces attending due to Stark’s monetary influence. The metal bar was cool under your forearm as you heard a house remix of The Weekend vibrate through the speakers.

It's like a dream what she feels with me She loves to be on the edge Her fantasy is okay with me Then suddenly, baby says

Take my breath away And make it last forever

“Hey honey.”

The deep Brooklyn lilt vibrated against your ear, causing shivers of anticipatory pleasure to run down your spine. Brown leather fingerless gloves sat either side of your delicate hands gripping the bar of the balcony. Thick blue military-grade fabric covered his forearms and brushed against your bare skin, making you tingle.

“I didn’t have time to change honey. I’m sorry.”

You smirked. “You’re an unimaginable whore, Steve Rogers, you know that?”

You shook your head, grinning, biting your lip. Since the tactical suit incident two months ago, he had been whoring up an absolute storm whenever possible, leaving his shield casually propped against the bed, discarding his dirty boots beside your welcome mat, a pair of tactical pants strewn over your chair, his blue chest armour in your closet next to your work clothes where he knew you would see it, or – in his absolutely most audacious move – leaving his helmet on your pillow.

He chuckled darkly. “Really, beautiful? You’re really gonna greet your man with disrespect after a long day at work?” He sucked in air through his teeth. He was always so dramatic. “That shit wouldn’t fly in the forties, let me tell ya.”

“Oh yeah,” you husked, looking out onto the sea of party guests, eyes fixed forward as your bare back felt his suit press into your skin. “And what would you do to…. get me back in line.”

A deep rumble vibrated in his throat, promises of what was to come. “I’d show this little tush who’s boss.” His right hand moved from the bar to the curve of your ass, squeezing lightly, a reference to your play from last week. An evening where he had confessed he would like to – if it was okay with you – strike you repeatedly on the butt cheeks with the flat of his gloved hand as you lay over his lap while he remained in his Cap suit, counting the strikes out loud as you answered his degrading questions with Yes Captain. You swallowed down on the memory, your underwear dampening at the thought of how your sweet, loving partner became more and more of a kinky dream with each passing day, as though the deepening of your love and trust for one another lay the foundation for further erotic confessions and explorations.

He ceased massaging your arse and ran his hand up your back, leather gloves over your corset and onto bare skin. “Just keep smilin’, honey,” he whispered in your ear as you both continued to look out onto the party-goers below who were thrilled to see Captain America in the flesh. He had the audacity to wave to them. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Thirty further seconds of this charade was all he could bare. “C’mon.” A gentle hand slid into yours and led you away from the baying onlookers and to a nearby high-backed leather sofa facing away from the balcony. Finally, you looked at him. Dust and blood covered his suit, evidence of his heroics. He saw you, too. Femininity and divinity wrapped in a black corset and a tulle skirt that fluted out when you turned and made you look like a goddess.

You cocked your head after clocking his appearance. “Steve I’m not gonna fuck you in that helmet.”

He held a hand to his stomach as he laughed raucously, causing his teammates’ heads to turn in the direction of the unusual sound. “Oh, honey,” he shook his head. “Then I’m definitely gonna keep it on.”

You hated his dorky fucking helmet. He loved to tease you endlessly with this knowledge. It was for function, not fashion, he told you. You called bullshit – what use was a leather cowl to a super soldier, anyway? He wasn’t Batman for fucks sake.

“I’m gonna force you,” he told you once, refusing to remove his cowl when he returned from a mission and you were desperately horny. Much to your chagrin you acquiesced, gripping the side of his face and kissing him as he railed you against the wall, that stupid blue thing still seemingly glued to his stupid perfect head.

You heard the click of the strap. Two hands pulled the helmet from his head and he tossed it on the sofa. For your good humour he rewarded you with a kiss, those same two hands gripping your face instead of the cowl, kissing you as though transferring a message, relief and gratitude at arriving home safely and coming back to you. When he pulled away, your eyes were wet.

“I’m so happy you’re home, Steve.”

“Me too baby. I’m always glad to see you.” He grinned sheepishly as his body responded to the close proximity of your softness and your scent. His eyes flashed briefly to his own hips before reuniting with yours. “And err…. he’s happy to see you too.”

“Please don’t refer to your dick in the third person.”

He laughed again, holding your hand and sitting you down on the sofa you had been stood in front of, not caring to be seen kissing you in front of his colleagues while you stood boldly in the middle of the room.

He actually kinda liked it.

In the face of his protestations you headed to the bar and returned with a cold beer, handing it to him and sitting down beside him. “You’re perfect, you know that?” The cool liquid slid down his throat like sweet nectar, a balm after sweating and fighting and taking lives and taking absolutely no shit over the past few hours. He could sink in now. Relax.

He sighed theatrically. “The only thing wrong is this.” In one swift move he clunked his beer down on the low marble table, grabbed you by the hips and placed you on his lap. He grabbed his beer again and swigged. “Ahh. There. All better.”

“Ooh I have a question.” You turned in his lap and looked over your shoulder. “Does everyone know your dirty secret?”

He raised his eyebrows and smirked as he gulped down on his drink, finishing it. “And what’s my secret?”

You raised your right hand in the air, gesturing to an imaginary headline. “Breaking news: Captain America is a fucking drama queen.”

“Shhh shh shh shh….” His shushes trailed off into rumbling laughter, pressing his lips to yours before you turned around and leaned your back into his chest. He nuzzled his face into your hair, smelling a soothing mix of your shampoo and, when he explored the warmth of your neck, your perfume. “God, honey.”

Your felt the soft touch of dry, calloused hands run down your neck and brush your hair to one side. Soft lips unbefitting of a soldier pressed gently into the dip in your neck. He made little sounds as he scattered kisses over your neck and your bare shoulders, completely random, no strategy, just feeling. Coming home to you always felt this way. A place to relax and just…. be.

The sensations caused you to writhe in his lap, making him hard, in turn causing a domino effect. The harder he felt, the more reverently he kissed you. The more you writhed. The more turned on you both became.

“So, err…. given that you’re now apparently acting as my publicist….” He muttered between kisses. “Would it be a scandal if I fucked you right now?”

“What, here??”

Not much surprised you with your super sensual super shy super sexy super soldier. But this? This was unexpected.

You turned. “Steve? You’re not serious are you?”

He cocked his head with the playful arrogance of a man who possessed complete mastery of his body and mind. The confidence of a leader married with overpowering, dominant physicality. “Maybe.”

He didn’t mean maybe. He meant yes. If you were okay with it, of course. A fruitless scan of the busy private bar area had you offering your enthusiastic consent faster than a pig at a buffet. The bar was full of Avengers. The enhanced. The intergalactic. Down below were the normals. They couldn’t make it up here.

It wasn’t public. But it wasn’t exactly private, either.

His hand wound its way under layers of tulle. You had pooled your skirt around you both, granting him access and granting you as much modesty as possible. His hand found the top of your thigh. He rolled his hand inwards to the heat of your inner thigh. Artist’s fingertips nibbled at the hem of your underwear, meandering inside to tease at your moist slickness. You arched your back into him as he ran his fingers between your folds, finding your sensitive spot and circling there.

“Shhhh honey,” he instructed as little sounds fell from your lips. “We’re not alone. Open your eyes.”

The last part was a whisper. Obeying, you scanned the floor. Natasha raised her eyebrows at you, sipped her drink, and with a wink she turned back to the bar. Sam pursed his lips. Scott’s dramatically open jaw was closed by Wanda, who rolled her eyes and turned him back to the group.

Everyone knew.

“They see what I’m doing to you, beautiful. I kinda like it. Don’t you? Hmm?”

Yeah.

Yeah.

You really fucking did.

Hums and biting your lip provided your only reply.

Fuck me dumb.

That’s what you told him to do. Now and again, he wanted it. His gorgeous, intelligent resident expert with two degrees, barely able to string words together because of him. All because of him. His member throbbed in awareness of the effect he was having on you.

“You have no idea how badly I wanna be inside you right now.”

“What’s stopping you.”

“Baby. Are you okay with this? You sure?”

Your sweet shy sensitive Steve had popped his head above the parapet, replacing Cocksure Cap for one moment. He felt you get wetter. He wasn’t sure why.

“I’m sure, Steve. Really.”

“Good…”

You leaned forward, allowing him space to unzip his tactical pants and grab his cock, sighing at the relief of pressure like opening a coke bottle.

“Okay. Sit back. Slowly.”

You moaned when you sank back onto him. You knew he was hard. You hadn’t realised he was ready. The thought of how hard he had been while fingering you was overwhelming.

“I can’t thrust baby. But I can still touch you.” He chuckled when you whined. “I know. I know…. my poor baby….”

You gasped at the sensation of his fingers in your clit while his cock filled you. He stayed completely still, one hand around your middle and holding you close to him as the other worked you into a frenzy. He squeezed his grip on you a little tighter when you became a little squirmy. You closed your eyes. You knew they were looking. You didn’t care. Steve kept his eyes open. To keep watch, he would tell you later. Ensure you were safe. It was bullshit. He got off on it. Perhaps one day he would admit it to you. First, he would need to admit the truth to himself.

Steve Rogers was an exhibitionist.

As his eyes scanned the bar and found Scott Lang’s jaw resuming its wide open position and Bucky’s smirking face, he was sure he would come inside you without moving an inch. It was a miracle he didn’t and a testament to his physical endurance. He worked you to climax as he keep his eyes on your audience and felt your head lean back into him, silky hair spilling out over his dirty suit. He released you from his grip but clasped his hand over your mouth when you began to moan.

His strong hand over your face as you moaned into his palm would live in your head forever. It wouldn’t need to remain a fantasy, though. It was a practice you would repeat again. And again. And again.

“You okay, baby?” His breath was hot on your neck when he whispered tender words of aftercare, brushing a strand of hair away from your sticky forehead.

“Yeah. But Steve… you didn’t….”

“I know, baby. It’s okay. There’s time for me later.”

What had you done, you wondered, to deserve a man so loving and sweet yet so deliciously kinky. You didn’t have time to ponder further when a figure sat down on the table, his tush just six feet from where Cap’s sweet ministrations had just taken place.

“You wanna fuck her right here on the table next time? Or is that too subtle.”

“Tony.” Steve’s voice took on the authoritative voice he used at work. It turned you on. All the more true when you could feel him inside you, still hard, his cock pulsing under Tony’s unrelenting gaze.

“Wonder what Freud would say about this?” With a wink and a sip of his whiskey, he disappeared in a plume of arrogance.

Steve sighed and held you to him. He leaned his head back into the sofa. It took him a couple of minutes to confess his proposed plan. When you did, you agreed immediately.

“So what do you say, baby? Should we give him somethin’ to talk about?”

He groaned when you slipped out of him, grinning when he realised it enabled you to turn around and face him and place your hands on his shoulders. You began kissing him and tugging his bottom lip lightly between your teeth as you whispered the sweetest words he had ever heard.

“Yeah. Let’s give him something to talk about.”

[bucks-babe]

Be Mean To Me

Pairing: Bucky x f!reader

Summary: After a long day at work, you just want to lose all control and have your boyfriend fuck you into oblivion 

Warnings: Established relationship, slight angst, fluff, smut, mean!dom!bucky, reader asks for it, they are so in love, rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, oral (male receiving), ball sucking, slapping, spit kink?, degradation, humiliation, name calling (slut, whore, bitch, sugar, good girl), daddy kink, some praise, spanking, pussy slapping (like once), safe word (yellow), vaginal sex, no prep anal, Bucky has a huge dick, choking, aftercare, check-ins, crying during sex, crying after sex, soft!Bucky, no mention of Y/N, no description of reader other than being female

Word Count: 4.9k of mostly smut

A/N: This was very self indulgent. Work has been kicking my ass and I want to be taken care of. Any mistakes are my own. If I missed any warnings please let me know. @bucknastysbabe it's done! I think I should go back to therapy. But hey, smut

You feel your throat tighten as you walk up to the apartment you share with Bucky. It was one of those days that left you beaten down and wanting to curl up under your blankets and cry. You didn’t even want to go into work this morning, having to force yourself to get ready. Too many rude customers, incompetent coworkers giving you more work than you get paid to do, everything leaving you overstimulated and wanting your boyfriend.

It left a craving deep down inside of you, a want that you knew only he could quell. You just wanted to shut your brain off, have Bucky take care of you, ruin you, treat you like a whore, break you down, just to put you back together again.

You swallow the lump in your throat and unlock the front door, finding Bucky on the couch watching some random action movie that he claimed to hate. At the sight of him your body naturally relaxes and the urge to crawl onto his lap is too much to bear.

“Hey, sugar. I’ve been missing you all day. You’ll never fucking believe the video Sam sent me of Tony trying out his new thrusters! He flew rig- What’s wrong?” He perked up at the sound of the door opening, truly missing his girl. Whenever you’re around him his entire day gets better, a lightness filling his chest, but when he sees how run down you are, his heart literally hurts for you. Bucky wants to protect you from everything, from supervillains all the way to spiders in the house.

“Long day, baby. Just wanna be with you.” He opens his arms and you instantly crawl into his lap, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed. He runs his metal hand up and down your back, pulling you as close to him as possible, while his flesh hand rests on your head, holding you to his neck, letting you breathe him in.

“What can I do for you, sugar? Want to talk about it? I can order from your favorite place. Can run you a bath. Whatever you want, sweet girl.” 

“Please, be mean to me, Bucky.” Bucky feels his heart clench in his chest. He wants to keep your heart safe from whatever it is that is plaguing you, but he knows he can’t. What he can do is follow your request and make you forget.

“How mean do you want me, sugar?” Bucky has done this for you a few times. He always asks how you want him to treat you. It’s in his nature to be sweet to you, fill you with praise, but that's not what you want right now. You want to be degraded and treated like a fucktoy.

“Mean.” You keep your eyes trained on him. This is the only part where you need to keep your head on, make sure that he knows you want this.

“Remember your colors, sugar?” You nob, excitement bubbling up inside of you. “Remember, daddy will only be upset with you if you don’t use them. If you need to say yellow or red, you will.” His tone is final. This is the only way he would ever agree to treating you like a slut.

“Yes, daddy.” And just like that, Bucky’s entire demeanor changes. He goes from your sweet, cuddly boyfriend to a cold and callous body of muscle. 

“Then take your clothes off, slut.” He pushes you off his lap, just hard enough to give the illusion of indifference. As you strip, Bucky keeps his eyes trained on the TV, not paying you any mind. Your core throbs at the fact that you are completely exposed while he is still fully dressed. 

“On your knees.” He’s still not looking at you, but you obey without thought, willing to do whatever he wants. Grabbing the back of your neck, he forces you in between his spread legs, and you whine at the fact that his cock is still soft inside his sweats. Any other day, Bucky would make sure that your knees were never on the hardwood floor without a pillow or something soft underneath, but not today.

On days like these, when you want to feel completely submissive, it takes Bucky a while to get aroused. It’s in his nature to love up on you, make you drunk with pleasure in the sweetest way possible. He feeds off of your energy. When he is sure that you are having fun, his body lets himself fall into his role.

“What? You think at the first signs of some tits I’m gonna get hard? I knew you were a dumb slut but I didn’t realize just how thick you were.” Your pussy was absolutely pulsing with need. With his hand still on the back of your neck, he rubs your face against his crotch, feeling his cock begin to harden at the smell of your arousal.

He pulls you back far enough to slide his pants down, foregoing boxers, and you immediately try to take his half hard length in your mouth. Before you can process it, Bucky’s right hand lands a slap to your cheek - hard enough to make a welt that will take a few hours to disappear. You gasp and your cunt pulses even harder than before at the sting left on your cheek. 

His metal hand wraps around your chin, much cooler than it’s supposed to be, and forces you to look him in the eye. In the back of your mind you realize that he turned on the cooling function in his arm to sooth your cheek; the arm was built to keep him cool in the Wakandan sun and heat. “Did daddy say you could suck his cock?” He uses his hand to shake your head from side to side, answering for you. “Then keep your slutty mouth shut.”

He spreads his legs wider and pulls your face closer to his heavy sack, already full of cum. “Hands behind your back, and suck on daddy’s balls.” You join your hands together behind your back without question and nuzzle his balls. Wasting no time, you take one into your mouth, sucking feverishly, enjoying the light dusting of hair tickling your face.

“Oh, fuck, come on, slut, I know you can do better than that. Take ‘em both in your dirty mouth.” He pushes you further into him, cutting off your oxygen, and you swear you hear your slick drip onto the floor. Your jaw aches as you try to get them both in your mouth, but you can't; his balls are too big. Bucky ruts against your face, squishing his balls, precum leaking from his tip, dripping onto his stomach after he takes his shirt off.

With your limited amount of movement, you alternate between each ball, licking at the seam. Every time you switch balls, you feel the other drag wetly across your face and you have to clench your legs in an attempt to quell the ache between them while fighting with your need for air. “Such a dirty bitch, lapping at your daddy’s nuts, shit.” He pulls you back just as your head starts to go fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, and you gasp for air, spit is covering the lower half of your face and is dripping down your neck and chest; Bucky feels his cock throb at the sight.

Reaching out, Bucky smears your spit around your face and leaves another, weaker smack to your cheek before he grabs his cock and uses his weeping tip to tease you, dragging it on your face. “What a nasty fucking bitch, drooling all over the place just from sucking some balls.” He slaps your cheeks with it a few times before forcing your head down all the way, making you gag and you immediately pull off, coughing.

He stares into your eyes, cold and calculating, waiting for you to speak. When your coughing subsides you manage to get out a hoarse ‘green,’ giving him the all clear. He takes your head and once again makes you take his cock, this time much slower and not as deep, the first time he wanted to fuck with you. “Such a perfect fucking mouth, shit.” He stops you from bobbing your head, “Stop being such a desperate whore and let daddy finish his movie.” You're sure you’re leaking onto the floor at this point.

You are able to see his face and he looks wrecked, mouth hanging open and head back; he’s not watching shit. Nonetheless, you rest your head on his thigh, getting comfortable, spreading your legs out to get closer to the floor so your head won't be bent at an awkward angle, ignoring the pain in your knees and the ache in your jaw. 

The only sounds filling the room are Bucky’s ragged breathing and the movie playing in the background. There is saliva everywhere, his cock, all over his balls, down to his ass and on the couch. His cock is constantly leaking precum into your mouth but you don’t swallow, letting his taste linger on your tongue. 

This isn’t what you wanted, you wanted him to demolish you. Sitting with his cock in your mouth is giving you too much time to think, so you do what any sane person would do - be a brat. At the first suckle, Bucky lets out a broken moan, at the second, he knows what you’re up to. Flicking your ear with his metal hand he hisses, “Don’t make me punish you, bitch.” At the third, he yanks you off of his dick, a trail of drool and precum keeping the two of you connected, as slaps you once again with his flesh hand, this time not soothing the marred flesh with his metal hand.

He stands and kicks the couch out of the way and pulls you with him by the neck. “You disobedient little-” he cuts himself short at the small puddle of slick that he finds from your previous position. “Is that what I think it is?” You only whine in response, his grip on your neck never faltering. 

With his free hand, he reaches down to your pussy to feel just how wet you are, confirming his suspicions. “What a dirty fucking slut, leaking all over my floor.” He pulls you in closer to him just to whisper, “Lick it the fuck up, bitch,” before pushing you to the ground. 

Your knees hit the wood hard and pain runs up your spine. You ignore the ache and brainlessly lap at your juices on the floor before Bucky smushes your cheek against the puddle and you moan. “Messy bitch, you are? Cunt is pulsing, waiting for my dick. Too bad I have to punish you, isn’t it, slut?” He leans down to the floor, eyes lined up with yours. “Daddy is going to give you ten spanks and I want you to count them.” You don’t respond immediately, stuck in a sort of limbo, drawn in further at the softness in his eyes.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky can’t hide his devotion to you, that’s why he doesn’t let you look at him when he needs to play this role. His whole face softens at your silence, fearing he’s gone too far. “Color, sugar.” Stroking your cheek, he leans in closer, breathing you in.

“Green, daddy, so green.” The sigh Bucky lets out is audible and he feels ten times lighter.

“Good girl, you want to keep going the way we were?” Even though you said green, he wants to be certain.

“Yes please, daddy, want you to be mean.” You look so small and soft. Bucky struggles to put his facade back up, but he knows you need this.

Bucky positions himself behind you, staring at your ass and glistening pussy, and feels his cock bounce. The first slap isn’t soft by any means, you know there will be a handprint left. Your body jolts and Bucky groans at the jiggle of your ass. “One.” The second is on your other cheek and makes you clench around nothing. “Two.” He lands the next two much harder on the same cheek and you feel tears form in your eyes, yet continue to count, digging your nails into your palm.

He repeats the two spanks to your left cheek and takes a break to sooth your heated and raised skin with his metal hand after you’ve counted. The ground beneath your cheek is hard and unforgiving, leaving you neck bent at an odd angle. Spank seven lands on the back of your right thigh and somehow feels much stronger. “Shit! Seven, daddy.” Eight is on your left, and is just as hard. Your entire lower body aches: cunt pulsing and throbbing for his cock, thighs burning, and ass red and raw, sobbing with every impact.

“These last two are going to be harder, slut, since you forgot to count.” Even with his warning, you aren’t prepared. They are hard and fast, hearing them before you feel them, knocking the breath out of you, and you try to scramble up, but Bucky holds you down. “Don’t run away from me, you know better.” All of a sudden, the sharpest and most excruciating pain blooms from your cunt, and then you hear the wet smack of his metal hand hitting your core. 

You wail, body shooting up, legs fighting to close to soothe the sting left. Before you can, Bucky’s hand on the back of your head keeps you to the ground, while he slams his cock into your cunt, not stopping to let you adjust. “That’s it, fuck. Such a good pussy. Dirty fucking bitch.” You can’t breathe, his cock is knocking all of the air out of your lungs. The only sounds in the room are Bucky’s moans and the wet slapping of skin, his heavy balls banging against your sore clit. With each thrust you’re sure he’s hitting your cervix.

The hand on the back of your head leaves to grab your hip, letting him fuck you even faster, the both of you sliding further and further on the floor. You try to brace yourself with your hands, but the brutality of his fucking is no match. “Daddy, fuck, s-so g-good, please!” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but your cunt is pulling him in, barely letting him pull out.

Bucky is practically chasing you on the floor, hips never slowing down, eyes trained on your pussy, loving the creamy white mess on his dick. “Fuuuck, look at the ass bouncing on daddy’s cock, shit! Love the way this fat fucking ass looks when its all red and sore.” He’s in heaven, with the tight clench of your cunt wrapping around his cock, making him feel crazy.

“Daddy! I can’t, f-fuck, please, too much!” You’re fucking delirious with pleasure, feeling something twisting inside of you. You searched for something to hold on to, only finding smooth surface, legs locking, body seizing up.

“You can and you will take this dick, bitch. I don’t care if it makes you fucking bleed.” The pressure in your core builds tighter and tighter, all the while, Bucky’s hips never falter, sack still ramming against your clit.The breath is knocked out of you when you feel the most intense orgasm of your life pass through you.

Keening and wailing, you squirt on Bucky’s cock, the sounds of your fucking somehow getting even more wet until the force of your orgasm pushes his cock out. Your body is left twitching. There is a much larger puddle on the floor now - your cum. Bucky could fucking cum at the sight of your pathetic body laying on the ground, body wrought with pleasure. “Fuck, sugar! That was so fucking hot! You squirted all over, shit! I fucking love you so goddamn much.” 

The entire lower half of his body is covered with your cum and Bucky swears he can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Nonetheless, he wraps his arms around your waist and hulls you over to where he kicked the couch, placing your upper half on the cushions. “You’re so fucking wet now I bet I could slide right into that tight ass, what do you think, slut?” Your core pulses at the thought of his fat cock in your ass, the two of you don’t usually do anal, given how big he is, but you can’t think straight, especially after cumming so hard.

“Yes, daddy. I want your big cock in my ass, want you to fill me up.” Bucky groans at the thought of his excessive load running out of your ass. Leaning back, he ruts against your pussy, gathering more of your slick, before spreading your cheeks with his hands, staring at your puckered hole. He lines his cock up and watches as precum leaks from his tip.

His cock is huge, much longer and thicker than average, and he knows it. Grabbing himself near his tip, he pushes, grunting at the resistance, knowing that this would be much easier if he takes the time to prep you, but you want to be treated like a whore. “You gotta loosen the fuck up, bitch or else I’ll really fucking hurt you. Want this fucking ass so bad, better let daddy in. Cock is too big for this little ass, isn’t it, gonna split you in half, leave you leaking for days.” 

He pushes harder, tip finally popping in, causing searing pain to shoot through you. Crying out, you try to pull forward to escape the burning pain, wiggling further into the couch. Bucky leans over, careful not to push in any further, he knows you need a moment, any other time you would have been fully prepped and he would have slid right in, and wraps his metal hand around your neck, shushing you, “Shhhh, stop being so dramatic.” 

After a few minutes, the pain begins to subside and your breathing calms down. Keeping his hand around your throat, he pushes in, inch by inch, and the pain comes back. You whine into the cushion, every new inch burning more than the last until his hips are flush with your ass. “What the fuck?! Your ass is so fu-fucking tight, shit! Fucking milking my cock, wanna pound this little hole, wanna fucking ruin you.”

Burying his face in the back of your neck, Bucky was taking deep breaths, completely out of it. He wasn’t thinking straight, not when your tight hole was hugging every inch of his cock. You on the other hand, were struggling, it was too much too fast. It fucking hurt, there were tears in your eyes, but your pussy was aching like it wanted more. Your clit throbbed with need, even when your ass was stretched to the brim.

You didn’t want to stop, but you needed a break, before Bucky could move his hips you muttered, “Yellow, daddy, yellow.” The hand on your neck left and Bucky maneuvered his upper body so that he could look you in the eye without moving his cock. His entire demeanor was different, back was your sweet, caring boyfriend. 

“Good girl, daddy’s so proud of you for using your safe word. Shhh, it’s okay, sugar. Do you just need a second to breathe? Take your time, if you need to stop I will.” Bucky caresses your face as he soothes you, bringing you back down. His cock is still buried to the hilt in your ass, driving him insane. He wants to rail you so fucking bad, tip of his cock probably purple by now, but he would never do anything you didn’t want to, more than willing to sit with his cock inside of you until you’re ready or decide to stop.

You don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, you loosen up and your mind goes fuzzy once again, desperate for him to move. You wiggle your hips, rocking back and forth, instead of pain, blinding pleasure courses through you. “Green, daddy. I’m ready, just needed to get used to your fat cock, want you to pound into me.” Bucky lets out the most sinful groan and stills your hips with his hands.

He starts out slow, easing you into his motions, gradually gaining speed and force the louder your moans get. “Daddy, faster, please, harder, feels so good!” You were practically sobbing, loving the way he was splitting you open. His hips and thighs were wet from when you squirted on him, slapping against your ass, everytime he pulled back a vulgar shlick sound could be heard.

He fucked you faster and harder, staring at where you were connected. “This fucking ass feels incredible. Taking me so well, knew you could do it, fuck. Splitting your tiny ass in half. Oh God!” He could feel his orgasm building up, fighting it off everytime his cum filled sack slapped against your pussy. Letting go of your hips he snarled, “Show daddy how much of a fucking slut you are and bounce that fat ass on his cock.”

You whined, but complied anyway, digging your toes into the floor to get more leverage to keep slamming back on his cock. The sounds of skin slapping and both of your moans completely drowned out the ending of Bucky’s movie, not that either of you cared. Panting and moaning, you kept working yourself on him, feeling another orgasm bubbling up.

Meeting your thrusts, Bucky was rambling, not having one coherent thought in his head, “Look at that, give me that ass, yes! Don’t you dare fucking stop, bitch, want you to milk this cock. Love the way it fucking bounces, never seen anything like it, oh fuck!” He was getting whiny, high pitched moans falling from his lips. He couldn’t help it, his cock was too fucking sensitive and you felt too good. 

“M Gonna cum, daddy! Can I cum?” Bucky practically growls, getting up to his feet to squat, not missing a beat while still trusting in you. Every time his pelvis met your ass he whined and whimpered, loving the way it jiggled. He could feel you clenching around him, drawing his own orgasm closer.

“Not until I do. Fucking hold it, bitch.” It seemed impossible, but Bucky fucked you even faster, his hips moving at a ferocious speed. He wanted to cum so fucking bad and your high pitched moans were about to make him bust. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I’m gonna fucking nut. You want daddy to fill your ass up, huh? God! Fuck, I’m splitting you in two. Uhhh. Balls are so heavy, so much cum. Fuuuuuuck. Daddy’s gonna fill you up, have you leaking.”

His hand wraps around your throat and chokes you, hips still smashing against yours, your orgasm barely being held in. You try to talk, get him to let you cum, but no words come out. Bucky felt his orgasm approach, balls pulling up, “Shiiit, daddy’s gonna cum, gonna flood your ass, you ready, cum with your daddy. Right. Fucking. Now.” Bucky cums with a long, drawn out moan. The feeling of his endless load pouring into your ass sends you over the edge and you cum so hard your vision goes black for a second. Waves upon waves of pleasure coursing through you. Bucky’s hips jerk involuntarily, prolonging both of your orgasms. 

As you both catch your breaths, you feel Bucky begin to soften inside of you, still plugging your hole, stopping his cum from leaking back out. “You were so good for me, sugar. I’m so proud of you.” At those words you feel your bottom lip begin to tremble. Burying your face into the cushions, a sob escapes your throat, all of your emotions finally bubbling over.

Running his hands up and down your back, Bucky soothes you. This was always his least favorite part, seeing you cry. He knows that you’re crying isn’t because of him, but there is always a twinge of fear that shoots through his body, scared that he went too far with you. Bucky pulls out as gently as he can, hissing when the air touches his spent dick, and moves to rest his back against the couch, pulling you into his lap.

Neither of you care that his cum is leaking all over. Bucky will clean the room later, after he takes care of his sweet girl. You cling to him as you sob into his neck, his hands massage your sore cheeks as he whispers in your ear, “Such a good girl for me, you made me feel so fucking good. Can’t even begin to explain how good you felt. There you go, let it out. I’m right here.”

Carefully, he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom. When he tries to set you down you just cling on harder to him, not wanting to leave his embrace. “I gotta draw us a bath, sugar. You know you have to pee, I’ll be right here when you’re done.” You hesitantly let him go while he draws the bath, putting in your favorite oils. After you pee and wipe, he helps you up so you can wash your hands before sitting you both in the tub.

Bucky sits against the wall of the tub and you curl further into his lap, not wanting any space in between you. Somehow you still aren’t close enough to him, wanting to be surrounded completely by him. Tears are still leaking down your face and even with Bucky’s consuming presence, you can’t seem to pull yourself up to the surface. Bucky’s arms are wrapped around you, making sure that you are as close as possible without him being inside of you.

“Sweets, can you look at me? Want to see those pretty eyes.” You can hear the concern in Bucky’s voice, but you can’t bring yourself to move away. He’s your safe space and you just want to bask in his warmth. “Sweets, please. Can you tell me how you feel? I need to know you’re okay.” You don’t know why that set you off, but all of a sudden more tears escape you, sobs fighting to make their way out.

Bucky’s entire world stops, fear shoots up his spine. He doesn’t know if he could live with himself if he hurt you, if he did something that you didn’t want. He knows that you asked him to treat you like a whore, but what if you didn’t want him to go as far as he did? You used your safe word when it got to be too much, but what if you really wanted to say red, not yellow, but wanted to please him, or felt like you had to please him. “Sweetheart, did I hurt you? Did I go too far? Please talk to me.”

Even though you didn’t want to talk, you could hear that he was about to cry. “I’m okay. Just love you so much.” You could feel Bucky relax under you.

“You sure, sweets? I’ve never seen you like this before.” While some of his fears subsided, Bucky was still worried about you.

Picking your head up so you could look him in the eye, you saw just how scared Bucky truly was. “I promise, Buck, I loved every second of it. You made me feel so good and cared for. No one has ever made me feel the way you do.” Bucky closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. At that moment, Bucky understood why aftercare was so important. Of course he knew you needed to be taken care of so that you knew how much he loved you, but hearing those words come out of your mouth made him feel loved in a way he didn’t know was possible. 

Before the water gets cold you’ve stopped crying, making Bucky feel much better and he washes the sweat and spit off of your face and body, being extra careful with your sensitive pussy and ass. All the while whispering sweet nothings into your ear while you take turns kissing each other all over.

Bucky feels ten times lighter when he gets a giggle out of you. He knows that there will be days when you need him to treat you like a slut, but you know how much he loves and respects you. He lays you on the bed before grabbing your favorite lotion to put on, being extra careful when it comes to your sore ass, placing kisses in each spot after he's rubbed in the lotion.

 The marks on your face are gone by now, but Bucky still fusses over your skin care routine, knowing you don’t have the energy to complete it. After taking care of you, he climbs into bed and covers the both of you up, still naked but you don’t care. Bucky reaches into the bedside drawer and grabs some chocolate while you feed it to each other. Neither of you say much, but nothing needs said. 

You place kisses on his chest and arms, anywhere that you can reach, trying to let him know how much you appreciate him - Bucky knows. You fall asleep first, not being able to keep your eyes open any longer, Bucky moves you to his chest, cocooning you into him before he falls asleep, your head tucked carefully under his chin, legs tangled together, completely protected by him.

[ssbuck-star-deactivated20250510]

Whenever you need me, I’ll be there

After your session with your dom you suddenly feel more insecure than ever. But what if he’s working while you’re drowning in your thoughts?

Pairing: CEO!Dom!Ari Levinson x Sub!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.184 Words

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, talk about sex and private body parts, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink (mentioned like three times?), petnames [babygirl, baby, sweetheart], dom!Ari, sub!reader, sub drop, insecurities, crying, hurt/comfort, kisses, fluff

Authors Note: Shout out to @holylulusworld for letting me rant about like every idea that comes into my mind. This one is dedicated to you because you’re such an amazing and wonderful person, and I adore you! And because you let me go crazy about Lloyds cock.☹️😂 Divider made by me.

Events: Seasonal Delights Bingo: Types of love [B2 | clothes that smell like home | @seasonaldelightsbingo], Fandom-Free Bingo: Dream Edition [Row Two-Two | Sharing clothes | @fandom-free-bingo]

Masterlist | Ari Levinson Masterlist

“Feelin’ better now, baby girl?” Ari mumbles softly into your hair, his voice soft but still holding the dominant edge. You nod slightly, pushing your face further into his sweaty chest. Ari has both of his strong arms wrapped around your waist, rubbing soothing circles on your back. He makes sure your body is tightly pressed against his, your whole body covered by his while you hum still lightheaded from the aftermath of your orgasms.

Ari chuckles softly, a rumble wrecking through his chest, and you curl further into him. Your boyfriend brings his lips to place a soft kiss on your hair before he takes a deep breath. His chest heaving so much that your head rolls to the side, and you whine when the warmth and firmness of his chest is a few inches away from your cheek.

A low growl leaves your lips, your fingers curling around his biceps to pull yourself closer to Ari. The brunette narrows his eyes, looking down at you after your growl. “Don't you dare growl at me, sweetheart.”

“But you inhaled too deep, it caused my head to roll to the side,” you pout, placing it back where it was with a happy sigh. Ari takes a deep breath, the corners of his lips curling upwards as he pulls you closer. One of his hands slides down your back to your bare ass before he pinches your cheek softly, making you squeak. “Ow, daddy, ‘m sorry.”

“That's it, good girl,” he mumbles softly. Ari leaves his hand on your ass, kneading softly, slowly letting his hand trail to the back of your thigh to massage the soft skin of them too. You melt into his touch, inhaling his manly scent; it's mixed with yours and a lot of sweat, but you don't care, not when he's holding you so close after the amount of orgasms he gave you during your session. “Such a good girl. I'm proud of you, baby girl.”

You giggle softly, still feeling lightheaded with all the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Ari's praise made your heart beat even faster, and in that very moment, you couldn't imagine anything better than hearing his praises, hearing how good you made him feel too, even though you were the one who received most of the pleasure.

“Daddy?” Your voice is still hoarse from the cries, the moaning and the way you chanted and screamed his name whenever he brought you over the edge. Ari turns his head slightly, his hand snaking from your back to your chin to lift it slightly so he’s able to look at you while speaking, then he nods. His ocean blue eyes hold all the softness and love for you, and for a moment you get lost in them, smiling softly at your boyfriend. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby girl,” he says, his lips twitching upward while his eyes remain on yours, his thumb strokes along your jawline, causing you to lean into his touch. “You're adorable, so sweet and lovely. And then there is also that devilish girl that wants daddy's cock all the time like she owns it, huh?”

Your cheeks heat up, and you try to hide your face back in his chest, but he doesn't let you. His grip tightens ever so slightly, still soft but also demanding. Ari shakes his head, leaning down to peck your lips, his lips lingering on yours for a moment longer before he pulls back slightly.

“I own him. I own mini Ari,” you grumble against him. Ari chuckles softly, kissing his way up your nose and to your forehead.

“Do you, now? You didn’t say that he was mini when I was pounding into you, baby girl,” he mumbles against your soft skin. He's right, just like Ari himself, who’s impressive in thickness and height; his cock is the same. Veiny, thick, and so long, the tip misses your cervix whenever he pushes his hips flush against yours.

You nod, tangling your legs with his. Ari watches you with amusement, his lips lingering on your forehead while he lets his hands wander back to your sides.

“Little menace,” he whispers. “But you’re doing so good for me, always such a good girl for daddy. I love you, baby girl. Now get some sleep so we can grab dinner later and take a nice warm bath.”

You hum in approval, closing your eyes. A bath with lots of bubbles and Ari sounds amazing, but he knows you’re too exhausted to really enjoy it. You would probably fall asleep just before he gets you into the tub with him.

Ari curls further around you, kissing your temple and forehead a few more times before he closes his eyes too to relax as well. It’s not only exhausting for you during these sessions, but also for him. And even though he’s causing one after another orgasm to wreck through your body, his own orgasm and all the edging get the better of him too.

Ari’s phone buzzes next to him on the nightstand; after a while, he blinks his eyes open slowly and turns to grab his phone.

‘Incoming call: Steve Rogers’

He sighs softly, looking at your peaceful sleeping form in his arms. Your lips slightly parted while your nose flutters with every breath you take. He smiles softly at you, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before he untangles the two of you.

Ari then wraps you tighter into the warm blanket, knowing you love to curl in his warmth. With a low growl, he then gets off the bed and walks out of the bedroom, taking the call.

“What’s it?” He says into his phone, looking through a bunch of clothes that’s sitting on the couch in your shared living room.

Ari listens to his friend, who’s telling him about some clients they had an appointment with a few days back, about the deal they talked about and that they agreed to it. So, Ari has to make the contract because his friend – and also boss of the company ‘Red Sea diving’ - is on vacation with his boyfriend.

“Good, I will do the contract, send you the draft, and then we can send it their way for the deal,” Ari explains, making his way into his office.

You stir awake a while later, the bed next to you cold and empty, and you growl in frustration that the blanket can’t feel like your boyfriend. Knowing that Ari is probably busy with some work, you turn to lie on your back and stretch your limbs.

You feel your whole body relaxing further into the mattress while you look at the ceiling and think about the session from earlier and the aftercare he provided. The more you think about it, the more your lips curl upward into a soft smile, until suddenly your beautiful thoughts get pushed back into the back of your mind. The shadows of the darkness wrapping around them and filling your thoughts with the dark demons called fear and insecurities.

With the blanket even tighter wrapped around you, you take a deep breath. You try to focus on the memories of the session, of the feelings, and the aftercare. You felt so relaxed and lightheaded, knowing that Ari’s taking care of you and never pushing your limits too far. He’s always checking in on you, making sure to only do things you’re comfortable with. Whenever he notices hesitation in your movements, he stops, checking in again while assuring you.

As much as he loves to push your limits, he can read you like a book. One look into your face and he can say if the pain during sessions comes also with pleasure or if he has to stop because you’re too deep into subspace to even think about anything else but chanting his name. It only needs one look from you, and he knows that he can keep going, one look that tells him he has to slow down a bit.

The two of you build the most beautiful relationship the two of you could have imagined. Build on trust and love, so while he keeps the control, he never oversteps your boundaries or ignores you in any kind. Ari loves you as much as you love him, so there is no need for these mean thoughts, these dark thoughts that cloud your mind right now.

But maybe he thinks you look embarrassing when you’re all fucked out, or when you cum. Maybe your moans and whines sound desperate and pathetic, not in a way that it would turn him on. What if he doesn’t like the way your cunt looks? Maybe he doesn’t like your folds or your clit. Maybe you’re not tight enough for him, or maybe you are too tight for him to enjoy it too?

You wipe away a few tears that roll down your cheeks, your eyes still teary and your breath shaking when you sit up slowly. Should you go to him and tell him about your feelings, or should you leave him alone so he can work? You could talk to him later, or maybe you can handle your thoughts yourself.

‘Babygirl, listen, if you ever feel a drop. If it’s your emotions in general, exhaustion, or soreness, you come and talk to me. Immediately.’

His voice echoes in your mind like he’s lying next to you and whispering into your ear. Ari often repeats those words, making sure you never feel embarrassed or scared to talk to him when you’re feeling low. Or if you just want to cuddle with him. And he never pushed you away; he even kept you in his lap and talked to you while he did his work, like he enjoyed it too.

You sit up slowly, taking a deep breath. Those dark clouds might fade when you take a few deep breaths. But they don’t; they get even worse, your thoughts louder, and you feel even more tears rolling down your cheeks when you try to calm yourself down.

After a moment, you reach for Ari’s shirt, pulling it over your head. It’s long enough to hide half of your thighs too, and since it’s just you and Ari anyway, you don’t bother to put underwear on. With his scent filling your nostrils, you get off the bed and walk to his office.

Knocking softly at the wooden door, you open it and peek your head through the door. Ari looks up from his computer immediately, a soft smile forming on his lips until he notices your teary eyes and the streaks of your tears on your cheeks. His eyes narrow, darkening slightly as he pushes his chair back and pats his lap.

You lower your head, tiptoeing through his office. When you’re close enough to Ari, he places both of his calloused hands on your waist and pulls you into his lap, making you straddle him. He leans closer, not saying a word while he kisses the tears off your cheek, his lips lingering on your soft skin a moment longer before he pulls back to look at you.

“Why are you cryin’, babygirl?” He asks softly, his fingers clenching and unclenching around your waist in a soothing manner. “Nightmare?”

You shake your head, letting yourself fall against his warm and firm chest. Ari hums softly, giving you a moment while he wraps his arms around you. With a swift movement, he pulls you even closer, firmly pressing you against him. Your ear is pressed against his chest, listening to the steady and calming rhythm of his heart.

“Just stupid thoughts, but feeling better already,” you mumble against his shirt. The brunette growls low in his throat, causing his chest to vibrate, and you poke his side to make him stop the rumbling. “Aaaaarrrriiiii,” wanna listen to your heartbeat, please?”

“Do you tell me the truth without playing it down when I let you listen to it, babygirl?” He asks, his voice holding the dominant edge, leaving no room for lies or arguments. You nod, and he stops growling, allowing you to listen to his heartbeat, probably. “So, what stupid thoughts are definitely still lingering in that pretty mind of yours?”

Ari pokes your sides softly, and you know that he won’t let you get away with a simple ‘it’s fine’ answer. With a soft hum, you snuggle further into his chest while you enjoy his warm hands sneaking underneath the shirt you’re wearing to caress your soft skin.

“Do you think it’s embarrassing?”

“What’s embarrassing, babygirl?” Ari asks softly, his eyes narrowing further. He inhales deeply, kissing your forehead. It doesn’t need your words for him to understand what you’re talking about; at least after a moment, he understands what you mean. “It’s not embarrassing; neither is anything that happens in and out of the bedroom. And you’re not even close to embarrassing either. You’re precious, the most precious, wonderful, smart, and beautiful woman I know.”

“But don’t you think I sound… weird? That… I don’t know when I—“ you interrupt yourself, your cheeks heating up. It’s never a problem to talk to Ari about sex, but right now you’re feeling even more shy and insecure around your handsome boyfriend.

“Your sweet little whimpers? Those needy moans?” Ari asks, his voice soft and tender; there is not a hint of teasing or mocking in his tone. You nod, hiding your face further into his muscular chest. “Never. Sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard, and I can’t get enough of them. They let me know that you enjoy our sessions as much as I do.”

“And what about my look? And the look down there, what if you don’t like it and think it’s weird or disgusting when you have a better look?” Your whimper, a few tears soaking his shirt, and Ari rubs his hands in soothing circles over your back and along your thighs.

“Shhh, stop crying, baby girl,” he whispers and peppers a few kisses along your forehead. Ari brings one of his hands to your chin, while the other keeps rubbing your side softly. With his thick fingers curled underneath your jaw, he lifts your head until you face him.

Ari’s expression immediately softens further, his lips trailing kisses down your nose until he reaches your lips, pecking them softly too. He leans back a bit to look directly into your eyes, his thumb wiping away a few tears.

“It’s not weird, not your style, and not your cunt; your chest isn’t weird or disgusting either. And I have the perfect view on it all the time when you’re splayed out on the bed for me. I’m grown up, too, baby; bodies look different, but it doesn’t make you ugly or disgusting. Those are the furthest thoughts I could have,” Ari assures you with a soft smile that lights his blue eyes up. “When I look at you, I see nothing but beauty. You’re beautiful the way you are, your body, your chest, and also your cunt, baby. My cock’s a bit curvy too, and you still don’t mind it, do you?”

You shake your head; the slight curve in his cock makes it even prettier. Also the vein that’s slightly curved at one point of his cock.

“Or do you mind that I’m cut?”

You shake your head once more. Why should it matter for you if he’s cut or not? He has a beautiful cock that fits perfectly with the rest of his body, and he knows how to use it best to bring both of you pleasure. “No, it’s pretty the way it is.”

“So, why do you think your pussy might be weird or ugly or anything like that? Because it doesn’t look like one you might have seen in a porn?” Ari asks, his voice keeping the softness and understanding as you nod. “No one looks the same, and that’s perfectly fine, isn’t it? I love you, babygirl. I love you the way you are, with your beautiful tits and your sweet cunt.”

“But what if it’s not tight enough for you anymore?”

“Trust me, baby, it will always be tight enough.” Ari hums with a smile. He notices the way you look more thoughtful again, and he chuckles softly. “No, it’s not too tight either. Even if it would, I would blow my load immediately and would still have my fingers and tongue to bring you pleasure or I can just stretch you out a bit and then it fits perfectly with daddy’s cock.”

You giggle softly and lean closer to capture Ari’s lips softly with yours. His tongue sweeps over your lips, and you part them instinctively, giving him access. Ari groans softly, smirking against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

After a moment you both pull back, panting slightly. “How about I turn off the computer and we take a nice bubbly bath, after which we can order pizza and spend the rest of the day cuddling and watching movies?” Ari asks softly, and you nod with a soft grin. “I love you, and I will assure you as much as you need and want me to. But I want you to know that you’re enough for me; you’re the most beautiful and loving woman I know. I will always listen to you and give you the love you need and deserve, but never doubt yourself. I only have eyes for you because you’re the one I want. You and no one else, so I don’t care how anyone else looks because they can never be more beautiful than my girl.”

“Ari!” You whine with a soft pout on your lips that causes him to chuckle softly. He pecks your lips and gets off the chair, keeping you in his arms. "Don't say that, I’m emotional.”

“Mhm, but I love the way you try to shy away from me when I compliment you,” he laughs softly and carries you out of his office and into the bathroom with the tub. “You’re precious when you pout, you know that?”

“Ari! Stop that, it’s not funny,” you giggle. It’s definitely funny because he got a point; you always hide your face when he compliments you – and he compliments you quite often. “I love you too, but don’t say that, no compliments, or I’ll pout at you.”

“Pout all you want, babygirl. I enjoy it too much to not tease you. You’re just too precious and sweet with that pouty smile on your lips,” he laughs and puts you down, pulling off the shirt you’re wearing as well as his clothes before you both get into the tub. His teasing – his words of affirmation, his compliments — continues until you splash water into his face. The gasp that leaves his lips is only the start of the water fight you two start, which leads to a flooded bathroom that the two of you have to clean – or just let it dry, like Ari likes to say.

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