can you write an imagine where the orc chieftain takes notice of fem!reader after they raided a village and he starts courting her in ways she's not familiar so she's just ignoring him. he got annoyed with the ignoring, so one night, he got so drunk and ended up at her place, he saw her, just finished taking a shower, towel wrapped on her body, he started mumbling how annoyed he is and she just stares at him. then in the middle of it, throws up and ended up sleeping at her couch. she let him, but gets uneasy knowing the chieftain is just outside her room. she approaches her in the middle of the night and starts touching his form. he wakes up, grabs her hand and kisses her. then he confesses his feeling and he ended up railing her so hard she wakes up with bruised cervix. plsss help a girl out
The Way Orcs Love: Part 1 (Orc Chieftain x f!Reader)
After orcs raid your village, the chieftain becomes obsessed with courting you. You ignore his advances because you don't understand orc customs. One night, he is frustrated and drunk, and he stumbles into your home and everything changes...
TW: chieftain/commoner, village raid, drunkenness, courting, size difference, kissing, grinding, dirty talk, emotional, primal, breast worship, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, orgasm denial, P in V, cervix bruising, pain kink, aftercare.
A/N: Hey friend! I'm so so sorry it took so much to work on this. I added extra stuff and I am planning a short, fluffy EPILOGUE too, so I hope they make it up to you!
Also, this request gave me old-time vibes, so I imagined it in a medieval-like setting! I only changed your "throwing up" idea because it was easier to get inspired and write the smut without it. So, our big dumb orc just gets gloriously drunk and emotional. Enjoyyyyy!!
---------------------------------
Three moons have passed since the orcs swept through your village.
You remember the chaos, the screaming, the clang of weapons, the way the earth shook beneath boots the size of your forearm.
But you also remember him. The chieftain. Standing a head taller than his warriors, tusks gleaming, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you.
And then... nothing.
He took your supplies. Your livestock. A few crates of dried meat your grandmother had salted last winter. But not a single villager died. Not even old Martha, who threw a chamber pot at his head and called him a "green-skinned devil."
He left you all breathing. Bruised, terrified, but alive.
And then he started coming back.
Not with his war band. Not with weapons. Just him, alone, every few days. Appearing at the edge of your house with offerings that make absolutely no sense to you.
A perfectly smooth river stone.
An eagle feather.
A pouch of extremely expensive orcish mead.
A freshly killed rabbit.
You've accepted none of it.
Not because you're ungrateful. Not because you don't notice the way his broad shoulders slump a little more each time you shake your head and turn away. But because what is happening?
You're a weaver. A nobody. You mend shirts and spin wool and occasionally help the blacksmith's wife pull weeds from her vegetable patch. You are human, not a female orc for chieftains to leave offerings.
So you ignore him.
You ignore the way his gaze follows you when you walk to the stream to wash clothes.
You ignore the way he grumbles under his breath when you pretend not to see the wildflowers he's left on your windowsill.
You ignore the way your heart races every single time, because he's massive, terrifying and yet beautiful in that brutal way orcs are.
You ignore him so thoroughly that you've almost convinced yourself you don't care.
But tonight something is different.
You're standing in your small cottage, a threadbare towel wrapped around your body, hair still dripping from the bath you just took. The fire roars in the hearth, warming you up. You're reaching for your sleeping shift when you hear a thud.
Then a groan.
Then the unmistakable sound of someone large and clumsy attempting to navigate your doorstep.
Had you forgotten to lock? Damn!
The door swings open before you can latch it.
And there he is.
The chieftain.
Drunk.
His green skin is flushed across his cheekbones, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. He sways on his feet, one massive hand braced against the doorframe to keep himself upright. His tunic is unlaced, revealing his broad chest and the dark hair trailing down his ridged stomach.
He blinks at you.
Slowly.
Like he's trying to figure out if you're real.
"You—" He hiccups, then points a wavering finger at your face. "You."
You clutch the towel tighter, suddenly very aware that you're wearing almost nothing. "Chieftain. It's the middle of the night."
"Is it?" He squints toward the window, as if confirming this information. "Huh."
"You're drunk."
"Yes." He says it like he's proud of it.
"You should go home."
He doesn't move. His gaze drifts down from your face, lingers on the curve of your shoulder where the towel has slipped, on your damp throat, on the swell of your breasts. His throat works. His jaw tightens.
"Can't," he says.
"Can't what?"
"Can't go home." He takes a staggering step inside, and you instinctively step back. The movement makes your towel hitch higher on your thighs. His eyes track the motion. "Home doesn't have you."
Your heart hammers. "Chieftain—"
"Kolf," he says. "My name. Use it. Please. Please. I'm so tired of 'Chieftain.' I'm tired of you ignoring me. I'm tired of leaving you presents you never touch. I'm tired of smelling you on the wind and not being able—"
He breaks off, swaying again, and catches himself on your table.
A clay cup topples and rolls to the floor.
You stare at him.
Kolf. You don't want to say his name out loud. You are scared it will affect you in ways you wouldn't expect.
"Why?" you whisper.
"Why what?"
"Why are you—" You gesture at him, at the door, at the entire impossible situation. "Doing this?"
"Because you're mine."
"I'm what?"
"Mine," he says powerfully. "I saw you. During the raid. Standing in front of your grandmother. Little thing, shaking like a leaf, but you didn't run. You didn't beg. You just—" He exhales, dragging a hand through his dark hair. "Stood there. Looked at me like I was the monster everyone says I am, but you didn't flinch."
Your throat tightens. "I was terrified."
"I know." He takes another step closer, and this time, you don't move back. "But you didn't run. Do you know how rare that is? How fucking rare?"
"Kolf—" You bite your lips. Damn...now you'd done it now.
"I brought you things. Good things! Pretty things. Things orc males give females they want to court. And you... you just kept ignoring me."
You open your mouth to explain, to tell him that you didn't know, that no one ever taught you orc courting customs, that you thought he was just taunting you—
But he doesn't let you speak.
"I like you! I like the way you hum when you work. I like the way you roll your eyes at the sky when it rains. I like the way your nose crinkles when you're annoyed, and you're almost always annoyed, and I like it. I like you. And you won't even look at me."
He's standing close now. Close enough that you can smell the mead on his breath, the pine and earth of his skin, the heat radiating off his massive body. His chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. His eyes, that impossible green, are glossy.
"You need to—"
"I'm sorry," he blurts. "For the raid. For taking your things. For scaring you. I didn't.. I didn't know how else to see you. Your village. Your face. I thought if I came with my warriors, you'd—" He breaks off. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at words. I'm good at fighting. At leading. At taking what I want. But you... you're not something you take. You're something you earn. And I don't know how to earn you—"
All of a sudden, his knees buckle.
You lurch forward, catching him—or trying to. He's three times your size, for god's sake. A mountain of muscles and your poor arms barely wrap around his torso. Your strength is not enough and he's going down, dragging you with him.
But he twists at the last second, curling his body around yours, and you land on top of his chest instead of the floor. His back hits the wooden planks with a thud. His eyes flutter.
"Kolf?"
He groans.
"Kolf!"
His breathing evens out. His massive arms, which had somehow wrapped around you, go slack.
He's asleep.
Face wrinkling, you push yourself up, staring down at the unconscious orc sprawled across your floor. His lips are parted. His tusks glint. One of his hands is still curled loosely around your ankle.
"Damn it," you whisper.
Eventually, you manage to drag him onto the couch.
It takes an embarrassingly long time. He's heavy. Every limb feels like it's filled with stone. But you push and shove and grunt and curse until his massive frame is folded onto the worn cushions, his boots hanging off one end, his head lolling against the armrest.
You stand back, breathing hard, and look at him.
The fire is low now, crackling and the dim light paints his face in warm gold. In sleep, he looks younger and softer. The hard lines of his jaw relax. His brow smooths. One of his hands twitches, reaching for something that isn't there, and settles on his chest.
He brought you gifts, you think. For three moons. And you ignored him.
Because you didn't understand.
Because no one ever taught you that an orc chieftain leaving an eagle feather on your windowsill meant I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.
Because you're stubborn and scared and so used to being invisible that you didn't know what to do with someone seeing you.
You pull a blanket from your bed and drape it over him. He murmurs something in his sleep, a rumble you can't quite make out, and his hand catches the edge of the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself, smelling it, smiling in his sleep.
You should go to your room.
You should.
But your feet won't move.
Instead, you sink onto the floor beside the couch and you watch him.
He likes you.
The thought settles warmly into your chest. He likes you.
And you... foolish, stubborn, terrified you... might like him back.
******
Hours pass. You are in bed but you can't sleep.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the occasional rumble of his breathing from the other room.
Something in you burns.
You are hot and curious.
You want to see him again.
Sighing, you slip out of bed before you can talk yourself out of it. Your feet carry you barefoot across the cold wooden floor, past the hearth where the fire has died to embers, to the couch where he lies.
He hasn't moved. One arm is thrown over his head, the other draped across his stomach. The blanket has slipped to his waist and his tunic is even more open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that vanishes beneath the waistband of his trousers.
You kneel beside him.
And reach out.
Your fingers hover over his chest then, gently, you touch him.
Warm. He's so warm. His skin is rougher than you expected, textured with scars and raised ridges of old wounds. His chest hair is coarse, curling around your fingers as you press deeper.
He doesn't stir.
Emboldened, you trace the line of his collarbone, the strong column of his throat, the sharp jut of his jaw. His tusks feel smooth and cool.
Beautiful, you think. He's beautiful.
Your hand drifts lower, skimming over his stomach. The muscles there tense beneath your touch, even in sleep, and you feel the hard ridges of his abdomen, the V-shape that disappears beneath his trousers.
Your breath catches.
And his hand catches yours.
"Caught you," he murmurs. His eyes open, just a crack. "Been waiting. For you to touch me."
"Kolf—"
"You don't get to stop now." He sits up, and you scoot back on your heels, but he follows. His massive hand engulfs yours, pulls it back to his chest, presses your palm flat against his heart. It's pounding. Hard. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Every time I see you. Every time I smell you."
"Smell me?"
"Like honey." He leans closer, and his free hand cups the back of your neck. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Like mine."
"Y... You're drunk—"
"Not anymore." His eyes are clear now. "Sober enough to know what I want. Sober enough to know I've wanted it for three fucking moons."
"What do you want?"
He doesn't answer with words.
He kisses you.
His mouth crashes against yours, tasting of mead and something uniquely him. His tusks graze your lower lip, careful, and you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, pulls you closer, wraps both arms around you and lifts you onto his lap.
Your knees bracket his hips. Your shift—gods, you're still only wearing a thin shift—rides up your thighs. His hands settle on your waist, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, grip you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"Tell me to stop," he rasps against your lips. "Tell me no, and I'll stop. I'll walk out that door and never bother you again. But if you want this—"
"I want this."
The words leave your mouth before you can think about them. Before you can talk yourself out of them. They are raw and honest, and he breaks.
"Thank the gods," he groans, and he's kissing you again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands roaming down your back, your hips, your thighs.
"I didn't know," you manage between kisses. "The gifts. The courting. I didn't know."
He pulls back. His eyes are dark, dilated. "What do you mean, you didn't know?"
"No one told me." You press your forehead to his. "I thought you were mocking me. Taunting me. I didn't know orcs—"
"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips. "Fuck, sweetheart. All this time. You thought I was mocking you?"
"Your people raided my village."
"We took supplies. We didn't hurt anyone. I gave orders—" He breathes out harshly. "I'm not good at this. I've never—I've never wanted anyone like this. I didn't know how to—" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. For the raid. For scaring you. For not explaining. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
"But I—"
"Kolf." You cup his face in your hands, feel the rough stubble on his jaw, the smooth curve of his tusks. "I'm here. I'm choosing to be here. With you. That's what matters."
He smiles. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you softly. Briefly. "Bed?" he murmurs.
"Bed."
He carries you to your bed like you're made of glass. Which is hilarious, because two seconds later, he's tearing the shift off your body and staring at you like he wants to devour you.
"Sweetheart," he rasps. "Look at you."
You're naked beneath him, spread across your thin mattress, and he's still fully clothed. Tunic unlaced, trousers straining over his obvious bulge. A very very prominent bulge. The sight makes your mouth water.
"Too many clothes," you manage.
"Agreed."
He strips without care. Tunic over his head, revealing wide shoulders, a chest carved like granite, and arms thick with muscle and crisscrossed with old scars. His trousers follow, and then his—
Oh.
His cock.
You've never been with an orc before. You've heard stories; whispered rumors in the village about what orc males keep between their legs. But stories didn't prepare you for this.
It's massive. Thick and long, veined, the head flushed a darker green, leaking profusely. His balls hang heavy beneath, drawn tight against his body.
"He's friendly," Kolf says, catching you staring. "I promise."
"He's terrifying."
"He'll behave." He crawls onto the bed, over you, caging you with his arms. His thighs bracket yours, and you feel the heat of him, the weight of him. "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Can't make any promises about the rest of me."
Before you can spiral, he kisses you again. His mouth claims yours, his tongue strokes against your teeth, your palate, everything. You moan into him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him closer.
His hand slides down your body, over your collarbone, your sternum, the curve of your ribs, until he reaches your breast. He cups it, weighs it in his palm, and his thumb drags across your nipple making you gasp.
"Sensitive?" he murmurs against your throat.
"Yes."
"Good."
He bends his mouth to your breast, and you feel his hot tongue lapping at your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. He suckles gently at first, then harder, and you arch off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Kolf—"
"So pretty," he murmurs against your skin. "Wanted to do this. For months. Wanted to taste you. Touch you. Hear you."
He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you're wrecked. Your thighs clench around his hips, desperate for friction, for something.
"Please," you whimper.
"Please what?"
"I need—"
"I know what you need." He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbones. "Going to take care of you, sweetheart. Going to worship you."
He settles between your thighs, and you feel his ragged breath against your pussy.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this pretty cunt."
You're soaked. You can feel it the slickness, the way your flesh aches for him.
"Kolf—"
His mouth covers you, and your thoughts dissolve.
His tongue is everywhere. Lapping at your folds, circling your clit, plunging inside you. He groans against your flesh like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, and his hands grip your thighs, holding you open and immobile for him.
"Oh—" You buck against his face, and he growls. "Ahh, ghnnn—"
"So sweet. Tastes like honey. Like mine. Could eat my mate's little cunt forever."
"Kolf, I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then your mound, then lower. "Not until I say."
"Hgn... that's cruel."
Growling, he continues his attack; licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue until you're a shaking, sobbing mess, begging him for release. And still, he denies you. Keeps you teetering on the edge, right there, right there—and then pulls back.
"Please!" you cry out. "Please, Kolf, I can't—"
"You can." He kisses his way back up your body, and you feel his cock leaking against your thigh. "You can take more. I know you can, sweetheart."
He reaches down, guides himself to your entrance, and you feel the head of him nudging at your folds.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes. Yes."
A little roll of his hips and he pushes inside you.
Just the head at first and you gasp at the stretch. He's so big. Bigger than anything you've ever taken.
"Breathe," he murmurs, kissing your forehead. "Breathe, sweetheart. I've got you."
You force yourself to relax, to welcome him, and he sinks deeper. An inch. Two. Three. Your body yields to him, inch by agonizing inch. It takes forever but at some point, he's finally seated to the hilt.
"Fuck," he groans, and his forehead drops to yours. "So tight. So perfect. Squeezing me like you never want me to leave."
You can't speak. Can't think. The fullness of him, the way he stretches you, the way your body clenches around him have completely taken over.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay."
He laughs softly and begins to move.
His thrusts are slow at first. Each one presses a sweet spot deep inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist.
"Look at me," he rasps.
You open your eyes, and he's watching you. Watching the way your face contorts with pleasure, the way your lips part, the way your body responds to his.
"I want to remember this," he says. "Want to remember the way you look when I'm moving inside you."
"Kolf—"
"Mine." He thrusts deeper, and you cry out. "Say it."
"Yours."
Another deep stroke. "Mine."
"Yours, I'm yours—"
He speeds up, and the bed creaks beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His hips piston against yours, and you feel everything—the drag of his cock, the slap of his balls against your ass, the way his breathing turns uneven and desperate.
"Going to fuck you so hard," he growls, "you feel me for days. Going to bruise that pretty little cunt. Make you remember who you belong to."
"Yes—"
"Sweetheart." He shifts his angle, and you mewl. "That's it. That's the spot. There."
He pounds into you and you feel your orgasm building—not the teasing edges he gave you before, but something enormous. Something that is about to explode.
"Come for me," he commands. "Come on your orc's cock, sweetheart. Now."
You break. Your walls clamp down on him, pulsing, milking, and you sob his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you. He doesn't stop. Keeps fucking you through it, keeps driving into you, and the sensation triggers little climaxes.
"One more," he says. "Give me one more."
"I can't—"
"You can."
Reaching between your bodies, he finds your clit and circles it. Torments it. Another orgasm hits before the previous has even faded. Your whole body convulses, your vision whites out.
"That's it," he groans. "That's my girl. Fuck—"
He buries himself to the hilt, and lets out a feral snarl. You feel him pulse inside you, endless ropes of his seed pouring into your pussy. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow now, drawing out every last drop, and you whimper at the overstimulation.
But he doesn't stop.
He can't.
"I'm not done with you," he drawls. "Not even close."
Pulling out slowly, he's rolling you onto your stomach, ignoring the streams of his seed trickling down your thighs. He lifts your hips and aligns himself at your entrance.
"Kolf—"
"I said I was going to bruise you." He impales you and you moan into the pillow. "I meant it."
He fucks you again. And again. And again.
He fucks you on your stomach, on your side, with your legs wrapped around his neck and your ankles crossed behind his head. He fucks you against the headboard, against the wall, on the floor when the bed groans too loudly.
He fucks you until you lose count of your orgasms, until you're nothing but a trembling, sobbing, sated mess beneath him.
And when he finally spills inside you for the last time, when he collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, you feel it.
That ache. Deep inside you. Where his cock has been pounding for hours.
Your cervix is bruised.
And you can't stop smiling.
********
The Morning After...
Sunlight streams through the cracks in your curtains, and you wake to warmth.
Kolf is asleep behind you, one arm thrown over your waist, his face buried in your hair. He's spooning you, his breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling against your back.
You try to move.
Ow.
Everything hurts. Your thighs are sore. Your breasts are tender. And between your legs... gods, there's an ache that goes deep. Your cervix feels bruised. And you've never been happier.
"Morning," he mumbles against your neck.
"You're awake."
"Wasn't sleeping." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Was enjoying you."
"You're creepy."
"You enjoy it."
You elbow him gently, and he laughs, a sound that vibrates through your entire body.
"How do you feel, sweetheart?" he asks, sitting up to look at you.
"Sore."
"Good sore or bad sore?".
"Good sore," you admit. "Really good sore."
"Good." He kisses your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "That's what I wanted."
You turn in his arms to face him. "You wanted to bruise me."
"I wanted you to remember me." His hand slides down your stomach, between your legs, and you gasp when his fingers find your swollen, sensitive pussy. "Every time you walked today. Every time you sat down. Every time you moved."
"You're insufferable."
"You're mine," he says with a smile. His smile is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
You pout. "You say it it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sun rising. Like the tide coming in."
He grins. "It is. You're mine and I'm yours."
"Yeah," you whisper. "I'm yours."
-------------------------------------
And because I am in love with them, give me a few days and I will write a short, fluffy epilogue, too!
i must be so blessed because, oh my goodness was this a mind-shattering and knee-buckling answer to my request. 😵
ALSOOOOO??!? “Home doesn’t have you.” might actually be my favorite line nowwww. how is this orc (probably) 7 foot tall and a little baby at the same time???!?!?
again, thank youuuu it was worth the wait 🫶🏻🫶🏻
and i am glad it inspired you to create more heheheheh
hellooooo!!!! i know u just posted a fic from my ask but i am back 😭 i swear i have a life! ANYWAY~!
grumpy older orc x sunshine human reader. misunderstanding + angst (hurt me!!!) she pulls away thinking he doesn’t love her, he thinks she loves someone else. she tries to leave but he snaps, finds her, pins her, confesses in a storm with a growl “u were never supposed to leave me.” (AHHHHH!!!) desperate, possessive reunion with oh-so-rough kisses, lifted off the ground, maybe a bit filthy. OR FILTHIER. dealer’s choice!!!!
thank u in advance. here’s to more followers! 🍷 and more goodness in your life ✨✨✨
If You Only Tried
[ m!orc x fem!reader ]
a/n: you are no longer active, but I hope this will reach you once you log back. you are such a lovely person!
content: arranged marriage, angst with a happy ending, sfw
This marriage wasn't what you ever planned to do. You thought you would marry a clergyman or a trader or even a minor lord, yes. But you thought he would be a... human.
Not that you ever had anything against orcs! This orc has been a family friend for many years now. Your father rescued him, almost frozen in a blizzard, during that terrible winter. Turned out that this orc was the younger brother of the large orc clan leader.
But even before you learned of his importance, you were so mesmerized by his size, his tusks, his scars. You spent hours next to him, while he was still in bed, nursing him back to health. Your father is a healer, and you learned much of his trade from him. And you also learned how kindness and a warm spirit can heal as well.
When the warrior orc woke up, he was so terrified by his unfamiliar surroundings that he jumped up and grabbed you by your neck. His grip wasn't as powerful as it was supposed to be, but it was immense for your human bones. You were scared, of course, but you knew screaming or yelling wouldn't help. So you smiled, patted his wrist, and whispered, "You're okay. You're safe."
The shock on his face was something you will never forget. He let go of you and fell on his knees, too weak to stand. You helped him back to bed. Your father then took him over, and asked you to leave the room. You hid your neck and bruises for a few days. You knew he meant no harm, that it was a mistake.
After that, the orc's recovery was quick. The next day he was standing, and in the evening he was sitting next to your father at the dining table. You couldn't stop looking at him. His grayish white hair, his beard, his broken nose, his emerald green eyes. You could still feel his fingers around your neck, and how horryfied those beautiful eyes were.
The orc's name was Dren'kudr the Fistfury. But once you asked him to help you pronounce it correctly, he blushed and told you to call him simply Ren.
He left soon after, and the bruises on your skin paled. You barely spoke a few words with him. You merely told him your name and wished the best for him. Ren seemed flabbergasted as he tried to utter something in return, but confusion or something else choked him, and he merely nodded.
So now, after so many years, seeing him dressed and decorated in silk, fur, and gold next to you is truly something unexpected. Father only informed you that you will be married. That it was the order from a local lord. It was part of the treaty between him and the orc clan leader, the elder brother of your betrothed.
You didn't disobey, of course, but... why? Why would you be part of a treaty, a simple healer's daughter? Did... Ren ask for your hand? But the clenching of his jaw whenever he looks at you suggests otherwise. You tried to speak with him, reminding him of your time together at your father's house, and, even though he politely acknowledged you, he seemed uncomfortable. You eventually stopped speaking to him or smiling. But you didn't stop looking. There are so many more grays in his hair, he has a fresh cut across his lips, and his eyes are still of that brilliant green colour. So handsome, you think to yourself, blushing. But he doesn't want you. He doesn't even look at you in your red and white wedding dress, embroidered with gold, with your hair braided and decorated with pearls. He doesn't care about your red lips or kohl as dark as night on your eyelids. You could almost cry. This is not how you envisioned your marriage to start.
It is only during the vows exchange ceremony that you see something resembling affection in your husband's face. As he places red colour on your forehead, cheeks and middle of your collarbone, he swears to be a faithful husband. To protect you with his blood. To build a home for you. To give you children. There is... something on his face, like a smile, gentle, solemn. His hand lingers on your chest as he gazes into your eyes. But the moment is gone, and the warmth cools down again.
***
It's been 3 months. You and Ren moved to his home, a beautiful estate, with many orc and human servants to accompany you. You enjoyed all the riches, all the interactions and all the freedom you could've asked. All but one. Ren, himself. He's rarely home, and when he is, he checks on you, are you pleased and satisfied, in an almost brotherly manner. And that's it. He has never touched you. He only watched you from afar, and you were certain he was smiling while doing that. But you could never confirm. You were too embarrassed to ask anyone from your family for help. How to make him happy? How to get closer to him? You're his wife for Makers' sake!
One night, just as he was saying good night to you, intending to leave for his bedroom, you stopped him. "Ren, I..." Worry was written all over his face. "Do you... want me?" How embarrassing! You intended to drop your night gown in front of him, but you couldn't.
He takes a step closer, looming over you like a tower, a lone torch flickering across his face. "You're shaking... I'm sorry. I never wanted... Forgive me."
And then he left. You wanted to run after him, beg him for at least a pat on your cheek, some kind of warmth. But he obviously doesn't want you. You're a human, a common healer's daughter, probably unattractive to him.
In the morning, one of your servants brought the letter from Ren. He couldn't even look at you! The letter wrote: "You need a companion. A true one. Let me know of any lovers you are missing. I will ask them to come here and join our household. I do not wish you stay lonely."
Lovers? Lovers? He thinks you are missing... He thinks... Makers! Mother was right. Men are, generally speaking, stupid. Does he think you're unfaithful? Is that what he thinks of you? Well... fine! One thing is to be considered unattractive, but assuming you have no morals is completely different. If he thinks so lowly of you, you will leave with your pride intact. He won't miss you, obviously.
You angrily pack your things. The servant is confused and asks what the matter is, but you just brush them off: "Ask your master!" The servant runs out, terrified by your outburst. You have never been harsh to them — your condition must be quite a surprise for them.
As you put your cloak over your back, ready to storm out, the door to your room slams open. It's Ren. The expression on his face is difficult to read, for you hardly know your husband. He isn't happy, that's for sure.
"What are you doing? Why..." He scans you from top to bottom. "Why are you dressed—"
"Keep your riches," you retort. "Keep all your lands and your influences. I will stay here no longer. I don't accept being treated as an unfaithful burden. You and I are no longer married as far as I am concerned. Take whoever you wish to be your companion. You are free of me."
You can barely hold your tears back. You want to run away from him and hide. But at the same time, you long for comfort from him. You like him, his eyes, his voice. If he had only let you...
You are pulled, almost losing your footing. Ren is holding your wrist and elbow, and you are forced to face him. His expression is tense, confused. "What are you saying? Burden? Unfaithful? I never said those words."
"You obviously don't care about me and don't want me. I will leave!"
You struggle, like a tiny animal trapped by a cat, needing to move away from him. Ren closes the door behind himself, his eyes fixated on you, fiery emotion darkening them. "I never said you could leave me. You were never supposed to leave me!" He growls, his lips curling upwards.
"Let. Me. Go!" You kick his leg and bite his fingers, trapping your wrist. Look what you turned into. A violent creature. A volatile soul. You want to scream, so you do. Ren pushes you forward, away from the door, until your back hits the wall.
"I care for you!" He yells, breathing heavily, but he no longer growls. "I care for you, but you... This is an arranged marriage, and, and, and..."
"It is, and I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm sorry they forced you to marry me. We can... stay married, for whatever political reasons, but I can't stay here and... And..."
He shakes his head, his massive body closer to yours than ever. "I want to... I want to see you... Just... You are unhappy... Here... And I want you to be happy..."
"I'm not happy like this," you sob. "Not like this."
He lets go of you, sharply, as if he only realised what he had done. "I hurt you... I tried so hard not to, but I hurt you. I made you unhappy." He turns his head away from you, his eyes shut. "Maybe you are right. Maybe you should..." Instead of uttering another word, he growls. "But I can't let you leave. I... want you here. I want you to stay, where I can see you."
You are confused, dizzy from all the emotions. "You want me to stay? But why? You never touched me. And then you accused me of wanting lovers."
Ren flinches when you mention the last word. "Everyone deserves to be loved. You were forced into this marriage. To an ugly, scary, older orc. And you are so beautiful, so delicate. I could... break you."
You wipe away your tears, wanting to confirm with your eyes what your ears heard. Ren's face is soft, almost shy, as he looks at you. "Wait... Did you... Did you want to marry me?"
"I..." He blushes slightly. "Well, yes and no. I told my brother about you. How kind you were toward me. How beautiful you were. And he..." He grunts. "He decided he would gift you to me. He demanded you from your lord as part of our negotiation. I... never wanted that. You are not a thing to be traded with. But both of them refused to listen to me. The deal was made. And you were married to me. I'm... I'm so sorry they forced you into this..."
Tears again pool in your eyes. "Ren... I thought you hated me... I thought you were disgusted..."
The horror in his eyes is as clear as day. He reaches for you but doesn't touch you. "No! Never. You are... All I ever wanted. And I want you to be happy. No matter what."
Is this possible? Was he that stupid? With an angry hiss, your fists hit against Ren's chest. "You! You can make me happy, you... dumb... man... Make me happy!"
Ren's arms are suddenly around you, lifting you off the ground. His face is pressed against yours, a kiss trapped between your lips. He embraces you for a long time, not letting you breathe, holding you as if he'll fall if he lets you go. "I'll make you happy, wife. I promise."
"All these months..." You hit against his chest again, but with less power. "All these months of loneliness because you thought you couldn't make me happy. And you never tried. You stupid."
"I know." He kisses you again, smiling, carrying you toward your bed. "I'm stupid. So stupid. I'll apologize later. Now I need to compensate for 98 days of loneliness. Hope you're ready."
pairing: lumberjack alpha!ari levinson x tall curvy omega!female reader
summary: when you're attacked by a group of betas while on a hike alone in the woods, an alpha comes to your rescue. he takes you home to recover and something blossoms between the two of you that could lead to the happily ever after you never thought you'd find as an omega so different from the rest of your designation.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!); reader is physically attacked, degraded and threatened with violence/rape by unnamed male characters; omegaverse AU tropes (heats, knotting, purring, mating, scenting); hurt/comfort, talk of insecurities, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, vaginal fingering, tit/nipple play, dry humping, dirty talk, praise kink, teasing, begging, size kink, gentle-to-rough sex, check-ins, nicknames (sweetheart, omega), strangers to lovers, happy ending
word count: 20.3k
a/n: i wrote this fic for all the tall, curvy girls (like myself) who want to see themselves getting thrown around and manhandled by a big, strong alpha. i've been working on this fic for over a year now and i know it's a long one—and there's a lot of buildup to the actual smut—but i hope it's worth it! enjoy! ♡
Cold, bitter rain pelted down from the dark, late autumn sky, casting the wooded mountainside in dim shadows. Everything around you was tinged in varying shades of muted brown and dull gray.
In contrast, the eyes of the men who surrounded you were bright, manic—and terrifying for the hungry intensity with which they stared at you. Like wolves knowing they’d cornered their prey.
You didn’t know where they’d come from.
One minute, you were picking your way down the side of the mountain in the sudden deluge of pouring rain, your eyes trained on your booted feet carefully traversing the muddy hiking trail while you cursed yourself for believing the weather report when it had said there was only a chance of precipitation.
The next, you were suddenly surrounded by five men—betas, by the look and scents of them—all wearing mean, greedy sneers as they stared at you.
You’d come to an abrupt halt, your instincts going on high alert when you saw the way they were fanned out ahead of you, your hindbrain going haywire when the two on the ends began to creep around so they could stop any attempts at you running back up the mountain.
You knew it would’ve been futile anyway. Your legs were already burning from the hike, and the trek down had been so arduous in the rain that you had no hope of running—at least, not far enough to escape the men who were looking at you like you were their last meal.
“You look lost, omega,” one of the beta men said, snarling your designation like a slur. He stood directly in front of you and seemed to be the oldest and biggest of the group, with the meanest look on his face.
If you looked close enough through the pelting rain, you could see a cold deadness in his gaze, and it sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the freezing water flooding your body and soaking through your clothes.
Silently, you cursed yourself for not inviting a friend on your hike. You were an unmated omega, and you’d grown up hearing plenty of stories about the bad things that could befall an omega who was caught alone by the wrong person—or people.
You were so used to being unwanted, overlooked and alone that you hadn’t really thought danger could find you. And the universe had decided to prove you wrong in the worst way possible.
“We can help you down the mountain,” said another of the men in front of you, his voice sickeningly smooth, a condescending smile stretching across his face in what was clearly the beta’s best approximation of charm. It left a lot to be desired.
“Yeah,” another chimed in, this one behind you, and you turned slowly, trying to keep all five of them in sight. “And as payment, we’ll take turns using that ripe omega cunt ya got between yer legs.”
A look of disgust curled your lip and you shot a glare at the group of men, showing them all your fury at the way they allowed one of their group to talk to you in such a vile way. However, none of the men looked the least bit ruffled, and you had to work to keep your fear buried deep, knowing they’d be able to scent it if you didn’t keep a lid on it.
“She’s kinda big for an omega, ain’t she?” said a beta from your other side and you pivoted again, noticing that the men were creeping forward, caging you in. “I thought all omegas were small, dainty things, but she’s almost as tall as me—and she’s…thick.”
“The bigger she is, the harder she’ll be to break in and make into a proper fuckhole,” said the leader of the group, licking his lips lasciviously and grinning at you through the rain. “But we love a challenge, don’t we boys?”
Raucous shouts of agreement rose up from all around you, the betas sounding like a band of jackals, but you were hardly paying attention to their jeering taunts or their offensive words. It wasn’t much worse than what you’d heard all your life.
Ever since you’d presented as an omega, you’d heard it all. How you were too tall to be an omega, too curvy, too big—too something. You’d long ago learned to block it out, because no matter what anyone said, you were never going to look like a typical omega. And it was fine, you’d made peace with it.
Even if that peace had come at the price of your hope of finding someone to spend your life with.
As you’d told yourself many times, not everyone was destined for a happily ever after, and so you’d come to terms with the fact that you were going to die alone. But you hadn’t believed it might happen so early in your life, which made it hard to care much about the men’s comments about your body.
Besides, in that moment, you were far more concerned about finding a way to slip away from the group of betas who were circling you like a pack of hungry wolves to be worried about how you didn’t meet society’s conventional beauty standards.
Dread was growing in your gut as the circle of men tightened around you, all five of them seemingly working in tandem to make sure there was no way of escaping their trap.
Before you could stop it, a sharp whine rose up in your throat and spilled from your lips. The shrill, distressed noise was louder than you’d expected, carrying through the spindly trees of the forest, and you knew instinctively that it was a result of your omega hindbrain.
It was an alarm meant to alert an alpha to danger.
Unfortunately, as far as you knew, there were no alphas around for miles, and the betas seemed to relish the fear in the noise. They all grinned, hooting and hollering like they’d caught their prey.
“Listen to that,” one of the men crowed, a nasty grin on his face that only widened when you turned your most vicious glare on him. “She’s already whining for it,” he taunted, one of his hands grabbing the crotch of his pants and shaking it in your direction. “Bet the omega slut is already drenched in slick, ready to be a good little knotsleeve.”
Despite the fear coursing through your body, you snorted at the degrading name.
“How’re you gonna make me into a knotsleeve when you don’t have a knot,” you sneered as meanly as possible, your voice dripping with venom. With as much disdain as you could muster, you looked the man up and down with a condescending expression on your face.
The man’s face went entirely slack with shock, clearly not expecting you to talk back. It was so satisfying, even if it was a small victory, that you couldn’t stop yourself from continuing to taunt him. It was all the power you had in the situation and you clung to it desperately.
“What kind of coward needs to corner an omega in the woods and force her to fuck him? The kind with a tiny cock—I bet I wouldn’t even feel your pathetic little beta dick if you tried to stick it in me.”
You knew your words were playing into harmful stereotypes about betas and omegas, but in that moment, you didn’t care. You wanted to hurt the man in whatever way you possibly could, and if the twist of his features into a vicious snarl was anything to go by, you’d hit your mark dead-on.
A split second before the beta lunged at you, you felt the energy in the forest shift. The tension of the moment seemed to snap and your body reacted instinctively, your knees going loose and ready, your feet planting firmly in the soft mud beneath the soles of your boots.
For the first time in a long time, you were grateful for the body you’d been given. You weren’t a small or dainty omega, and you were going to be a problem for the pack of betas that had surrounded you. So you called on everything you’d learned about self-defense growing up as an omega, and hoped it would be enough.
It had to be enough.
No one was coming to your rescue, and you were alone, just like you’d always been. But you’d learned to take care of yourself, and you’d do it again. You’d distract and dodge the betas until you found a hole to slip through and then you’d run back to your car and get away.
It wasn’t the best plan, but it was all you had, so it had to work. It just had to.
The first attack came from the man you’d taunted. He lunged at you from straight on, which made it easy enough to dodge his flailing arms and furious, grabbing fingers. You knocked a hand into his shoulder blade, using his momentum to push him into one of his friends so they toppled to the wet, muddy ground together.
Before you could take a breath, another attack came from behind. The beta’s reaching, grubby hands brushed against your arms, his scent of putrid grease wafting over your shoulders. He tried to wrap his arms around you and pin you, but you spun out of his grip before it could close around your body, elbowing him hard in his side, below his ribs.
You felt a brief, fleeting moment of vicious victory when your second attacker stumbled, nearly tripping over the first two betas you’d sent to the mud, and hope flooded in. Maybe you really could fight them off long enough to escape after all.
But your hope was short-lived, turning to cold dread when the leader whooped in excitement and crowed, “Looks like we’ve got a fighter, boys!”
When you turned on him and the other remaining beta, his cold, dead eyes were alive with something that sent terror slicing through your heart. It was the look of a man who’d done this before, who’d overpowered an omega and taken what wasn’t his.
His eyes gleamed brighter as fear slipped through the mask on your face, and he grinned, the expression horrifying in its grotesqueness.
“This should be fun.”
His words were a low growl, and you took them as the warning they were. But you didn’t have time to brace yourself properly before he and the other beta surged forward at the same time.
Their hands were everywhere—wrenching the small hiking pack from your shoulders, tearing at your jacket, grabbing at your body, your clothes, anything they could reach, anything they could get their hands on to hold you down and stop you from fighting.
You did everything you could, clawing at the betas with your nails, kicking at them with your heavy, booted feet, but you could feel the tide turning in their direction. Another whine, loud and piercing, burst from your mouth, rattling the branches of the trees around you.
It nearly stopped your heart how much terror you could hear in the sound, and a sob bubbled at the base of your throat but you refused to let it loose.
You’d never felt as hopeless as you did in that moment—which was the exact moment the beta group’s leader wrapped his hands around your throat, finally catching you in his vicious hold.
He squeezed you tight and hard enough to make you choke. With a whimpering 2wheeze, your body went still as you instinctively tried to prevent him from crushing your windpipe.
“Don’t stop fighting now, knotsleeve,” the mean beta panted against your cheek. His disgusting breath ghosted over your mouth, making you recoil, only for him to tighten his fingers around your throat. His scent smelled like rotten fruit, and your stomach roiled.
When you cut your eyes to him in a glare, you were at least satisfied to see your nails had gouged deep scratches down the side of his face. Even if he and his beta friends did ultimately get what they wanted, a reminder of you would live on his face for the rest of his pathetic excuse for a life.
“C’mon, keep fighting, omega—it’ll make your cunt feel even tighter around my cock.”
If you could’ve spoken around the hand gripping your throat, you might’ve spit out some insult about it being the only way for him to feel anything with his tiny dick. But you couldn’t speak as the breath was choked from your lungs.
Black spots were edging into your vision, and all you could do was make pathetic little whimpering sounds. Your strength was flagging but your nails scoured into the beta’s wrist to try to tear him away.
Right before you lost consciousness, the man’s hand was wrenched from your throat and he was ripped bodily away from you. Without him supporting your weight, you were left staggering on unsteady legs, spots dancing across your vision as fresh air flooded your lungs.
Your knees lost the fight against gravity and you collapsed into the mud, tiny pinpricks of freezing cold rain hitting your face and neck while you gasped for air, your chest aching with the effort.
As you got your bearings, you forced yourself to take deeper breaths. Your fingers dug into the soft mud and fallen leaves of the forest floor to ground yourself while you fought against the darkness that was still blurring the edges of your vision.
A scuffle was happening around you, the beta men shouting words you couldn’t understand over the pounding in your head and your wheezing breaths.
There was a new scent on the wind, something earthy and warm—much too warm for the late autumn forest during a bitter rainstorm—and it was so pleasant that you wanted to find the source. You wanted to breathe it in and let it soothe and comfort your omega hindbrain.
But first, you had to stay conscious.
Your arms trembled and your legs shook, your limbs barely holding you up and stopping you from falling face first into the mud. It was all you could to stay awake and not let the darkness of exhaustion and fear take you away from the miserable forest.
Just then, you heard a ferocious, rumbling growl, like the sound of rolling thunder. Your ears perked up and you were suddenly more alert because you instinctively recognized that sound—that was the sound of an alpha.
With a great deal of effort, you sat back on your heels and lifted your head to the brawl happening around you in the forest. You blinked rain from your lashes and willed your gaze to focus. When they did, you sucked in a sharp breath of surprise, and something that felt a lot like desire.
Despite the dim, gray light filtering through the bare trees of the forest, your eyes found the new man—the alpha you’d heard—easily. Even with his back to you, it wasn’t difficult to tell him apart from the betas because he was massive.
The alpha stood a full head above even the tallest of the betas, and his shoulders were so broad, they dwarfed the leader of the group of men who’d attacked you. The alpha’s arms were thick, straining the confines of his flannel shirt, and his thighs looked like tree trunks the way they filled out the dark denim of his jeans.
As you watched, the alpha launched his fist into the side of a beta’s head, and the man crumpled immediately to the ground, though whether he was just unconscious or dead, you couldn’t be sure. Just as quickly, the hulking newcomer dispatched the rest of the men, all but the leader falling to the muddy ground at the alpha’s feet.
With an angry growl, the remaining beta launched himself at the much larger man, enough meanness carved into his haggard face that you almost thought he might stand a chance. But, though the alpha roared and stumbled a little over the slippery ground, he didn’t topple.
Instead, he used the beta’s momentum against him, spinning and taking the man to the ground. The alpha pummeled the beta with his fists, raining down punches as sickening cracks and crunches filled the forest. Finally, the beta stopped fighting and the alpha relented, his back heaving with harsh breaths while he stared down at the beta as if making sure he would stay down.
It occurred to you that you should be afraid—perhaps even more afraid of the alpha than of the betas who’d cornered you in the forest. He was big, much bigger than any alpha you’d ever met before, and he clearly possessed an ability to wield violence with his bare hands.
But his scent permeated the smell of cold rain and damp forest, smelling like amber and moss. It filled you with warmth and a surety that you were safe, that no harm would come to you from the alpha.
Before you could wrap your mind around the idea that he wasn’t a threat, your body was already responding to his presence.
As the need to fight drained out of you, exhaustion swept in, replacing the adrenaline that had flooded your limbs, leaving you shaking in the mud. The piercing cold of the late autumn rain that soaked through your clothes was beginning to set into your body, your muscles going stiff and numb.
A little whine slipped from your lips while you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to conserve what little heat your body was producing.
The sound seemed to snap the alpha from his trance and he finally stirred, his face downcast as he took in the men littering the ground around his feet. He shot them all one last vicious glare before leaving them where they lay.
Heaving a weary sigh, the alpha rose to his full height. His hand raked through his drenched hair, pushing a wave of brown locks back from his face, and you noticed the knuckles were busted open. They were a bloody reminder of the punishment he’d meted out against the betas who’d attacked you.
But all thoughts of the betas and the attack fled your mind when you got your first look at the alpha’s face.
Oh.
Even in the gloomy light of the forest, you could see he was handsome, devastatingly so, with kind blue eyes that looked tortured as he stared at you across the small stretch of trail where he’d fought off no less than five men to protect you. His mouth was pressed into a grim line, the expression nestled deep in the scruffy brown beard adorning his face.
His gaze didn’t stray from you as it swept over you body methodically—not in a hungry, greedy way like the betas had looked at you, as if you were their next meal. The alpha’s eyes were more caring, as if he was checking for any serious injuries, though you knew he’d find none.
However, his mouth turned down in a frown and a small rumbling growl vibrated in his chest when his gaze settled on your throat.
With tentative, shaking fingers, you reached up and brushed against the skin where he was staring. You flinched at the tenderness of your neck, and realized the beta group’s leader must’ve left a mark when he’d grabbed you and choked you.
A whimper of residual fear escaped you before you could bite it back and the big alpha strode to you, his long legs eating up the trail in quick strides. He dropped to his knees at your side, his fingers almost unbearably gentle as he tipped your jaw up so he could see the bruises forming on your neck.
The alpha’s eyes darkened, a muscle in his jaw ticking like he was grinding his teeth. Even though you could feel the fury radiating off him, you knew it wasn’t directed at you, but the man who’d dared lay a hand on an omega in violence. You got the impression that if the men weren’t already unconscious, the alpha would’ve knocked them out again.
The thought made a question rise to your lips and it spilled free before you could think better of it.
“Are they dead?”
At the husky rasp of your voice, the alpha’s eyes flicked to yours, and you could see wariness in his bright blue gaze.
“No.” His reply was curt, but his voice was deliciously deep and the tenor settled deep in your bones, feeling as if it was warming you from the inside out. The alpha swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and he cast a glance around the trail. “I don’t think so…”
You could hear the beginning of regret in his tone, like guilt and shame were creeping into his heart and you had the urge to stop them in their tracks. You had much less sympathy for the fallen betas. If they were dead, you wouldn’t even care.
“Good riddance,” you muttered, another wave of exhaustion sweeping over you. Your body swayed into the alpha’s chest, drawn by the warmth he offered.
His scent was thicker now that he was closer, invading your senses and making you feel safe and comforted. You had to stifle the urge to burrow into him.
“Are you alright?” the alpha asked, his hands settling gingerly on your shoulders like he was about to push you away.
It was only because you felt his voice rumbling against your cheek that you realized you had pressed your face into his chest. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away, your voice half muffled by the flannel of his shirt when you spoke.
“Not hurt,” you mumbled, shivering violently when a gust of wind whipped through the trees and cut through your body like a scythe slashing through a field of wheat. “Just tired, and cold.”
The alpha seemed to notice your ripped clothes then, finding your jacket barely hanging from your shoulders in shreds, and he cursed viciously. His arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, and you expected him to help you up to stand so he could guide you down the mountain to your car at the base of the trail.
Instead, the alpha hauled you up into his arms while he stood, making you gasp as your eyes flew open—though you couldn’t remember closing them. Your arms circled the alpha’s neck, fearing he’d drop you when he realized how much you weighed, and you looked at him with alarm.
You weren’t the easiest omega to pick up. You were so tall and curvy that none of your previous partners, even the alphas, could manage it. But the massive man had lifted you easily and was carrying you through the forest as if you weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
He held you securely against his chest, and your heart fluttered with something you didn’t know how to name. If the alpha noticed the way you’d tensed when he lifted you, he didn’t say anything. But the longer he held you without his grip slipping, and the longer he carried you easily down the mountain without breathing harder, the more you relaxed.
The alpha’s warm scent draped around your shoulders like a cozy blanket, and you let your head fall to his shoulder, your cheek pressing to the soft flannel covering his broad form. A small, contented sigh fell from your lips as you allowed yourself to take comfort in the alpha who’d rescued you.
It wasn’t long before his steady, loping stride lulled you into a kind of sleep, your body relaxed and certain that no matter where the alpha took you, you were safe with him. You didn’t know his name, but you knew you’d always be safe with him.
The rain was still pelting down from the rapidly darkening sky, and it was miserable enough that you were relieved when the alpha brought you to a cabin near the base of the mountain instead of the parking lot where you’d left your car. You couldn’t imagine attempting to drive home when you were soaked to the bone and so cold and exhausted, you weren’t sure if your limbs would work properly enough to operate a shower, let alone a vehicle.
If your sense of direction was correct, the alpha’s cabin wasn’t too far from the trailhead where you’d begun your day. It was a modest little structure, clearly made for one, and had been hidden within the trees of the forest.
Looking at it, nestled in the small clearing, you were certain that no one who hiked the nearby trails would know it was there if they didn’t already know to look for it. It struck you then how lonely it must be to live so close to others but still apart…
Unaware of the bleak direction your thoughts had taken, the alpha carried you over the threshold of his cabin, and heat washed over you like a wave of the most delicious comfort you’d ever felt.
A soft moan slipped from your lips and you sagged further into the alpha’s arms. Your eyes fluttered closed as you were enveloped by the warm scent of him embedded in the cabin. It was so earthy and exquisite, you wanted to bathe in it.
At your sound of pleasure, the alpha seemed to startle and he paused just inside the door, peering down at you with concern etched into his handsome features. A slight frown pulled down the corners of his small mouth, the edges disappearing into the full, bushy beard decorating his jaw.
You had the almost irresistible urge to card your fingers through the alpha’s beard, to rake your nails over the skin beneath and see if you could coax a purr from the large man. But you managed to hold yourself back, curling your fingers against your soft stomach and resisting the urge.
Instead, you gave the alpha a small smile to show that you were okay.
Appeased, the alpha carried you up a set of wide wooden stairs to a lofted room. It was clearly his bedroom, with all the standard accoutrements, but your eyes couldn’t seem to look away from the massive bed taking up so much of the space. It was huge, clearly custom-made for the big alpha, and was covered in a very cozy-looking flannel blanket that called to your omega hindbrain.
But the alpha didn’t deposit you on the bed. He kept walking, passing through a door on the other side of the room that you hadn’t noticed. It led into a modern bathroom with state of the art plumbing—including a massive shower.
You nearly moaned again in relief and excitement. A scaldingly hot shower would go a long way to warming your tired body.
The alpha carefully set you down on the counter beside the sink and immediately retreated, like he was worried about crowding you or scaring you after what had happened in the forest.
A flash of memory of the beta male’s hand around your throat, his snarling mouth and snapping teeth, made you shudder and you pushed the images aside. You were safe, the alpha had seen to that.
Raising your head, you realized the alpha had been busy while you’d been caught in your memory. He’d already turned on the shower and cranked up the heat of the water. He was just returning to the bathroom with a pile of clothes that he set down on the closed toilet lid, his limbs moving slowly like he was taking care not to spook you.
Once done, the alpha turned and made to leave the bathroom, but he paused in the doorway. His hulking form was so big, it took up the entire frame, blocking your view of his bedroom, and the massive bed that you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.
He turned his head, speaking to you over his shoulder.
“Take as much time as you need,” he said, his voice a low, gruff rumble, like it didn’t get much use. “You’re safe here, you have my word, but this door has a lock—use it if you need to.” His knuckle rapped once on the inside of the bathroom door, a little above the doorknob, and then he stepped out into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
For a long moment, you stared at the doorknob, knowing you should use the lock the alpha offered. You were alone in a cabin in the middle of the forest with an alpha whose name you didn’t even know. Your situation was exactly how an omega horror movie might start, and the audience would be yelling at you from their seats to lock the door, to not trust the strange alpha.
But you couldn’t seem to make yourself be wary of the alpha who’d saved you. Aside from picking you up without asking first, he’d been nothing but careful and courteous. And if you were honest with yourself, you were grateful the alpha had picked you up. You wouldn’t have been able to walk the rest of the way down the mountain without his help.
Besides, there was a not insignificant part of you that was intrigued by how easily the big alpha had lifted you into his arms. He’d done it without thinking, without even considering whether he was strong enough. He’d simply known he’d be able to carry you, despite your height and size.
You’d never met another alpha so strong, and so certain in his strength. It was…compelling.
Shaking your thoughts away, you pushed yourself to the edge of the counter. You were just about to stand and get into the shower when you heard noises on the other side of the bathroom door.
The alpha was moving around the loft, his steps heavy but measured. Then, there was the unmistakable sound of wet clothes smacking against wooden floorboards.
Inexplicably, your body warmed at the thought of him stripping out of his wet flannel shirt and denim jeans mere feet away from you.
Your mind immediately jumped to the question of what the alpha looked like beneath his clothes. He seemed like the type of big, burly man to have a chest covered in hair—and you suspected he had hair everywhere. The kind that would feel delicious against your bare skin.
It occurred to you that you could open the bathroom door, just a tiny bit, and peek out to see if you were right. But you stopped yourself before you could let that thought go too far.
The alpha had been nothing but kind and respectful toward you, bringing you into his home and doing everything to make sure you were safe and cared for. You couldn’t repay the favor by spying on him like some degenerate, perverted omega. Even if the idea of seeing the alpha naked called to something deep in your omega hindbrain.
Brushing it off as your instincts being closer to the surface after you were attacked in the forest, you stood from the sink counter and began shedding your sodden and muddy clothes. Still, despite your best efforts to keep your mind free of filthy imaginings, you couldn’t help thinking about the alpha.
At first, your thoughts remained relatively innocent. You wondered what he did for a living, and why he lived alone in a cabin in the woods. You wondered how he possibly could’ve known you were in trouble, and what he’d looked like crashing through the forest to get to you.
When you stepped beneath the hot water of the shower, you gave a senseless little moan, tipping your head back away from the stream of water and letting your mind wander even further. You wondered if the alpha tasted as good as he smelled, and how delightful it would feel to get beard burn on your cheeks from kissing his mouth and slipping your tongue between his lips to taste him straight from the source.
You wondered if he was big everywhere, and whether he’d be a soft, gentle lover, or if he’d torture you deliciously with the girth of his cock, stretching you until you thought you couldn’t take anymore, and then sinking another exquisite inch inside your aching body.
As you wondered if his knot would even fit inside you, your fingers began trailing down over your soft belly and gently teasing the curls at the top of your mound.
The smell of your scent, heady with arousal, brought you back to the moment and you realized you’d been seconds away from touching yourself in the strange alpha’s bathroom. Heat filled your cheeks and you quickly started rifling through the products in the alpha’s shower, shoving your dirty thoughts to the back of your mind.
You hadn’t been so uncontrollably horny since you were a young omega going through your first heat. And, unfortunately for you, you didn’t have the excuse of a heat to explain away your inappropriate thoughts and behavior. There were no cramps, no copious slick coating your thighs. Just your attraction to the large alpha and your burning curiosity about him.
But you forced yourself not to think about the alpha, or anything that had happened in the forest, as you showered and cleaned yourself. You were determined not to dwell on the past—you were safe, that was all that mattered—and resolute in your decision not to embarrass yourself in the alpha’s bathroom.
Because if you got yourself off, there was no doubt he’d be able to smell it. And he’d been so worried about scaring you, taking care to show you he wasn’t a threat, that you didn’t want to repay his kindness and courteousness by marking his home with your scent. Even if the idea did hold a certain appeal to a nefarious part of your omega hindbrain…
The wooden floorboards of the loft were warm and smooth beneath your bare feet, the faint aroma of the alpha’s scent clinging to the grain of all the furniture and fabric in his bedroom. You paused partway across the space and breathed deeply, letting the smell of amber and moss fill your senses and calm all the last little bits of tension the hot shower had failed to ease.
Slowly, you padded across the bedroom, taking in all the details you’d missed when the alpha had carried you into the bathroom.
The loft, like the rest of the cabin, had been constructed from a lighter wood, while the furniture—the bed, the matching side tables and the dresser—had all been made from a darker wood that complemented well. And if you weren’t mistaken, it all looked hand-made.
You had to wonder if the alpha was the talented person responsible for constructing the cozy cabin and the matching furniture, or if he’d commissioned them from someone else. You trailed your fingers ever so gently over the soft flannel of the blanket on the bed, and you wondered idly if the alpha knew how to construct a nest—if one was hiding somewhere in the cabin, ready for an omega to move in and make it their own…
Shaking your head, you chastised yourself silently for the too-forward thoughts. You still didn’t even know the alpha’s name, and though you could tell from his scent that he wasn’t mated, it was possible he already had his sights set on another omega.
There weren’t any other scents in the loft, as far as you could tell, but that didn’t mean much. A courting alpha may not bring an omega back to their home right away, especially one as secluded as his cabin.
Besides, you had a hard time believing the big alpha was wanting for interested omegas. He was so tall and strong, so fiercely protective, based on what you’d seen in the forest, and seemingly capable of making a safe and happy home for whatever omega he chose.
A wistful sigh escaped your lips and you finally made your way to the stairs, hand lightly gripping the smooth wooden bannister. You tried to push all inappropriate thoughts from your mind as you descended to the main floor of the cabin, but you came to an abrupt halt when the alpha himself came into view.
You paused halfway down the stairs and took the opportunity to simply look.
Somehow, in your short time in the shower, you’d forgotten just how massive the alpha was. But, even as he sat slumped forward in a chair in front of the fire, you were reminded all over again of his sheer hulking size—and the masculine gloriousness of his face.
His head was turned toward the flames in the fireplace, giving you his profile, but even that was wondrous, with his straight nose and full beard, glowing golden in the light of the fire.
The alpha’s shoulders were twice as broad as yours, his biceps thick and straining against the sleeves of the plain white t-shirt he wore. Despite his seated position, you could tell he had a trim waist, though there was a healthy layer of softness packed over the muscles he undoubtedly had.
Your eyes lingered on the alpha’s thighs, clad in soft grey sweatpants. They were as wide around as some of the trees in the forest beyond the walls of the cabin, and you were nearly panting by the time your gaze moved to his forearms, which were covered in a thick layer of hair and braced on his knees.
It was only when you noticed the blood still dripping slowly from the cracked skin on his knuckles that you were brought back to the moment.
Spinning on the balls of your feet, you raced back up the stairs as quietly as you could, heading back to the bathroom and opening the cabinet beneath the sink. It took you a moment of rifling through extra bottles of scentless shampoo and body wash, but you found a small first aid kit buried in the back.
You descended the stairs again, clutching the plastic kit in both hands, and approached the alpha carefully, trying not to startle him. He was clearly lost in thought as he stared into the blazing flames of the fire, and if the somber expression on his face was anything to go by, whatever he was thinking wasn’t particularly cheerful.
As you moved closer, you realized the chair he sat in was bigger than normal, and it must’ve been custom-made for the alpha, like all the bedroom furniture in the loft. It was made from the same dark wood and looked sturdy, able to hold the alpha’s considerable weight. And without armrests, it gave him the freedom to spread his thick, muscular thighs wide.
You tried not to stare, but the alpha had pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants that left little to the imagination, and your eyes couldn’t help but wander between his spread thighs. There was the shadow of a bulge in the front of his pants, the hint that another part of the alpha’s anatomy was thick and sturdy…
You had to cut off your thoughts abruptly before you started thinking more about what might be beneath those sinful gray sweatpants. If you weren’t careful, your scent would give away how curious you were about the alpha and what was beneath his clothes.
Stepping close, you brushed your fingers against the alpha’s broad shoulder and even that light touch seemed to startle him a little. He sat up quickly, leaning against the back of the chair and raking his eyes down your body as if he was checking you for injuries again, even though it had only been a short while since he’d left you in the bathroom.
His blue gaze froze, then darkened, as he took in what you were wearing.
“The pants didn’t fit?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice. He was so quiet, you barely heard him over the crackling of the fire and the pounding of the rain on the cabin’s roof.
“No, they were too big,” you whispered in return, your fingers fiddling with the hem of the flannel shirt you wore, feeling suddenly shy in the presence of the big alpha who’d saved you.
The long-sleeved flannel shirt had been the only thing in the pile of clothes the alpha had given you that fit, but even then, you’d had to roll up the sleeves quite a few times so your hands weren’t buried in fabric.
You’d thought it covered enough of your body that it wouldn’t be a problem, but the way the alpha was swallowing thickly and glancing away, all while shifting uneasily in his chair, made you think it crossed the line to inappropriate.
“Is it okay?” you asked, your voice even quieter and more unsure.
The alpha’s eyes flashed with emotion when they met yours and his hands reached for you, but he seemed to think better of it, letting them fall to his thighs.
His fingers flexed, like he was struggling to restrain himself from touching you, and a wild corner of your mind wished he wouldn’t hold himself back. Something deep inside you craved his touch, but you quieted that desire as best you could and focused on his response.
“Omega.” That one word was little more than a rasping plea, a desperation in the alpha’s eyes that you understood, because you felt it too.
There was a gravitational pull between you and the alpha, and you took a tiny step forward, moving tentatively closer.
He broke eye contact, looking into the fire as he swallowed thickly again. You got the distinct impression that he was biting back whatever words he’d been about to speak—an impression that was proven correct when he changed the subject.
“I don’t know your name,” he said gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire, like he was purposefully avoiding looking at you.
You couldn’t tell if it was shyness, a sense of propriety because you were wearing only his flannel shirt, or something else, but you shrugged it off and reminded yourself that you’d been intent on tending to his busted knuckles. Using his distraction to your advantage, you stepped between his parted thighs and placed the first aid kit on the mantle of the fireplace.
As you dug through the meager supplies, you offered your name to the alpha and he repeated it, like he was testing how it sounded on his lips. Warmth trickled through your body at the sound of your name in the alpha’s rough voice, and you tried not to show a reaction. Thankfully, he didn’t test it again.
“Ari,” he said and you glanced at him. He was staring at you, watching you with a patience like he was simply happy to have you in his presence. “Ari Levinson.”
“Ari,” you echoed, the hint of a smile playing around the edges of your lips. The name fit him, somehow, and you ducked your head to hide your giddy smile. Pulling some antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit, you turned back to the alpha and gave him a more polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Ari.”
“You too,” he said gruffly, like he wasn’t used to dealing with such normal, everyday interactions, before looking away again into the fire.
With the alpha’s focus elsewhere, you took the opportunity to take a proper look around the cabin as you fiddled with opening the antiseptic wipe.
The fireplace was set into the wall toward the front of the cabin, leaving the space in front of it open. Aside from the chair the alpha was sitting in, there was an oversized and overstuffed couch facing the fireplace, with no less than five blankets draped over the back of it. Along the front wall, there was a tall bookshelf, filled to bursting with novels that you wanted to take a closer look at, and a TV tucked into the corner.
At the back of the cabin, under the generous ceiling of the loft, was the kitchen and a small dining area. Just like the bathroom, the kitchen was outfitted with modern looking appliances that managed to match the rough-hewn look of the cabin. The table only had two matching chairs, and only the space in front of one of them was clear. The rest of the table had mail and various tools strewn across it.
Like the loft, all the furniture looked hand-crafted and a little larger than normal. You supposed Ari had either made it himself to fit his size or ordered it custom so he wouldn’t feel too large in his own home. And just like his bedroom, there was no sign that anyone else lived in the cabin with him, no lingering smells beyond his amber and moss scent.
It seemed like Ari wasn’t in a chatting mood, with the way he was broodily staring into the fireplace, but your curiosity was burning a hole in your heart and you couldn’t help but voice the question that was rattling around in your head.
“So what’s an alpha like you doing living alone in a cabin in the woods?” you asked lightly, finally ripping open the antiseptic wipe and picking up one of Ari’s big hands to begin dabbing at the cuts on his knuckles. You kept your attention focused on your task, hoping Ari would answer your inappropriately forward question.
“I’m a lumberjack,” Ari answered after a short pause.
His tone wasn’t unfriendly, but there was a reluctance that made you think he was reticent to talk about himself.
Glancing up at him, you found him watching your small fingers gently clean the wounds on his hand, and you realized he hadn’t given any reaction to the antiseptic. He was simply sitting patiently for you.
“Huh,” you said, carrying on the conversation when Ari didn’t seem inclined, switching to cleaning his other hand. “I didn’t think that was a real job.” You caught Ari’s eye from under your lashes and shot him a small smirk. “I thought alpha lumberjacks only existed in omega romance novels.”
As you watched, a faint blush bloomed on the big alpha’s cheeks, giving you a glimpse of tinted skin above his dark brown beard before he ducked his head. His free hand scuffed bashfully against the back of his neck, ruffling his golden brown hair while he stared down at his feet.
“I’m not the type of alpha anyone’s gonna write a romance novel about,” Ari mumbled, looking decidedly uncomfortable, “‘m too much of a big bastard—I only scare omegas away.”
Your heart clenched in your chest at the straightforward, yet negative way Ari talked about himself, like it was fact that he was too big and too scary to have an omega by his side. It dawned on you, very suddenly, that the cabin wasn’t just a cozy home he’d built for himself, it was the prison he’d built for his self-imposed exile.
But even as you realized the truth of Ari’s existence in the woods, you couldn’t, for the life of you, imagine being afraid of the shy, sweet alpha.
Sure, back on the hiking trail, you’d watched him tear through five beta men like he was ripping up weeds from fresh soil, but from the moment he’d turned to you, he’d been nothing but gentle. He’d carried you to his home, given you safety and shelter when he could’ve just as easily sent you on your way.
And you wanted to repay him by dispelling the beliefs he had about himself. After all, you knew too well what it felt like to be looked at as too big or too tall or too something by society’s standards for your designation.
Your heart went out to Ari. The judgement of others had clearly affected him enough that he’d consigned himself to a life alone in his cabin, but you’d be damned if you left his home without making him see that he was perfect just the way he was.
However, something told you that if you tried to correct him, he would just brush your words away like water off his back. So you tried a different tact.
“When I presented as an omega, everyone in my life was shocked,” you began, keeping your head ducked as you began to apply thin bandages over the cuts on his knuckles. “No one had expected someone who looks like me to be an omega.”
A low growl rumbled in Ari’s chest, distracting you for a moment from your story. Instinctively, you knew the growl wasn’t directed at you, and perhaps the smart thing to do was stop before you upset Ari further, but you needed to get the words out—for him, you told yourself.
“I heard it all. I’m too big, too fat, too tall, just too much to be an omega,” you said, hearing a slight waver in your voice as you blinked away tears. Instead, you focused on smoothing the bandages over the broken skin of Ari’s knuckles. “My own mother told me I’d never find an alpha who’d want an omega like me.”
At your admission, something in Ari seemed to break and he batted your fingers away so he could gather you up in his arms, crushing you gently against his chest. The rumbling beneath his ribs changed, becoming something hesitant, stuttering.
It took you a long moment to realize he was trying to purr, but he was so out of practice, it took him a few moments to get the hang of it. Once Ari’s purr strengthened, you melted into his embrace, fingers carding through the hair at the back of his head while his face pressed against your sternum.
“You’re a perfect omega, sweetheart,” he growled in a voice so fierce, you could feel the fearsome, protective alpha that resided in Ari’s heart. “You’re beautiful and kind and you smell so fucking good.” Ari let out a quiet groan as he breathed in, his big shoulders expanding as he pressed his face deeper into your chest. “Any alpha that doesn’t want an omega as perfect as you is a fucking idiot and doesn’t deserve you.”
A soft chuckle slipped from your lips and you squeezed the big alpha tight in thanks, then you carefully extricated yourself enough that you could look down into his handsome face. Ari’s expression was twisted into a look of indignation on your behalf, and you couldn’t help but smile fondly at him.
“And you’re a perfect alpha, Ari,” you said, holding Ari’s gaze, your hands cupping his bearded face, fingers stroking idly through the coarse hair on his jaw. “You’re strong and protective and gentle—and you smell…” you trailed off as you took a deep breath, letting your eyes slide closed as you reveled in his scent. “Like the forest on a warm summer day.”
When you opened your eyes again, you found Ari with his eyes downcast, looking past your arm, a faint flush back on his cheeks. You nudged his jaw gently, ducking your head until you caught his eye again.
“Anyone who thinks you’re too scary to find someone to love you is a fucking idiot and doesn’t deserve you,” you said, deliberately echoing his words. All the while, you held Ari’s gaze firmly, willing him to hear you, to believe you.
Even if the big alpha couldn’t heal from all the judgement and scorn he’d endured in a single night, you were determined to start the process. And if he wanted to keep you around, maybe let you tell him every day how handsome and perfect he was… Well, you certainly wouldn’t complain.
“Are you really not scared of me, omega?”
Your heart tugged in your chest, and you had the thought that if you could take it out and show him how calm it was, you would’ve. But then it occurred to you that you had another way to tell him and show him how unafraid you were.
Bending down, you brushed a soft kiss to Ari’s brow. The mossy scent of him filled your senses, and when you really paid attention, you could smell the undercurrent of stress, like a thread of rot in the forest. So you bent further and tilted your head away from him, baring your neck to the alpha.
“I’m not scared of you—breathe my scent, see if there’s any fear,” you said, glancing at Ari out of the corner of your eye. His brows scrunched in uncertainty, and you tacked on a murmured, “Please, alpha.”
With one big hand on your hip, Ari drew you closer, his other palm pressing between your shoulder blades, until he was able to bury his face in the curve of your neck. The tip of his nose dragged down the side of your throat, and his beard rasped against your collarbone as he pushed the collar of your shirt out of the way.
His scruffy beard tickled and you couldn’t help but let out a breathy giggle. When Ari breathed in, though, you went silent, liquid heat pooling low in your belly at the deep rasp of his breath. You held still, giving him the time he needed to realize you’d been telling the truth. You didn’t have any fear in your heart while you were with him.
“Omega,” the big alpha rumbled gruffly, exhaling his breath against the thrumming pulse at the base of your throat. His warm breath ghosted over your bare skin, slipping beneath the edge of your shirt like the most tantalizing tease, and it took every ounce of your control not to squirm in his hold.
Ari made a rough sound in his throat and wrapped his arms tighter around your body, tugging you even closer until your bodies were pressed flush together—your soft curves molding to the hard planes of his muscles. He buried his face in your chest, panting like he’d just run around the entire mountain and back.
Instinctively, you knew there wasn’t anything sexual about the way Ari held you in that moment. There was gratitude, and maybe a little bit of wonderment. He was reckoning with the fact that you disproved everything he thought he believed about himself—that you could feel safe with him, that neither his size nor his designation scared you.
While you held each other, your fingers stroked idly through Ari’s golden brown hair, appreciating the softness of it. Occasionally, you raked your nails through the hair at the nape of his neck, which had dried with a little curl and felt silky against your skin.
Gradually, the tension eased from Ari’s shoulders, his back rising and falling as he kept breathing in your scent. The longer he held you, the longer he smelled you, the fact of your comfort with him must’ve burrowed deeper into his mind until he began to believe it.
After a time, his hold on you loosened so that it no longer felt like he was clinging to you for dear life. He tipped his head back, his eyes filled with awe, his pale pink lips parted in a stunned expression
The movement put his face very close to yours, and your eyes dropped down to Ari’s mouth. It looked so soft and inviting, nestled so perfectly in the dense thatch of beard on his handsome face.
You wondered what it would be like to kiss the big alpha. Would he be devastatingly gentle or blisteringly rough? Would he steal the breath from your lungs, then replenish you with long, luxurious licks of his tongue? Would he crush you to his chest or hold you like something fragile?
The urge to kiss Ari—to seek the answers to your curious questions—was strong, and only made stronger by the scent of him filling your senses. He smelled like laughter and light and warmth. He smelled like home—not the apartment you lived in, or even his cabin, but the sense of belonging that only came when you were with the right people or person.
A soft, stuttering growl came from Ari and, despite its gentleness, it knocked you free of your thoughts. Flicking your eyes up to meet his, you found the alpha staring at you, his gaze gone dark for how wide his pupils had blown. He looked like a predator poised to give chase, and the realization had your heart beating excitedly against your ribs.
“Don’t look at me like that, omega,” Ari rumbled gruffly, his big hands settling on your hips through the soft cotton of the flannel shirt you wore.
The warmth of his touch was delightful, tempting you to curl into the big alpha’s chest, your instincts telling you there was no safer place in the world. You wanted to burrow your face in the base of Ari’s neck and breathe his scent until it was imprinted in your mind—and then you wanted to live like that for the rest of your days.
Gently, Ari eased you away from his body, pushing you back a step, and you only just bit off the whine that rose in your throat in response. Still, a whimper slipped past your lips, and you squirmed in his firm hold, pushing against his hands in an effort to get close again.
“Omega,” the alpha bit out, just a hint of a bark in his tone that had you quieting. “You’ve just been through an ordeal—you shouldn’t be looking at me like…” Ari trailed off, searching the cabin like he could find the words to explain how you’d been looking at him in the fireplace or the couch cushions. “Like ya wanna swallow me whole.”
You sucked in a breath at his words, desire pooling hot in your belly as they conjured images in your mind—images of your mouth wrapped around the cock Ari was doing a poor job of hiding in his sweatpants. The imprint of his dick had been tempting you the entire time you’d been standing between his thighs and it had taken all your effort not to ogle him.
But your gaze dropped to his bulge then, and in the space between your bodies, you saw the thick ridge of Ari’s cock straining against the soft cotton of his gray sweatpants. You wanted desperately to go to your knees and press your cheek against it, then your lips. You wanted to tease him through the fabric until he was panting your name.
Only then would you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants and pull them down. Then you’d take your time tracing the veins of his cock with your tongue, enjoying the weight of him on your lips before taking him deep into your mouth and sucking him dry.
“Omega,” Ari growled, his hand slipping beneath the hem of the shirt you wore to pinch your thigh, right where it met the curve of your ass.
You let out a soft yelp of surprise, your eyes focusing back on the big alpha sitting in front of you. The spot he pinched ached a little, but the pulse only had more wetness gathering between your thighs. Secretly, you were delighted that Ari felt comfortable enough touching you there, but you pushed your lip out into a pout.
Ari’s handsome face was arranged in a stern expression, his brows lowered, eyes dark, and it came as no surprise when there was a hint of censure in his tone.
“You’re in no state to be thinking whatever dirty thoughts are in that pretty head of yours, sweetheart.”
Huffing an annoyed sound, you crossed your arms over your chest, purposefully pushing up your tits until they were nearly spilling out of the flannel shirt, the buttons straining to keep the fabric fastened together.
Truthfully, you hadn’t thought about what had happened in the woods for a long while, and being around Ari had soothed away whatever stress and fear you’d felt. Plus, you weren’t injured—you had a few scrapes and bruises from the betas, but the clothes you’d been wearing were in a much worse state than you.
Still, his comment had your eyes raking over the alpha, assessing the injuries you hadn’t attended to yet. His knuckles were cleaned and bandaged, but he had a bruise blooming on his cheekbone. It no doubt matched the ones forming on your body, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his overprotective statement.
“The state I’m in is no worse than you, mister big alpha,” you retorted teasingly, reaching out and tugging playfully on the curled ends of Ari’s hair.
Your comment struck more of a nerve than you expected, though, because Ari’s gaze dropped to your neck and his expression crumpled. The lines of his face were stark with guilt and shame. You could tell by the look in his deep blue eyes that Ari felt a sense of responsibility for the bruises forming on your neck, which was only confirmed by his next words.
“I should’ve gotten to you sooner,” he muttered, self-recrimination in his tone. The big alpha’s shoulders bunched up as he hunched forward, staring broodingly past your hip into the fire.
Stepping close again, you threaded your fingers through the alpha’s beard under his chin, gently tugging his gaze away from the fireplace. You used your hold to tip his head back until he couldn’t avoid looking at you.
“You got there soon enough,” you said in a firm, gentle tone, staring him in the eye so you knew he heard you—really heard you. “It looks worse than it feels, and in a couple days the bruises will be gone forever.” You paused to make sure he’d absorbed those words before you went on. “I’m okay—I’m going to be okay.”
For a long moment, the two of you simply looked at each other, then Ari gave the barest hint of a nod, his eyes dropping to your lips, pausing for a second before glancing at your neck. He scuffed a hand against the back of his neck.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath, then nodded again before looking you in the eye. “Okay.
A smile curved your mouth and you were just about to step back and clean up the detritus from tending to the cuts on his knuckles when a thought occurred to you.
“Hey, how did you find me anyway?” you asked, gathering the garbage into a small pile on the fireplace mantle and closing up the first aid kit.
Ari was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced at him, you found the alpha staring deep into the fire. A frown marred the perfect curve of his mouth, his beard twitching as the alpha’s jaw ticked like he was grinding his teeth. His eyes looked haunted by whatever thoughts were swirling in his head.
“I heard your whine.”
Ari’s words were rough, as if they were torn violently from his throat, like lichen off a tree. The expression on his face was tortured, devastated, a forest razed to the ground, and your heart squeezed sympathetically in your chest.
Gently, you turned his face so you could see him better. His gaze was unfocused, like he was trapped in his thoughts, but he blinked and looked up at you. It nearly bowled you over, the anguish in his blue eyes.
“It was the most terrifying sound I’ve ever heard,” Ari rasped, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. “I was getting wood for the fire… I didn’t even think, just tore through the forest to get to you.”
Your heart thumped harder against your ribcage, like it was trying to escape and get to Ari, and you didn’t blame it. You didn’t think you or your heart would ever be safer than in the alpha’s arms.
“Oh Ari,” you murmured, blinking back tears. “You got to me—you saved me.” Ducking your head, you pressed your forehead to his. “Thank you, alpha.”
“Omega,” Ari rumbled, wrapping his thick arms around your waist and holding you close. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, basking in the safety and comfort of each other.
Taking a deep breath, you straightened and looked down into Ari’s open and genuine face, a soft smile flickering at the corner of your mouth. Your eyes roamed over the handsome lines of the alpha’s face, eventually wandering down to his mouth. It just looked so inviting…
It was becoming a distraction, the urge to kiss Ari, and you had to shake your head lightly to clear it. You reminded yourself, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn’t the time to be thinking about kissing your alpha rescuer—no matter how much you desperately wanted to. He’d made it clear he didn’t think it was a good idea, and you had to respect that.
When you managed to pull your gaze away from Ari’s mouth, you found him staring up at you, a flicker of heat in his eyes. Maybe you weren’t the only one thinking about kissing after all…
As an excuse to keep touching him, your fingers stroked softly down the side of Ari’s face, circling the edge of the angry dark bruise forming on his cheekbone. An idea popped into your head and your mouth pulled into a lopsided smile before you wiped it away, trying to maintain a serious expression as you refocused on Ari.
“The first aid kid doesn’t have anything for this bruise,” you began, giving the alpha a playful little smirk. “But let me see if this works.”
You leaned forward slowly, holding Ari’s gaze for as long as you could, looking for any kind of hesitance, but his eyes only seemed to grow darker the closer your face came to his.
When your mouth hovered a whisper away from the alpha’s skin, you paused, waiting for him to give his assent. Ari let out a rough sound, almost sounding impatient, and dipped his chin slightly, giving you the go ahead for what you were about to do.
Your lips brushed so, so gently against the bruise forming on Ari’s cheek, kissing the warm, smarting skin before shifting and doing the same closer to the corner of his eye. You pressed another butterfly kiss to the alpha’s face before pulling away and giving him a smile.
“How was that, did that help?” you asked, exaggerated concern in your tone while your eyes held his.
The corner of Ari’s mouth flickered, like he was holding back a smile. He smoothed his expression back into one that matched your fake seriousness.
“Mm, ‘m not sure, maybe you should try again,” the alpha rumbled, turning his head slightly so that his bruised cheek was tipped toward you in a wordless offering. His arms loosened around your waist, his big palms skimming down your sides until they rested on your hips.
His hands were so big, his pinkies could reach the bare skin beneath the hem of the flannel shirt you wore, and even the barest touch had sparks dancing between your thighs. Goose bumps raised up and down your thighs and you had to suppress a shiver while focusing on trying to stay somber.
Repressing a giddy giggle, you ducked your head and brushed another gentle kiss to Ari’s cheekbone. But you couldn’t stop yourself there, so you pressed another kiss to the warm skin of his temple, and another just below his brow.
A stuttering purr rumbled in Ari’s chest, still sounding a little rusty but growing stronger and steadier as he kept it up. The effect on you was immediate, liquid heat pouring from the crown of your head, over your shoulders and all the way to the tips of your toes.
It made you smile, and you brushed more kisses to the alpha’s face, moving beyond the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone to anywhere you could reach. You were all too eager to keep Ari purring, and he didn’t seem to mind having your lips on him.
Sure enough, the more you kissed Ari’s face, the louder and stronger his purr became, until it was surrounding you, wrapping you up in its comforting embrace. It was nearly as wonderful as being held in Ari’s arms, and you knew that if you ever got to experience both at the same time, you’d be ruined for any other alpha.
You were lost in the simple delight of the moment, too consumed by Ari’s purring and the scent of him swirling around you, swathing you in the deepest comfort you’d ever felt. The warmth of his skin beneath your lips and the coarseness of his beard between your fingers were too much and yet not enough.
It felt all too natural to trail kisses down Ari’s cheek, pressing your face into the scruff of his beard and nipping playfully at his jaw before finding his mouth nestled so perfectly amid the coarse hair. You gave in to the urge to kiss the big alpha, pressing your lips to his in a gentle brush.
Ari’s mouth was soft—so soft—and for a split second that was all you could think about. How much softer his mouth felt than you’d expected, and how perfect it felt against yours.
Then the alpha tensed, his shoulders going hard and rigid, and you finally remembered yourself.
Pulling away with a gasp, you met Ari’s eyes with a look of horror on your face.
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that without asking,” you apologized breathlessly, your eyes roving over Ari’s face, trying to discern how he was feeling. But the alpha’s expression was blank, almost…stunned. “Are you okay, Ari?”
As you watched him closely, the look of surprise on Ari’s face melted into something much more pleased, an expression that had heat swirling in your belly and desire dripping between your thighs.
A lazy smirk curled the edges of his mouth and his hands slid up your thighs, catching the hem of your flannel shirt and teasing you as it dragged up a little before falling back down. His warm palms roamed to your back, tugging you in closer while he looked up at you, molten heat in his darkened blue gaze.
“You never have to apologize for kissing me, sweetheart,” Ari rumbled, one of his hands sliding up your spine until he was cupping the back of your neck. He towed you down, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m yours, omega. You can kiss me whenever you want and I’ll thank you for it.”
Ari’s confession crashed over you like a clap of thunder. His words stirred a storm inside you, your heart thudding in your chest and your breathing speeding up. Excitement and happiness warred for dominance in your body, even as you still struggled to wrap your mind around what he’d said.
How many years had you longed for an alpha who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them? How long had it been since you’d felt any kind of hope that there was an alpha in the world for you?
You may not have consigned yourself to a hidden cabin the woods like Ari had, but you’d long resigned yourself to never finding your perfect match. You’d yearned for the companionship of someone who understood and appreciated you, but you’d believed that person didn’t exist.
It turned out the perfect alpha for you had been in the woods all along, waiting for you just as you’d been waiting for him.
“My alpha,” you murmured on a soft, happy sigh, closing the short distance between your mouths.
Kissing Ari felt…right. It felt like safety and comfort, like curling up in front of a roaring fire while it stormed outside the sturdy walls of his cabin. It felt like warm food and tasty treats, it felt like snuggling under the coziest blanket. It felt like coming home after a long, hard day and knowing you’d found your place in the world.
The alpha’s mouth worked against yours gently, his lips soft and his beard rough, but you could feel him holding back. You could feel the tension and desire caged beneath Ari’s skin, and you suspected it had to do with his fear of scaring or hurting you that he hadn’t fully shaken off yet, which wouldn’t do for you at all.
Wrapping your arms around Ari’s neck, you pressed closer, until your soft, curvy body was flush against the hard, solid planes of his chest. You coaxed the alpha into deepening the kiss, licking along the seam of his lips and seeking entrance.
Ari let out a low groan, allowing you to slip your tongue into his mouth and deepen the kiss. His arms banded tightly around your back, squeezing you hard enough that you let out a little gasp.
With your lips parted for him, Ari finally let himself unleash. He kissed you with a fervor that made you melt into his embrace even as your core throbbed with need.
While the alpha ravished your mouth, your body yearned to be closer. Without breaking the kiss, you climbed into Ari’s lap, lifting first one knee and then the other onto the alpha’s thick thighs, lowering yourself until your heated core pressed against his heavy bulge.
When your lips were plump and swollen, and you were panting for breath, Ari’s mouth moved from yours, leaving you to gasp for air while he trailed kisses along your jaw. With careful fingers, he tipped your chin up and brushed delicate kisses to the marks on your throat, giving them the same treatment you’d given the bruise on his face.
“I never want to see another mark like this on your skin again,” he rumbled into your throat, pressing his nose against the scent gland beneath your skin and breathing in deep. “As long as I’m around, no one will ever hurt you again, omega. If anyone touches you against your will, I’ll rip their arms off.”
A soft, breathy laugh escaped your lips, your heart racing at the thinly veiled violence in Ari’s voice. Maybe it was just your instincts, but your omega hindbrain went halfway feral for the possessive way he spoke about you—and about the safety he promised.
It struck you, perhaps not for the first time but with the most clarity, that Ari would make a perfect mate. More specifically, he’d be a perfect mate for you. He was gentle and kind, and he was capable of taking care of you the way you needed. He was everything you’d ever wanted.
Raking your nails greedily through Ari’s hair, you tugged on the ends until he pulled back enough that you could catch his eye.
“My big, strong, protective alpha,” you murmured, staring deep into Ari’s eyes and hoping he understood the depth of the meaning in your words. Your breath stalled in your lungs as you waited for his response.
A slow smile dragged across Ari’s face, his blue eyes sparkling with affection and happiness. “My fierce, brave, beautiful omega,” he rumbled, cupping your chin in his hand and pulling you in for kiss.
Ari’s mouth on yours was a promise—he was yours. And you responded in kind, pouring your hope and excitement and happiness into the kiss. It was too soon to commit to forever, but you and Ari had found something special in each other and you were eager to explore where it could lead.
The two of you kissed for a long while, learning each other together. Ari discovered the spot on your neck where he could suck on your skin to draw a low, debauched moan from your lips. And you learned where to bury your face in his beard and bite his jaw to make him growl with lust.
It was the most delightful, indeterminable amount of time you’d spent with anyone. You felt safe in Ari’s arms, the heat of the fire warm at your back while the expanse of his chest felt like a furnace against your front. His beard had begun to burn your cheeks, and your lips were so bee-stung from kisses they tingled a little, but you couldn’t get enough.
While you’d been kissing your big alpha, you’d grown damp between your thighs, wetness leaking from your slit and drenching the fabric of Ari’s sweatpants. His bulge twitched against your heated core and your hips answered by rocking in the alpha’s lap, grinding your dripping cunt against the thick ridge of his cock.
A feral growl rumbled in Ari’s chest and he finally pulled away and looked down between your bodies, where your hips were squirming in his lap. With the alpha’s eyes on you, hot and hungry, you couldn’t stop your body from acting instinctively and you rocked closer, pressing your hungry pussy against his eager bulge.
“I can feel how wet you are, sweetheart,” Ari rumbled, his big hands sliding up your back and coming to cup your face. He tilted it toward him until you met his darkened gaze. “Is there something you need from your alpha?”
There was a slight teasing in his tone, and a little smirk curving his mouth. It made your heart thump harder in your chest, excitement and desire coursing through your veins.
After Ari had been reticent earlier because of your injuries, you hadn’t expected him to let things get so far, but kissing him had gotten you worked up, and you needed him to take care of you.
“Your cock,” you gasped, rocking harder against his twitching bulge. It only made the need swirling in your core more exquisite, and you whined loudly. “I need you inside me—please, alpha.”
“Oh fuck,” Ari grunted, his hips kicking up from beneath you at your begging whine. It took him a moment to regain control of his body, and when he did, he looked deep into your eyes, pressing one hand to your lower back to still your rocking hips. “Are you sure?” he asked in between heavy breaths.
It was on the tip of your tongue to agree immediately, but you still had enough presence of mind to really consider Ari’s question. You were a little tired from your hike, and a little sore from the fight in the woods, but Ari’s care and comfort had soothed your nerves.
All you felt was the need pulsing through your body, and the instinctual desire to be closer to Ari. You wanted to feel his skin pressed against yours, and you wanted his cock to fill you up—you wanted him to fuck you full of his come and then stuff you with his knot so you were tied together.
You couldn’t fully explain it, but you needed this from Ari. You suspected it had something to do with your omega instincts, that your hindbrain was desperate to be tied to the strong alpha that had saved you, but your rational mind wanted it, too.
So you took a deep breath and raked your fingers through Ari’s beard, tugging him back until you could look him in the eye. You wanted him to see the honesty in your gaze when you answered his question.
“I’m sure—I want you, Ari,” you said, your voice husky with emotion. “I want to be close to you, as close as physically possible. I want you to knot me.”
Ari’s throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, and you could see his thoughts racing behind his blue eyes. After a moment, he nodded slowly.
“I want that, too, ‘mega,” he rasped, his hands falling to your hips and squeezing your plush curves. “I want that so much more than you could possibly know.”
That comment made your lips quirk up in amusement. “I think I have some idea,” you murmured teasingly, rocking your hips in his lap and grinding your wet pussy on his hard cock. “I think we both want this, wouldn’t you agree, alpha?”
You watched as Ari’s eyes fluttered closed, pleasure contorting his face into a tortured grimace, and your mouth curved into a self-satisfied grin. Your big alpha was so good at keeping calm and restraining himself that you loved seeing him just a little bit undone—and you were very suddenly ravenous for more.
You wanted to see him unleashed.
“C’mon, alpha, you have a wet, needy omega in your lap, what’re you gonna do about it?” you goaded him, leaning forward to press your soft tits against his hard chest while you kept grinding against his bulge. “I’m so empty, alpha, I need your knot so bad. Are you gonna take care of your omega, alpha? Are you gonna fuck me and knot me and make me yours?”
Ari’s eyes opened and flashed dangerously, a smirk as sharp as a knife slashing across his face. His gaze was so hungry, so feral, that your core clenched deliciously between your thighs.
Reaching over his shoulder, Ari yanked his t-shirt from his body and you were suddenly met with the impossibly broad expanse of his chest. His skin was golden tan and there was a light coat of brown hair dusted across his pecs and trailing down over his belly. You wanted to curl up in it—but that could wait for after you were done exploring him.
You wasted no time sliding your hands down Ari’s chest, appreciating the layer of softness that cushioned the hard, densely-packed muscles beneath. Ari’s occupation as a lumberjack had clearly made him strong, but he wasn’t all hard, rigid lines. He had a body made for snuggling—and you wondered all over again how anyone could think he was too big or too scary to be a perfect mate.
Leaning forward, you pressed kisses along his collarbone, ducking your head as far down as you could reach, nuzzling your face in between his beefy pecs. You inhaled the delicious earthiness of his scent, even more wetness gushing between your thighs as it filled your senses and made you feel like your head was filled with fluffy clouds.
“God, Ari, you’re perfect,” you purred, sitting up enough to look at him. A little pinkness tinged the alpha’s cheeks, like he was bashful, and that only made you want to praise him more. “My big, handsome, perfect alpha,” you said, threading your fingers through his beard and tugging him in to kiss you.
He purred against your lips, the vibrations flooding your body and making you melt into him with a moan. The alpha took the opportunity to let his hands wander as he plundered your mouth with his own, his big palms and strong fingers groping your soft curves.
Your hands clung to Ari’s shoulders, nails digging into his soft, freckled skin, and kissed him harder, your hips rocking in his lap. The alpha groaned into your mouth, his hands growing more desperate, grabbing at the soft cotton of the flannel shirt you wore like he wanted to yank it off entirely.
Before you could beg him to rip it off you, Ari leaned back, his dark eyes raking hungrily down your body, pausing for a moment on the way your tits heaved while you panted for breath. His hands smoothed down your sides, settling on your hips and holding you still.
“Seeing you in my shirt makes me so hard, omega,” Ari rumbled, his eyes heavy-lidded as he looked at you appreciatively. “I want you wrapped in my scent always—makes me wanna knot you real bad, sweetheart,” he confessed, finally dragging his gaze up to yours so you could see the near-feral hunger in his eyes.
With a playful smirk, you ran your fingers down your neck and toyed with the button of the shirt. “Is that right, alpha? You wanna knot me real bad?” you teased, undoing the button with a flick of your fingers, then trailing down to the next, enjoying the heat of Ari’s gaze as he watched. “How ‘bout you stop talking about it and just do it already then?”
At that comment, Ari’s eyes met yours and you could see the alpha’s control wearing thin. When you undid the next button, revealing a glimpse at the curves of your tits, he growled. “If you don’t take that shirt off right now, ‘m gonna rip it off, omega.”
A breathy laugh fell from your lips as you grabbed the bottom hem of the flannel and yanked it up over your head. You pulled it off in one swift movement and tossed it to the ground with Ari’s own discarded shirt.
You were left entirely bare in front of the big alpha, and your old insecurities suddenly flooded in. It took all your self-control not to try to cover your body, and you had to remind yourself that he wasn’t like your past partners. He’d never made you feel like you were too big or too curvy or just not enough like other omegas.
Thankfully, all you had to do was look at Ari’s expression to know just how much he wanted you. It was plain as day on his handsome face how much he desired your body—he looked like he wanted to devour you whole. There was also a slight wonder in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe he had the right to stare at something as beautiful as you.
After a long moment of simply looking, Ari’s big palms smoothed over your skin, groping gently at your plush hips before moving to cup your heavy tits. His thumbs brushed over your pebbled nipples, a slow smirk spreading across his face when you trembled at the pleasurable sparks his touch ignited.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Ari said on a heavy exhale, his hands sliding back down over your waist to squeeze your ample curves. “So soft and so fucking beautiful.”
With a groan like he was being tortured, Ari’s palms slid further down, grabbing your ass and lifting you up so he could bury his face in your tits. You laughed breathily at the tickle of his beard but the sound soon dissolved into a throaty moan when he kissed and sucked on your tits like a man possessed.
“You’re perfect, sweetheart, so fucking perfect,” he mumbled into your soft tits, barely pulling his mouth away from your nipples to get the words out. “My gorgeous, perfect omega.”
He sucked one of your tight peaks into his mouth, and you felt your brain rewiring, rewriting all the things that had been said about you. All that mattered was that you were beautiful, you were gorgeous, you were perfect—not because Ari said so, but because it was the truth.
For long, luxurious moments, Ari worshipped your body while you squirmed in his arms. Since he’d lifted you up to reach your tits, all you could do was hump against his stomach, the softness and downy hair giving you just enough friction to drive you wild.
You tried to give the alpha time, you tried to be patient and simply indulge in the way he was feasting on your tits, but you couldn’t wait much longer. Your pussy was gushing and your body was thrumming with the need to be filled—to be stuffed full of your alpha’s knot.
“Ari, please,” you mewled into the crown of his head, your face buried in his hair and breathing in his scent, which just had your slit leaking even more. “Need your cock, need your knot. Please, alpha.”
Your head was spinning slightly from Ari’s scent and the pleasure of his mouth on your body. If it wasn’t for the persistent, empty ache between your thighs, you would’ve been the most blissed out you’d ever felt. But you couldn’t ignore your need any longer, so you pushed weakly at Ari’s broad shoulders to get his attention.
With one last nip to the curve of your breast, Ari lifted his head and caught your eye. His blue gaze was dark and dazed, and it took him a second to blink the mindless lust from his eyes. When he did, he grinned at you, shifting his hands lower on your ass, until his fingertips teased along the seam between your thighs.
“You sure you’re ready for me, sweetheart?” he rumbled, a teasing smirk on his handsome face. But when his finger pushed inside your wet heat and he felt how tight you were, his expression morphed into one of concern. “Ya know, ‘m big all over, and the last thing I wanna do is hurt you.”
A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble, and your hips squirmed, trying to fuck yourself further on the alpha’s finger, though he held you too tight for you to move much.
Huffing an impatient breath, you grabbed Ari’s face and dragged him to you for a kiss. It was short and brutal, your teeth nipping at his lips until he growled with hunger.
When you broke away, you pressed your forehead to his and whined softly. “I can take you, alpha, I’m so wet and ready for you,” you murmured, your panting breaths slipping past his parted lips while he inhaled deeply, drinking you down. “I feel like I was born to take your cock.”
Another pleased, stuttering purr kicked to life in Ari’s chest, and you instinctively melted against him, your body going soft and pliant in his arms. Closing the gap between your mouths, you sank into a long, indulgent kiss, your tongue exploring his mouth while Ari’s finger worked deeper into your tight hole.
With one arm banded around your lower back, holding you pinned to his broad chest, Ari fucked you open with his thick fingers, stuffing first one, then two deep inside your dripping pussy. His hot mouth swallowed your eager moans hungrily, like they were the sustenance that gave him life—or, at least, a reason to live.
The alpha’s thick fingers slaked some of the need in your core, but it wasn’t enough. You wouldn’t be satisfied until you were fully impaled on his cock. Still, Ari took his time, teasing you with the deep, gentle strokes of his fingers until you were whining too much to kiss him, and urging him to fuck you harder.
“You’re so warm, omega,” Ari purred in a gruff voice while you buried your face in his beard, whimpering mindlessly into the coarse hair. “Feel so fucking tight around my fingers.” He stroked a spot deep inside your body and your pussy clamped down on him hard while you moaned into his neck.
“Mm, you feel good inside me, alpha,” you hummed against his skin, dragging the flat of your tongue across the place where his pulse raced beneath his skin. Ari shuddered in your arms, and you clung tighter to the big alpha, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “But I want more,” you murmured, pressing your teeth into his throat.
Ari let out a throaty chuckle, and you could practically taste the hunger on his skin, but he didn’t indulge you just yet. Instead, he lowered his head and nipped at your ear, the gesture a sweet recrimination.
“So greedy, my omega,” he murmured. His voice was warm with affection, but his fingers were merciless as they pulled slowly from your tight hole before plunging deep again.
“Only greedy for you, alpha,” you shot back, angling your hips and pushing back onto Ari’s fingers. A moan spilled from your lips as he pressed them deep, until his knuckles were nearly swallowed by your wet, swollen flesh. “Please, alpha, I need you to…”
Words abandoned you when Ari added a third finger to your pussy, stretching you around his thick digits until you were mindless in his arms.
“I could get real used to this, sweetheart,” Ari rumbled, taking his time to work you open for him. He spread his fingers inside you, stretching you enough to have you panting into his beard, whines falling endlessly from your lips. “Could get real used to coming home to this, to you—my pretty, perfect omega.”
“Ari, yes,” you cried softly, both in response to what he was doing to your body and the picture he painted with his words.
It was all too easy to picture yourself living in Ari’s cabin in the woods, making breakfast together in the little kitchen, snuggling on the couch in front of the fire, curling up together in the massive bed in the loft. You could picture yourself working from the comfort of the cabin while he went off into the forest, and making a home in the nest the lumberjack built for you.
It was everything you’d ever wanted, and everything you’d resigned yourself to never having in your life.
“Probably shoulda asked you on a date first, huh? Before talking about moving you in with me…” the alpha mumbled against your cheek, bringing your attention back to him. You huffed a little laugh, leaning back to look into his eyes.
“Maybe,” you agreed, a happy smile on your face. “But I could get used to it, too—I like the idea of you coming to me. My big, perfect alpha,” you murmured, pulling him in for a sweet kiss.
You knew it was too early to actually discuss moving in with the alpha you’d just met, but it was nice to know you were on the same page about where things were headed.
This wasn’t some spontaneous fuck to satisfy your omega urges, or for Ari to slake his alpha needs. You were building something together, and the longer you kissed, the more you felt like you could spent forever with the big alpha lumberjack.
Ari’s fingers shifted deep inside your pussy, and you whimpered into his mouth. “Please, alpha, let me take your cock,” you begged shamelessly, pulling back so he could see how desperate you were. “I need you, I need your knot.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said again, resuming the strokes of his fingers, spreading you open, but it wasn’t enough—it wouldn’t be enough until you had all of him inside you.
Even with three of Ari’s fingers inside you, you still felt an ache of emptiness, and you knew you wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than his cock.
“Ari, please, it hurts more not having you inside me,” you whined, the sound broken in your desperation. Tears were gathering in your lashes when you looked into Ari’s eyes, begging with your expression for him to finally give you more.
A violent shudder wracked Ari’s body when he saw the look on your face. “Christ, sweetheart, okay—okay,” he muttered, pulling his fingers from your dripping pussy and lifting you up higher so he could shove his sweatpants down over his hips.
You were jostled a little against Ari’s chest while he kicked them off, but you barely noticed because you were squirming around, trying to get a look at his cock. However, your core was still pinned to his stomach, your thighs spread wide across his body and you couldn’t see around your own curves.
But, hell, did you feel it when Ari wrapped his fist around his cock and dragged the thick tip through your folds. He was big—just like he’d said—and hot and hard. He was so perfect, your eyes fluttered closed and you moaned.
Instinctively, your hips shunted backward, trying to take the head of Ari’s cock into your tight hole, but his arm banded across your back squeezed you tighter and you were unable to move.
“Alpha, please,” you panted, burying your face in Ari’s beard and whining shrilly, the sound only slightly muffled by the coarse hair on the underside of his jaw. Your whole body was trembling with need, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at his shoulders trying uselessly to free yourself from his hold. “I need you, I need you, I need you—please, Ari!”
“You’ll tell me if it hurts,” the alpha rumbled, towing your head back and giving you a stern look. His voice brooked no room for argument and you nearly purred at the dominance in his low, growly tone.
“Yes, yes, alpha, promise,” you answered quickly, appreciating Ari’s thoughtfulness and care but unable to stop your eagerness from getting the best of you.
Unlike you, the alpha didn’t seem to be in any sort of rush as he brushed a kiss to your cheek and rumbled, “Good girl,” in your ear. The praise had you preening, your squirming body settling as you beamed at Ari.
For a moment, the two of you simply looked into each other’s eyes, a thrum of delicious tension crackling in the air around you. Then, finally, he began lowering you down, using his fist on his shaft and his arm around your waist to guide you onto his cock.
When the broad tip pushed inside your tight heat, you let out a sharp exhale at the stretch, urging your body to relax after clenching tight around the thick intrusion. He was big—so fucking big—and you were glad he hadn’t let you see his cock before allowing you to take it because you might’ve let the size intimidate you.
As it was, a thread of nervousness wiggled into your belly, and you wondered, a panicked edge to your thoughts, how all of him would fit. Just from the size of his cock head, you weren’t sure how you’d ever take all of him, given the tip was stretching you already.
Ari must’ve sensed the change in your demeanor, must’ve smelled the anxiety weaving into your scent, because he started purring, the sound immediately relaxing your tense muscles. You let out a grateful sigh, melting into Ari’s arms and pressing your face into his neck, where his scent was strongest, letting it further soothe you.
“You’re doing so well, sweet girl,” Ari murmured in your ear, stroking one hand down your spine while he held you pinned to his chest with the other. “Just be a good girl and relax for me—relax for your alpha, pretty omega, and let me in.”
His soft praise and low, gentle purr had your body melting even more for the big alpha. Every part of you relaxed until you were limp in his arms, your body slipping a little bit further down Ari’s cock. A mindless gasp fell from your lips but you didn’t tense again.
Still, for a long moment, Ari simply held you, giving you a moment to adjust to the size of him. Then, he spoke, his voice so gentle and warm against your cheek.
“Ready for more, sweet omega?” he asked, somehow knowing the moment when you were beginning to grow impatient and had begun to consider squirming in his arms.
“Yes, please, alpha,” you responded, your voice breathy and sweet in a way you’d never heard yourself be. It made Ari chuckle, the sound rich and indulgent and you smiled into his throat, pressing your lips to his warm skin so he could feel your pleasure.
The alpha shifted his hold on your body and guided you down another inch on his fat cock. It sank in easier than you would’ve expected, your slick and Ari’s fingers having prepared you better than you thought.
The stretch was exquisite, the ache riding the line between pleasure and pain so deliciously, your mouth fell open and a low, dirty moan slipped from your lips. You tried to muffle the sound in Ari’s beard, but he must’ve heard and felt it, because his cock twitched eagerly between your thighs, like his body was just as hungry for yours as you were for his.
Suddenly, Ari’s slow, careful entry wasn’t enough for you. It occurred to you that if the alpha continued at the rate he was going, the sun would rise over the mountain before he was fully seated inside you, and that just wouldn’t do.
On shaking arms, you pushed yourself up from where you’d been curled into Ari’s chest, lifting your head until you could see the alpha’s face. His brows furrowed at your sudden movement, his eyes tracking carefully over your face.
“Doing ok, sweetheart?” he asked, his low voice dripping with concern.
You nodded, taking Ari’s face into your hands—and you were struck with a pang of affection deep in your heart.
In just a few hours, his handsome face had become so dear to you that your chest ached with the promise of forever. You wanted an eternity to stare into the alpha’s gorgeous eyes and endless hours to kiss his perfect mouth and nuzzle your cheek into his warm beard.
You wanted it all—you wanted him—forever. You knew it deep in your soul that Ari Levinson was the alpha for you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the revelation.
A quizzical look pinched Ari’s brow, but you shook your head, tucking away the words you wanted to say for another night. Ari was the type of alpha who wanted to do things the right way; he wanted to take you on a date and court you, and you adored him enough already that you didn’t want to rush him past those things.
You didn’t want to deprive yourself of them either.
So instead of voicing your feelings, you leaned forward and kissed your alpha sweetly on the mouth. When you pulled back, you gave Ari a sultry smirk.
“I’m doing sooo good, alpha,” you cooed, leaning forward so your tits brushed against his chest, teasing your nipples through his thick hair. “Gimme more, Ari, please. I can take it—I can take all of you.”
“So greedy,” Ari huffed on a laugh, graciously moving past the moment and returning to what you were doing. Like the good alpha he was, he indulged his omega, giving you what you asked for and letting your body sink down further on his cock.
You gasped softly, your eyes going unfocused and your mouth rounding into a perfect ‘o’ as you felt Ari’s fat cock push deeper into your tight pussy. It was so good. There was a slight sting from the sheer girth of his thick length pushing into your tight hole, but it heightened the pleasure until it was nearly overwhelming.
Ari grunted, pushing deeper again, and you swayed a little in his arms. Your hands were braced on his shoulders, but they were barely holding you up as you moaned mindlessly, enjoying the feeling of the alpha burying his thick cock in your tight cunt.
A rumbling groan sounded in Ari’s chest, dragging you back into the moment. You blinked until your eyes focused on the handsome alpha, finding him looking a little agonized. His face was twisted almost like he was in pain, but his blue eyes were dark with a ravenous desire that called to something deep in your soul.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Ari growled, his voice drenched in lust. “You’re already squeezing the life from m’ cock, and ‘m barely halfway inside your pretty pussy.”
At his words, your inner walls clenched around the thick intrusion of him, wringing another grunt from the big alpha. All you could do was smile dazedly, nuzzling your face into his beard.
“Can’t help it, your cock fills me so good,” you mumbled, your tongue heavy as pleasure consumed your body and mind. Still, you felt an ache deep in your core with the knowledge that Ari wasn’t where he was supposed to be—buried all the way inside you. “I need more,” you murmured on a soft whine. “I need all of you, please, alpha.”
“Jesus—jesus,” Ari cursed, like you were asking him to damn you to hell. There was a tremble in his hands as he shifted his grip on your body, pulling you down further on his cock.
Your whole body shivered at the mixture of aching burn and delicious pleasure that came from the alpha pushing a little bit more of his cock into your dripping hole. He was so exquisitely perfect, your eyes rolled back in your head and your mouth dropped open in a low moan.
And yet, you weren’t too far gone to beg Ari for more.
“More,” you whimpered on an exhale, letting yourself relax. You focused entirely on the feeling of Ari’s big cock spearing slowly into you, making room for himself in the most intimate place in your body, and filling you up like you’d never been filled before. “More, Ari, please.”
With a tortured groan, Ari obeyed, his fingers digging viciously into your hips as he lowered you further onto his cock. There he paused, letting your body adjust to the size of him, and you had to beg him again for more.
It went on like that for a few more moments, until finally—finally—your ass met Ari’s broad thighs and your pussy sank down to the base of his cock. A shiver wracked your body at the overwhelming feeling of fullness, and for a small eternity, all you could do was sit in the alpha’s lap and pant like an omega in heat.
You were stunned speechless by the way Ari’s cock stretched you so perfectly, but the alpha’s tongue didn’t seem to be tied. He murmured soft words into your ear, his mouth brushing kisses to your cheeks and brow, pulling you back from the haze of pleasure you’d been lost in.
“Perfect omega, sweet omega, gorgeous omega,” Ari rumbled, pinching your chin softly in his fingers and tipping your face to the side so he could press kisses to your jaw. “You’re taking my cock so well, sweetheart. You’re such a good girl for your alpha.”
Ari’s praise had a blissed out smile spreading across your face and when he lifted his head, he found your eyes focused on him. The big alpha brushed a calloused thumb reverently over your cheekbone and you nuzzled into his palm, pressing a kiss to his skin before looking into his eyes again.
“There she is, there’s my girl,” he said with a happy grin, cupping your face and pulling you in for a gentle kiss. The way his mouth moved against yours was worshipping and you nearly lost yourself in Ari all over again. “How’re ya doing, sweetheart?”
The corner of your mouth lifted in a smile, but before you responded, you took a moment to take stock of your body. The ache from Ari’s cock stretching you open was already beginning to abate, leaving your pussy throbbing around his thick girth, begging for the friction that would bring you so much delicious pleasure.
“Soo good,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the edge of Ari’s mouth before burying your face in his beard and moaning softly. With his fat cock buried inside you, you couldn’t stop yourself from babbling his praises. “Oh god, ‘m soo full—it’s s’good, Ari. I love your cock, I love it. It feels like it was made for me.”
A low chuckle rumbled in Ari’s chest, rubbing against your sensitive nipples, which tightened into peaks with the vibration.
“Ya love my cock that much, huh, omega?” Ari asked teasingly, rocking his hips experimentally and dragging an obscene moan from your lips. “Fuck, your pussy is perfect, sweetheart, taking me so fucking well—like you were made for me.”
“Yes, yes, we were made for each other,” you blurted out, so far gone in pleasure that you couldn’t be bothered to worry if the words might scare off Ari.
But the alpha only groaned right along with you, his head bobbing in a nod as his hands wandered your body, groping your soft curves like he owned them.
“Fuck yes, omega, that’s right—we were made for each other,” he growled, his big hands palming your ass and guiding you to rock with him, the sturdy chair creaking beneath him. “You’re so perfect. I gotta… Please, sweetheart,—please tell me I can fuck you. I wanna knot your pretty pussy and feel you squeeze my knot while I’m emptying my balls inside your perfect cunt.”
Your hips had found Ari’s rhythm and you were grinding shamelessly on his cock, rubbing your tits against his chest while your bodies writhed together. It was already so perfect, and his filthy, pleading words nearly sent you over the edge, but you managed to cling on and nod your head eagerly, nipping at his jaw through his beard.
“Fuck me, alpha, rut my tight hole with your big, fat cock and stuff me full of your knot,” you begged, feeling Ari’s cock twitch inside you at your dirty words. “I need it, I need your knot, Ari, please. Please fuck me—gimme your knot, alpha, make me yours.”
With a barely leashed roar, Ari stood from the chair, lifting you in his arms with his hands braced under your ass. You squealed a little in surprise, still unused to the big alpha being able to pick you up so easily, your hands clinging tightly to Ari’s shoulders as his cock shifted inside you.
It was only a few steps to the overstuffed couch in front of the fire, and Ari lowered you down gently into the soft cushions until you were spread out beneath him. His big hands skimmed up your body, pausing briefly to grope your tits and pinch your nipples until you were writhing for him, your hips fucking yourself shallowly on his cock.
“If you need me to stop or slow down at any point, you tell me,” Ari said, his big hands framing your face while he stared deep into your eyes. “Y’hear me, omega?”
“Yes, alpha,” you answered obediently. The warm light of the fire lapped lovingly at his handsome face, and you couldn’t help but smile up at Ari. He was yours, you could feel it in your bones, and you trusted him implicitly.
“Good girl,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your lips while he settled between your thighs, his cock hitting a spot deep inside you. You hooked your ankles around the backs of his thick, muscular thighs, holding him there, deep inside you while you kissed.
When Ari pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. You could tell from the twisting of his features that he was holding onto the last of his control with a tight grip, but you wanted to see him unleashed. So you smirked up at your alpha and used your hold on his body to fuck yourself on his cock, teasing you both with the shallow, delicious drag.
“Now fuck me, alpha—rut your omega, stuff me full of your knot and make me come, please.” Your voice broke on the last word, making you sound more than a little pathetic, but it did the trick.
The last thread of Ari’s control snapped, and you sucked in an excited breath when a feral, hungry grin spread across the alpha’s handsome face. Holding your gaze captive, he pulled back until only the tip of his cock remained inside you, then he thrust forward with a brutal strength, filling you up ruthlessly with his thick shaft.
“You wanna be rutted like a needy omega, sweetheart?” Ari rumbled, burying his face in your neck and nipping at your throat, giving you a taste of a mating bite. “You want your alpha to fuck you and knot you until you can’t think about anything else but my cock, huh?”
“Yes, yes, yes, alpha, please,” you cried, panting beneath Ari as he fucked you into the couch, his hips slapping against your ass and thighs, filling the small cabin with the sounds of your joining.
“Then that’s exactly what my perfect omega is going to get,” Ari growled, pounding into you even harder, until you were screaming with pleasure. His strong arms dug beneath your body, holding you pinned against his chest while he fucked you hard and fast, his hips pistoning between your thighs.
It was all you could do to cling to the big alpha, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your nails scoring into the golden skin of his back. Your thighs were hitched around Ari’s waist, the heels of your feet digging into the backs of his legs to urge him on.
It was the kind of glorious, savage fucking you’d always needed—and Ari was the first man who’d been able to give it to you. He was everything you’d ever needed. The perfect alpha, the perfect mate.
You didn’t know how long Ari fucked you, but it seemed like an eternity and no time at all had passed when he growled into your neck, “I’m close.”
“Come inside me, alpha,” you cried out, the words tumbling from your lips. “Fill up your omega and knot me, please, Ari!”
“Christ, ya want my come, omega?” he ground out, a hint of teasing in his tone, but it was almost entirely overshadowed by the naked hunger in his voice. “Want me to pump you full of my seed and knot your pretty cunt so none of it spills out?”
“Oh god, yes, alpha, yes—need your come, need your knot, need it all,” you babbled, lifting your hips off the couch to meet his brutal thrusts. “Knot your omega, make me yours.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ari grunted, rutting into you wildly, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he reached the edge.
Then, he thrust deep into your cunt, burying his cock to the base and letting out a vicious growl as he came. His thick shaft twitched hard inside your pussy and then he was spilling inside you, his knot growing to lock you together and plug you full.
The pressure of his knot stretching your hole was exquisite, and the heat of his come flooding your womb was so overwhelming that all it took was your clit rubbing against the base of his cock to set you off. A mere second after the alpha began to come, you tumbled over the edge into your own release.
You came with a sobbing, pleasured cry of “Alpha!”
Ari’s arms tightened around your body and you clung to the alpha’s broad shoulders, your thighs wrapped snuggly around his waist while you buried your face in his beard and let the pleasure of your release wash through you. Ari’s head turned slightly, and his mouth met yours, your lips melding together for a shameless, messy kiss.
When you finally began to come down from the peak of your pleasure, you threaded your fingers through Ari’s hair and slowed the kiss to a delicious, decadent drag of your mouths against each other. With a soft, happy sigh, you pulled back to catch your breath while Ari brushed kisses to your cheeks, kissing away the few tears that had escaped during the height of your pleasure.
“You were so good for me, my pretty girl, such a good omega for your alpha, took my cock and my knot so well,” Ari murmured, his thumb grazing over the racing pulse in your neck as his fingers wrapped loosely around the back of your neck, holding you securely against his chest. “How do you feel, are you doing okay?”
You let out another contented sigh and let your lips spread into a wide smile, hoping the alpha could hear it in your voice when you spoke. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you answered after taking stock of your body. “A little tender, but I’m just so…I feel so good—like I’m right where I belong.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, omega,” Ari said on an exhale, like he’d been holding his breath waiting for your answer.
With a grunt, he turned your bodies until he was stretched out on his back on the couch, your form sprawled across his. You settled down on top of him while a purr kicked to life in his chest, allowing you to sink into the glorious heat of his body while his knot stayed nestled in your pussy.
Ari grabbed a blanket and tossed it over your cooling bodies, making sure you were tucked in and warm. Only then did he keep talking.
“For the first time I can remember,” Ari began, his voice low and cautious, like he was picking each word carefully before he spoke them. “My life—my existence—doesn’t feel like one big mistake. Everything that’s happened, it all led me to you, and I’m so happy I found you, sweetheart.”
You squeezed the big alpha tight in your arms, pressing your smile into the center of his chest, right above where his heart beat a steady drum in his sternum. You smoothed a kiss to that spot, briefly nuzzling the downy hair dusting Ari’s pecs, then lifted your head so you could look him in the eye.
“I’m happy you found me, too, Ari,” you said, the words tumbling from your lips like you’d waited your whole life to say them. “I’d given up on finding someone—alpha or not—who would like me as I am, but you’ve made me feel…cherished, beautiful, perfect just the way I am.”
“You are perfect,” Ari said, cupping your face in his big palm and staring up at you with open, honest eyes.
His praise made you smile softly and you turned your face to brush a kiss to his palm before you continued on.
“Well, I’m not waiting for the wolves to drag me from my door anymore,” you said, staring deep into the alpha’s eyes. “I want to live my life with you, Ari. I want to be your omega, if you’ll have me.”
The handsome man’s face softened with affection, so much warmth in his crystal blue eyes, it stole the breath from your lungs. “Sweetheart,” Ari rumbled, his voice gruff enough that he had to clear his throat so he could continue. “I’ve known you were mine since I heard your whine in the forest. I’m yours, all of me belongs to you.”
Emotion filled your chest until it felt like your heart was pressing against your ribs, attempting to escape and make a home in Ari’s sternum, right next to his own heart. Tears sprang to your eyes, but before they had a chance to fall, you lowered your head and captured Ari’s mouth in a kiss.
You kissed and kissed and kissed your alpha, for so long that his knot eventually deflated and your cheeks burned from the rub of his beard. Still, you kissed a little longer, unable to get enough of your alpha’s taste and his scent and the warm feeling of his mouth on yours.
Eventually, the two of you pulled apart, both breathing heavily, and your eyes dazed with pleasure. Ari’s gaze blinked back into focus a little quicker than yours and he helped you up from the comfort of the soft couch cushions.
With deft, gentle fingers, Ari eased your arms back into his flannel shirt, his eyes going slightly darker as he did up the buttons, his knuckles brushing against the soft curves of your tits. Once done, he grabbed his sweatpants, and pulled them up over his hips.
You checked each other’s injuries, then moved into the kitchen, where you threw away the garbage from cleaning and bandaging the cuts on his knuckles while Ari began taking out ingredients to cook a late dinner. He lifted you onto the counter to keep him company, then he made quick work of preparing the meal.
Over dinner, the two of you got to know each other better, almost like a date—though Ari insisted he would take you out for a proper date as soon as possible. You asked him about his family and his life as a lumberjack, while he asked about your job, your friends and your hobbies.
When you were done eating, you helped Ari clean up, talking all the while. Just as you finished drying the plates and putting them away, you let out a yawn, and Ari insisted it was time to go to bed.
Before the alpha could do something silly like offer to sleep on the couch, you grabbed his hand and dragged him up the stairs to the lofted bedroom. You were to weary from the day to argue about where he should sleep, and you wanted him beside you too badly to even entertain the thought of him sleeping elsewhere.
Ari helped you into the bed, and you snuggled up to your big alpha beneath the weight of his warm flannel blanket, feeling more content that you could ever remember feeling before.
In the quiet of the cabin, you could hear the soft pitter-patter of rain on the roof, and you knew from then on that you would think of it as the soundtrack to the night you fell in love with Ari Levinson.
The gentle sound of the rain, and the pleasant scent of your alpha lulled you to sleep, your face pressed into his chest and his body wrapped around yours.
You were warm and safe, and just as you were drifting off, you had the distinct thought that you weren’t going to be able to sleep any other way than in the arms of your alpha for the rest of your life.
Thankfully for you, Ari Levinson was just as smitten with you as you were with him, and it was only a few months after he saved you in the woods before the two of you were exchanging mating bites and promising to spend forever together.
You spent the rest of your life loving and cherishing your mate, and being loved and cherished in return—which was exactly what you both deserved.
thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated!! ♡
To have a knight and bodyguard yearning after you 🗡...
His form is monstrous, and he is weathered, broken after so many battles, with a black heart cracked and dried by failed romances — he should be wiser. So much wiser.
But once he met you, his new protégé, his heart swelled inside his ribcage, reopening old wounds. He should've sealed himself with stronger chains. What shall he do now?
Once he saw you bathing, humming a light tune, shrouded by steam and moisture, he couldn't step back. The cowardice of his act will stain his soul forever, but back then he could not move. He remained hidden behind the door, watching you through the gap, and stroking his manhood while admiring your glistening lips, neck, and nipples.
He had to leave once his breath became too heavy, loud, and he worried he would spill inside his trousers. He moved into a dusty corner, a sad, pathetic place, to imagine squeezing your ass while biting into your neck and thrusting into your cunt. His dick remained hard even after he finished into his sweaty palm.
baking spooky sprinkle cookies with your clingy orc best friend
pairing: orc!bestfriend!bucky barnes x human!female reader
summary: your orc best friend is clingy, and when you invite him over for your annual halloween movie marathon, the innocent touches you've grown used to turn into something more.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), monsterfucking/teratophilia, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, orgasm delay, slight come inflation, multiple orgasms, an absurd amount of cockwarming, light bondage/restraints through body harness, size kink/size difference, brief breeding kink, dirty talk, praise kink, very light degradation kink, pet names (baby doe, pet), friends to lovers, happy ending
word count: 5,000
a/n: my first halloween fic of 2025 is my entry for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor's Orctober challenge!! i used the prompts "size difference" and "baking comfort foods" and combined it with my favorite-favorite trope of friends-to-lovers. i may have written plenty of friends-to-lovers fics with Bucky, but this one is slightly different because he's an orc 😅 anyway, hope y'all enjoy!!
halloween fics masterlist
When you befriended the orc that had moved to your small town—the first monster to do so—it had seemed like everyone needed to warn you about what could happen. Some cautioned that orcs were quick to anger, while others insisted they had a cruel streak.
Then there had been the groups of middle-aged women who, with eyes as wide as saucers, asked you in hushed tones about what would happen if, god forbid, he forced you to carry his children.
They warned you that you’d never recover.
As gently as you could, you’d assure them you were just friends—keeping to yourself that you secretly wished you could be more with your orc best friend.
It was tedious, listening to the town and their outdated ideas. Thankfully, as the months and years went by, the warnings waned. Meanwhile, you grew closer with your best friend, and you learned something nobody had warned you about: Orcs were clingy.
Or maybe that was just your orc best friend, Bucky Barnes.
It seemed like he couldn’t go five minutes without touching you, whether that was settling one of his big hands on the small of your back while the two of you wandered through the town’s harvest festival. Or the way he hooked his heavy arm around your shoulders and tucked you into his side when you went out for drinks with friends.
Truthfully, you hadn’t realized how touch-starved you were until you’d met Bucky. You enjoyed the brush of his warm palms, the teasing touch of his ghosting fingers and the steady weight of his heavy hands too much to tell him to stop.
It helped that Bucky’s touches were always innocent. His hands never drifted anywhere inappropriate, and it never felt like he was trying to coax you into something more. Even though sometimes you wished he would.
Still, as innocent as it was, Bucky’s wandering hands often drove you to distraction. While you’d accepted it as part of your life with him, and you enjoyed having the clingy orc as your best friend, it could be inconvenient at times.
Case in point: It was the morning of your annual Halloween movie marathon, and you were busy in the kitchen of your little cottage on the edge of town, trying to bake some spooky sprinkle cookies.
Bucky had arrived bright and early, a tray of hot, steaming coffee and a bag of pastries in hand, to “help” you with the task. However, all he’d managed to do was finish his own drink in record time and stand behind you with his hands on your hips while he watched over your shoulder as you measured out ingredients.
The problem was his hands didn’t stay still. His fingers slipped beneath your sweater, pressing into the warm skin of your belly above the hem of your leggings, and the feeling was so surprising, so distracting—so good—that your hands shook and you spilled flour all over the countertop.
“Bucky,” you whined, staring at the wreckage in front of you and huffing an annoyed breath. “You know the rules,” you began, shooting a glare over your shoulder at the big orc. “Keep your hands on the outside of my clothes while I’m handling easily spillable things.”
You grabbed his thick wrist—not for the first time marveling over the fact that your fingers didn’t even come close to closing around it—and yanked his hand out from under your sweater. Out of habit, you set his palm back on your hip and grabbed a damp kitchen towel to begin cleaning up.
Bucky, at least, had the decency to look chastened. He plucked the towel from your hand, sweeping the loose flour into his palm while you lifted your mixing bowl.
“I’m sorry, baby doe, I wasn’t thinking,” Bucky murmured, his tusks protruding more as he pouted a little.
Heaving a sigh, you let the frustration dissolve as you exhaled, and you gave him a smile. It was impossible to stay mad at your best friend when he sounded so remorseful—and when he helped you clean up the messes he caused you to make.
“I forgive you, just try to be careful, Buck, please,” you said, turning back to your mixing bowl and beginning to sift flour in again.
Bucky slid in behind you, and you paused, waiting for him to get comfortable. He wrapped his thick arms around your front and tucked his chin on top of your head, rumbling a pleased sound in his chest. You could practically see the contented smile on his face.
Only once he’d settled did you continue what you were doing, muttering, “Sometimes, I think you’d live inside me if I let you.”
Your words had a sudden, and more severe effect on your best friend than you’d anticipated.
Bucky’s arms tightened, his whole body going taut, and he rumbled a deep sound in his chest, almost like a purr. Desire slid like warm chocolate down your spine, and you quickly set your sifter aside before you could make another mess.
“Don’t tempt me, baby doe.”
You went still, confused by the shift in the mood of the room and what you’d done to cause it. You’d worked hard to keep your feelings for Bucky bottled up, but it felt like you’d accidentally let some spill free along with the flour. It also felt like he might return your feelings.
“Wha-what do you mean?”
As if to explain, Bucky pressed his hips flush to your body, and you felt the thick ridge of his cock dig into your lower back. He was so hot and hard, you gasped, gripping the edge of the counter and instinctively pushing up onto your tiptoes to press your ass into him.
“Buck.” His name on your lips was a pitiful whine, dissolving into a wanton moan when he lifted you off your feet, slotting his cock between the cheeks of your ass through your leggings.
“I’d love to live inside you, baby doe,” Bucky murmured. “I dream about it—dream about having you impaled on my cock, strapped to the front of my body to keep you there, while I go about my day.”
Your best friend rocked his hips, grinding his thick cock into your ass, and all you could do was tilt your head to the side, giving Bucky access to press wet, suckling kisses down the line of your neck. When he nipped you teasingly with his tusks, you mewled desperately.
“I want to make you my permanent, pretty little cocksleeve, pet,” Bucky went on, his voice growing deeper and darker, his hands beginning to wander, groping your soft curves as he spoke. “Want you to be so used to being full of my cock, it feels strange when I’m not inside you.”
“Oh—oh my god,” you gasped, heart racing in your chest. Heat suffused your body so thoroughly, you had the distant, wild thought that you’d left the oven on too long. “We’re just friends,” you said dumbly, knowing even as you said the words that they were a far-cry from the simple truth. “We don’t do that.”
“But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?” he murmured teasingly in your ear, and the heat in your body rose to your cheeks. “You’ve thought about what it would be like for me to slide my thick, orc cock into your sweet little human pussy.”
He said the words so assuredly, you wanted to proest—but you couldn’t. Because it’d be a lie.
Of course, you’d thought about it. Of course, you’d thought about being with Bucky. He was so kind and considerate, and so big, you couldn’t help but be curious…
“I’ve thought about it endlessly, baby doe,” Bucky confessed. One of his hands drifted down to your belly, until his fingertips just barely brushed the top of your mound over your leggings. “I’ve thought about filling you with my seed, about you growing round with my youngling.”
A tremor of desire shivered down your spine, your nipples tightening with need beneath your sweater. Leaning into Bucky’s hulking form, your head fell back against his shoulder, letting his voice flow over you.
“I can smell the way you slicken when the townsfolk try to warn you away from me,” he rumbled, his fingers teasing the waist of your leggings. “I’ve tried to be patient and wait for you to come to me, but I’m losing my mind here, baby doe. Tell me I’m not alone—please.”
Bucky’s final word sounded like it was ripped from the very depths of his soul, and it cracked you open.
A helpless, pitiful whimper slipped from your lips and you shuddered in your best friend’s arms as you let yourself feel everything you’d stuffed down deep for so long.
“Bucky,” you started, turning in his arms to face him. Pushing up onto your tiptoes, you wound your arms around his neck, practically climbing his massive body to look him in the eye. “You’re not alone—I feel it, too.”
“That’s my girl,” Bucky murmured seconds before capturing your lips in a kiss.
All the emotion you’d bottled up surged forward, rushing to the surface, and you kissed Bucky with all that you had, your best friend meeting you with his infinite passion and desire. For long, blissful moments, you reveled in each other, exalting in the joy of finally coming together.
When you nipped at Bucky’s lower lip, he chuckled deep in his chest, sending delightful shivers of pleasure down your spine to settle heavily between your thighs. And when you ran your tongue teasingly over his tusks, he groaned so deep, you felt yourself growing obscenely wet, your body aching to be filled.
“Are you going to let me have you, baby doe? Are you going to let me touch you in all the ways I’ve been dreaming about for years?”
“God, Bucky, yes, please,” you gasped. “I’m yours, touch me however you want. Just fill me up. Please.”
The orc let out a low groan, ducking down to grab you around the backs of your thighs. He hauled you up until your legs circled his waist, your center settling deliciously against the impossibly thick girth in his pants.
“We’ll get there, but it’s going to take some work, baby doe,” Bucky murmured, carrying you out of the kitchen and into your living room. He sank down onto your orc-sized couch, pulling you on top of him.
Your thighs were spread obscenely wide across Bucky’s lap, his massive bulge hot and hard against your already drenched core. You were so distracted by the devastatingly perfect feel of him, of his mouth on your skin as he kissed your jaw, that it took a moment to understand his words.
“What do you mean work?”
A husky chuckle ghosted over your neck and you shivered. Bucky grabbed your hips and dragged your slit slowly up and down the imposingly long ridge of his cock.
“Feel that, pet?” Bucky rumbled in your ear, his voice gruff with desire. “It’s all for you, but we gotta make sure you’re ready for me, yeah? Don’t wanna hurt you.”
Your pussy gave a hungry pulse, and a soft, needy whimper slipped from your lips. Your fingers curled into claws in his t-shirt, tugging uselessly at the fabric that was in the way.
“Want to feel you, Buck—really feel you.”
Your eyes found his, pleading wordlessly with your best friend. His hands slid beneath your sweater again, dragging the hem up until it snagged on the lower curves of your breasts. He paused, raising his brows in a silent question, and you nodded eagerly.
Agonizingly slowly, Bucky undressed you, a reverence in his gaze as he peeled away the layers of your clothes like he was unwrapping the most precious of gifts. When your sweater and bra were discarded, he hauled you up his chest so that he could lavish your tits in worshipping, suckling kisses.
The orc rumbled a groan deep in his chest as he sucked on your nipples, the vibrations reverberating delightfully through your body until you were grinding down on his stomach. You could feel the hard-packed muscle beneath a layer of softness, and it drove you wild, humping against Bucky like he was a firm pillow between your thighs.
“Fuck, baby doe, I can feel how wet you are,” Bucky muttered, his words muffled against your bare skin.
When you looked down, sure enough, you’d left a wet spot on his sweater, the fabric dark with your arousal. Heat rose to your cheeks and you covered your face in embarrassment, mumbling a scandalized, “Ohmygod.”
But Bucky only chuckled, gently prying your hands away from your face and bringing your mouth to his for a sweet, slow kiss. You melted into him, your arms winding around his shoulders, fingers carding lazily through his soft hair.
“Should I take my shirt off, baby doe, let you really mark me with your scent?” Bucky teased, his tusks practically twitching with mirth as he tried to keep the smirk off his face.
“Mean,” was all you said before kissing him again. “But yes, take your shirt off.”
Another laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest but he did as you asked. In half the time it had taken Bucky to strip you of your sweater, he undressed himself and the rest of you. When you settled back on his lap, it was skin-to-skin and the sheer heat of him—the delicious scent of him, like earth and air—was so overwhelming, you moaned loudly.
Bucky captured your mouth in a decadent kiss, swallowing down your sounds of pleasure as he rearranged the two of you on the couch. He reclined into the cushions, half-laying down while you sprawled on top of him, the monstrous ridge of his cock wedged between your thighs.
When you broke from the kiss to catch your breath, you couldn’t help but satisfy your curiosity, casting your gaze down between your bodies to Bucky’s cock. When you saw him, your eyes went wide—not from fear or apprehension, but from excitement.
“Don’t worry, baby doe, it’ll fit,” Bucky murmured, misinterpreting your expression. He brushed a soothing kiss to your temple.
You gave an impolite snort and looked at your best friend. “Oh, I know it will,” you said, a smirk curling the edges of your mouth. “It’ll just take some work, right, Buck?” you asked teasingly, but you didn’t give your best friend a chance to answer.
Planting your hands on Bucky’s pecs, you rolled your hips in a slow, delicious slide, dragging your wet pussy up and down the shaft of his cock. Your lower lips were split obscenely wide around his thick girth, but you were so wet, dripping with so much arousal, that it wasn’t long before you were coating him in your desire.
“Jesus—fuck, you feel so good leaking all over my cock,” Bucky growled, his blue eyes dark like an autumn night as he watched your pussy grind against his cock. “Good girl, get me all nice and slick—it’ll make it so much easier to stuff your sweet little human cunt full of my fat cock.”
“Oh god,” you cried, your entire body shuddering with want. Before you could think to stop them, words tumbled from your lips. “I want your cock so bad, Buck, want you to split me open, want you to ruin me for anyone else.”
“Baby doe.” The pet named was a guttural growl, and when you glanced up at Bucky’s handsome face, you found him staring at you like you’d hung the moon in the sky. “You’ve already ruined me for anyone else.”
Your mouth dropped open at the confession, but your best friend wasn’t done.
“I’ll never want anyone else but you, baby doe,” Bucky rumbled, his voice laced with emotion. “You’re the perfect mate for me, and you can have me however you want me—whether it’s as friends, or something more. My heart and soul are yours.”
“Oh Bucky,” you cried, dragging his face to yours for a kiss. You kissed his passionately, letting him feel every bit of the love and devotion filling your chest. “I’m yours, Buck, I’m all yours—forever,” you promised, gasping for breath as you stared into his sapphire eyes.
“Mine,” Bucky growled, his gaze darkening with a possessiveness that called to something deep in your soul. You grinned at your best friend—your mate—and echoed the word back to him.
“Mine.”
Before Bucky could capture you again in another long, heated kiss, you sat back, lifting up until the tip of his cock nudged at the tight, dripping hole between your thighs. The orc snarled hungrily, his hands grabbing your hips and helping to line you up.
Holding Bucky’s gaze, you began to lower yourself on his cock, gasping when the blunt tip pushed into your tight channel.
“Oh god,” you mumbled, eyes rolling back in your head at the sheer stretch of him. He was so big that you were panting, your cunt throbbing with pleasure.
“Take it slow, pet, relax—don’t hurt yourself,” Bucky warned, and you blinked until you could focus on him again.
It was grounding, staring into the eyes of your best friend, of the orc who knew you better than anyone else in the world. When the sting between your thighs eased, you lifted up, feeling the tip of Bucky’s cock pop free from your hole; then you pressed down again, taking another delicious inch of him.
“Good girl,” Bucky rumbled, his eyes going dark and hooded as he watched you. His gaze was admiring as it swept down your body, lingering on your curves. “You look so fucking gorgeous taking my cock, I could watch you all day.”
You huffed a half-hysterical laugh. “It better not take that long to make it fit,” you quipped breathlessly, rising up and sinking down on him again, taking even more. “God, Bucky, you’re so big,” you whined, tears springing to your lashes.
When you blinked the tears from your eyes, you found Bucky smirking smugly at you, his tusks proudly on display.
“Want some help, baby doe?” he asked, his voice dripping with so much male satisfaction, you had to roll your eyes. “Want me to stuff that tight little cunt with my big cock?”
A soft, keening moan slipped from your lips, and your pussy pulsed around Bucky’s hardness, even more wetness gushing from your dripping hole. You couldn’t hide your body’s reaction, and he chuckled, sounding even more delightfully satisfied.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Still, Bucky paused, his gaze catching yours as he waited for your assent. You nodded your head, feeling a bit like a bobblehead, and urged him to take over.
Your best friend’s big hands cupped your ass, using his considerable strength to lift you up and pull you back down on his cock, inching deeper. Bucky spent long, luxurious minutes working his thick cock into your pussy, the delicious torture of him stretching you open seeming to go on forever.
All the while, he kept up a litany of praise, cooing about how good you were doing for him, how you were taking his cock so prettily. And when the tears that caught in your lashes splashed onto your cheeks, he tipped your face toward his so he could kiss them away.
It was so perfect, you almost never wanted it to end. But there was an insatiable creature buried deep in your bones, and it craved the feeling of taking Bucky to the root. You needed to be full of him, to be so filled by your best friend’s cock that it left no room for doubt about who you belonged to.
“Almost there,” the orc purred after what seemed like an endless age. He kissed your bee-stung lips, his tusks nipping playfully before he pulled back to look at you. “You can take me all the way, can’t you, baby doe? You can take every inch of my cock?”
“I can take it,” you said, hiccuping a sob while your hands gripped his bulging biceps. “Give it to me, Buck, gimme your whole cock. Stuff me full, show me I was made to take your cock.”
Bucky’s eyes flashed with something feral, and in the next moment he was biting out a command, “Deep breath, baby.” He waited until you filled your lungs with air, and then he yanked you down on his lap until your ass was flush with his tree-trunk thighs.
A piercing scream ripped from your lips, filling the cozy living room of your cottage as your mind went blank and pleasure—sharp and so deliciously sweet—tore through your body. There was an edge of stinging pain that cast the pleasure in much starker relief, overwhelming you as you succumbed to sensation.
It wasn’t until a moment later, when you crashed back into your body, that you realized you were coming. Your scream had dissolved into ragged, helpless sobs, and you shook violently against Bucky’s barrel chest, his sturdy arms wrapped around your body, one hand petting your back while the other held you on his lap.
“That’s my girl, so perfect, such a perfect mate, coming on my cock,” he rumbled, his voice growly and breathless in equal measure. “Fuck, you feel so good, baby doe—can feel your precious cunt gripping my cock like she never wants to let me go.”
“Never,” you gasped, echoing a word that you felt in your soul was important. “Never let me go, Buck.”
“Never,” he promised, tipping your face toward his for a tender kiss.
For a long while, you simply kissed, enjoying the feeling of being joined together in the most physically intimate way possible.
When you broke away for some air, you looked down your body, and noticed a slight bulge in your belly where Bucky’s cock was seated deep inside you. Your fingertips danced over the bump, your eyes wide with wonder.
A low chuckle came from Bucky, and he pressed his big palm against your stomach, making your cunt impossibly tighter around his cock. You felt him twitch, your body giving an answering clench as you moaned wantonly.
“This is where I belong,” Bucky murmured, ducking down and planting a kiss to the apple of your cheek, making you smile at the brush of his tusks. “Buried inside my sweet little baby doe. I’m going to stay right here as long as you’ll let me.”
You smiled dreamily at your orc, laying your hand over the back of his and pressing his palm more firmly against your belly. “You can stay as long as you want—as long as you fuck me first,” you sassed.
“Is that a new rule?” Bucky shot back, a feral grin stealing across his face.
Before you could answer, he was moving. Cupping your ass, Bucky lifted you up until only the tip of him remained inside, then pulled you back down hard his cock.
An obscene cry spilled from your lips, your mind going blank as every bit of your being focused on the pleasure of his thick, veiny length dragging against your sensitive inner walls. It was almost too much, and yet not enough because you wanted more of that sensation—you were ravenous for it.
“More,” you sobbed, “please!”
Bucky grunted and set to work bouncing you on his cock, working you up and down his shaft like you were his own personal fuck toy. It was so absurdly hot that all you could do was sit pretty on his cock, your gaze flying between his savage expression and the sight of his cock bulging in your belly.
“Rub your pearl, baby doe,” Bucky growled. “Oh fuck, ‘m gonna come, and I want to feel you milking my cock.”
Your fingers slid between your thighs, finding your achy, swollen clit. It only took a few strokes to get you to the edge and you opened your mouth to tell Bucky you were close. But before you could, he surged up from below, the tip of his cock hitting a spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars.
You came again with another wailing scream, so suddenly that your sound of pleasure cut off on a vicious gasp. Tremors shook your entire body and it was only Bucky’s hands that kept you upright and impaled on his cock.
Your orc rutted into you from below, his dark blue gaze fixed on your face, watching as every bit of pleasure washed over your features. His expression was twisted with his own desire, his tusks bared and his nostrils flaring as he pounded into you.
With a ferocious roar, Bucky threw his head back and his entire body went taut as he yanked you down hard on his cock. The sight of him coming was glorious, all corded muscle and barely-leashed, monstrous strength, his hips still working instinctively as his cock twitched in your cunt.
Your orc spilled rope after rope of thick come into your pussy, flooding your body until it was overflowing, leaking out around the edges of his fat cock.
Once he eased down from his peak, Bucky gathered you up in his arms, guiding you to sprawl across his chest while his palms skated along your skin, touching you wherever he could reach. With a happy hum, you settled on top of him, enjoying the feeling of his touch even more when your body was loose and sated.
“Baby doe?” Bucky asked after a while, a hint of tentativeness in his tone. You hummed, encouraging him to go on. “Were you serious about letting me stay inside you as long as I want?”
“Mm,” you murmured, rousing yourself from the edge of sleep to lift your head and pout at Bucky. “I was, but I still want to bake those spooky sprinkle cookies for our movie night later.”
Something sparked in Bucky’s eye and a smirk spread slowly across his handsome face. “What if I told you I had something to let us do both?”
It turned out, orcs were clingy—and not just your best friend.
So much so that someone had invented a type of harness to allow orcs to keep their partners strapped to their chests, and impaled on their cocks, while giving them the freedom to do other things.
It was easier to get into the adjustable harness than you would’ve expected, though Bucky did all the work. He slid you into the stiff leather, promising to get you a new one tailor-made to your bodies as soon as possible.
Your orc was careful as he impaled you on his cock again, but it took much less effort, your pussy already stretched to accommodate his massive length.
A soft moan slipped from your lips when Bucky stood once the harness was secured. You were strapped tightly to his barrel chest, your legs supported by the harness and slung over his hips, leaving his hands free.
When he began to walk to your kitchen, Bucky’s cock shifted inside you and you mewled happily, feeling your pussy gush and clench around him.
Stroking a hand down your spine, Bucky purred, “Does that feel good, baby doe?”
You hummed a happy, dreamy, “Yeah,” and settled your cheek against Bucky’s sternum, enjoying the scent of his musk, the warmth of his skin, and the steady beating of his heart.
Dropping a kiss to the top of your head, Bucky rumbled a pleased sound as he came to a stop in your kitchen. “Now, tell me how to make these cookies—we can’t have our Halloween movie marathon without them.”
For the rest of the morning, and into the early afternoon, you guided Bucky through the recipe, watching over your shoulder. All the while, you enjoyed the feeling of being split open on your orc’s cock, and pressed tightly against his chest, so much of your bare skin touching his that you felt settled in a way that was bone-deep.
Bucky’s heart was a steady companion, beating rhythmically in your ear, letting you know just how happy he was to have you close.
Every once in a while, Bucky would roll his hips, driving his cock deep for a delicious moment, making you moan for him before he returned to his task. By the time the last batch of cookies were out of the oven, you were begging him to fuck you again.
The two of you took a break while you ate lunch, then snuggled on the couch together. When you got sleepy, you laid down with Bucky, and he worked himself inside you. You took a short nap while Bucky watched some old Halloween favorites, waking up in time for the true spooky movie marathon to begin.
Bucky grunted every time one of the jump scares got you, feeling your body clench down on his cock. Your shrieks of terror dissolved into moans when he fucked you, slow and sweet, only letting you come when the movie ended.
By the end of the night, Bucky had buried so many loads in you, your belly bulged a little. He teased you with the idea of planting his seed in your womb, and watching you grow swollen with his youngling—though, since you were on birth control, it wasn’t likely to happen.
Still, the idea made both of you equally feral.
Eventually, you and Bucky fell asleep on the couch together, your pussy stuffed full of your orc’s cock, while movies played on the TV.
It wasn’t the day you’d expected to have when you’d invited Bucky Barnes over for your anual Halloween movie night, but baking spooky sprinkle cookies with your clingy orc best friend while impaled on his cock turned out to be one of the best days of your life.
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader
mcu timeline. post-thunderbolts.
synopsis. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request.
warnings. smut ( switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here! ) bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the thunderbolts*
reader inclusivity. some implications of the reader being shorter/smaller than bucky, reader has a specific fear + a specific scar.
word count. 14.3k
hyde’s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)
Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.
In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.
It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational.
“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”
Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.
“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.
“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane. “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”
No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.
“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”
“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”
Bucky wants to disobey.
He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.
It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.
Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.
“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”
“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”
His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.
“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”
“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.
He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”
“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.
“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.
The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.
A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.
“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”
If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.
For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.
“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.
“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”
Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.
“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”
“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”
“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.
“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”
There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.
Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.
The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…
“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.
As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”
Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.
What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.
Instinct commands him to reach for two things.
First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.
A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.
And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.
“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.
Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.
Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.
There, that’s what it is.
Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.
“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.
He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.
His right palm is growing sweaty.
“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”
“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”
He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.
“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”
As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.
You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.
“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.
“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”
Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.
“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.
Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.
“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.
“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”
“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”
“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.
Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.
“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”
Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.
Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.
In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.
“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”
“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”
His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”
The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.
“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”
Five weeks pass before the call arrives.
On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.
On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.
The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.
“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”
“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”
They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.
“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.
“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.
Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.
“And you’re being reckless!”
“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”
The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.
A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.
Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.
After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.
An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.
From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.
“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”
“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”
The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted.
“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.
“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”
One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.
But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.
Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.
“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”
“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”
“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”
Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.
Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.
The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.
“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”
“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”
“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”
“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.
“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”
Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.
At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.
“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.
“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”
“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”
“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.
The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.
Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.
Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.
Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.
For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.
If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.
Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.
It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.
You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.
“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.
“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”
Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.
After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”
“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”
“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”
To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.
“Why?”
“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.
“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”
“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”
“Oh, so you notice things now?”
“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.
There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.
“Like what? This is just my voice.”
“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”
“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”
It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.
Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?
A throat clears itself over the comms.
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.
There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.
“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”
“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”
The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.
The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.
The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.
“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.
“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”
“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”
A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”
“For once.”
“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.
Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.
A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.
Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.
“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”
“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.
For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?
You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.
“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”
A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.
He doesn’t get to make a single wish.
All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.
With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.
“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”
“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.
“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.
“James.”
“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.
Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.
“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”
“Bucky!”
The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.
Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.
“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.
“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”
“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”
“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”
The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.
“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”
“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin.
“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”
A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.
Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.
The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.
“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.
“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”
“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.
The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.
“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”
Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.
“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.
Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.
“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.
The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.
“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”
Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.
Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.
You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.
It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.
Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.
Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.
What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.
One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.
Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.
Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.
Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.
“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”
“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”
“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”
He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.
The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.
Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.
You weren’t supposed to get hurt.
“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.
“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”
“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”
An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.
“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”
You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.
“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”
“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”
“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”
There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.
“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”
A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.
“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.
“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”
The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.
A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”
“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”
Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.
Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.
You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.
“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.
The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.
But you like to play dirty.
A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.
Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.
“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”
A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline.
“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”
His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.
Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.
“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”
The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.
“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”
Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.
Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.
That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.
“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”
Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.
You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.
“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.
“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”
The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.
“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.
Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.
“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”
The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.
No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.
“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”
When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.
Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.
Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.
You must be a dream.
“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.
And, oh, does he watch.
Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.
“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.
The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.
You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.
It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.
“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”
“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.
Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.
“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.
“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”
“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.
You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.
Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.
Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.
“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.
Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.
The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.
“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”
Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.
“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”
“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.
“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”
The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.
So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.
“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”
Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.
Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.
The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.
His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.
“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”
His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.
“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”
You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.
“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”
That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.
In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.
Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.
“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.
“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.
You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.
One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.
“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”
“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.
“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”
“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.
“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”
The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.
You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.
His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.
Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.
“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”
A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.
One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.
“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”
Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.
That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.
The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.
“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”
“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.
He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on.
Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.
“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”
He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”
“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”
“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”
He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.
You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.
Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.
One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.
“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”
“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.
He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.
“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”
“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.
“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”
“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.
Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.
And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.
When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.
Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.
“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”
The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.
Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.
Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.
More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.
Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.
“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”
Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.
The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.
“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”
“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”
The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.
“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.
“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?”
“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”
“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”
“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.
“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”
He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.
The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.
“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.
“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”
“Your heartbeat.”
+ extra hyde.
· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic)
· besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous.
· dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍♂️
· anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3
· lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;
summary: 6k. after your other friends bail, you beg your best friend (who you def don't have a crush on), Bucky, to go with you to the Halloween festival. But, some things are scarier than haunted houses and corn mazes...
cw: MDNI 18+, equal parts fluff/smut, best friends to lovers, reader is oblivious and bucky is fighting for his life, semi-public, protective!bucky, d/s dynamics, elements of primal play, p in v, holy hay bales, bucky has beef with scare actors
masterlist | divider by @strangergraphics
“Bucky, pleeaaasssee?” You whined, flopping down beside him on the couch, legs flung over his lap.
“No.”
“But I have no one else to go with!”
“Take Yelena.”
“She has plans.”
“Mel?”
“She doesn’t like haunted houses.”
“Oh, so I’m your last choice?”
Heat scorched your cheeks. Bucky, one of your closest friends in the world, was your first choice for everything. Though, you’d ever tell him that.
“No—god, why are you so annoying?”
“Me? Can barely hear the movie over your chattering,” he gruffed, pausing Jason Voorhees mid-chop. It was well past midnight in the Watchtower, and you and Bucky were staying up late to binge on pizza, Val’s candy stash, and some classic horror films. The lounge was dark, save for the glow of the TV and a burning pumpkin-scented candle you’d dug up from a storage closet.
“Why don’t you want to go with me?” You swung your legs around, sitting up. “Are you scared?” You teased, quirking a brow.
A smirk hooked the edge of his mouth, lethal as a weapon in the flickering candlelight. “Crowds, drunks, screaming kids, clowns—not my thing.”
“The Mighty Winter Soldier, scared shitless of a couple of masked high schoolers—”
“Why can’t you just take no for an answer?” He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, but you caught the ghost of a full smile tug at his cheeks.
You pretended not to notice the way his muscles strained the logo on his t-shirt, the veins running along his right forearm. Friends didn’t notice that sort of thing, and that’s all you were. Friends.
When you accepted Val’s offer of joining the CIA as a lead scientist, you never expected to spend your days keeping the Thunderbolts’ tech and suits intact. For a band of super-soldiers and super-spies, they sure knew how to get themselves into trouble. And break shit. But, they always had you to help pick up the pieces.
After an emergency where Shuri was forced to teach you how to fix Bucky's metal arm on the Quinjet, you and Bucky had grown especially close. A real friendship bloomed, something you knew was rare and precious for the hermit-like Winter Soldier. And you'd never do anything to violate that trust he placed in you, no matter how desperately you wanted something more.
His safety mattered more than your heart.
“Fine.” You mimicked his pose, slouching onto the couch with your arms crossed. “I guess I’ll just go by myself.”
His smile vanished, eyes narrowing. “You can’t go by yourself.”
“Well, apparently I have to.”
His head fell back against the couch, throat bobbing as he swallowed. The image of you latching onto his throat like a vampire flitted through your mind, but you shoved it away. “Alright, brat. When is it?” He asked, rolling his head to peer at you.
Your palms went slick at the pet name, heart tripping out of rhythm. “Next Saturday, gates open at 6.”
“…I’ll think about it.”
Which, in Bucky-language, meant ‘I’ll do it, but I’m going to complain the whole time’.
You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck. His cologne filled your nose, skin-warmed and laced with clove. “Thank you, thank you! It’s going to be so fun. We can do costumes, and—”
He went rigid beneath you, hands tightening to fists against the couch cushions as his heart rate lifted, beating conspicuously in the hollow of his throat. “No costumes,” he bit, trying to sound stern, but he could never quite manage it with you.
“Fine, no costumes,” you conceded, since the idea of it clearly appalled him. “But, thank you for not making me go by myself,” you said, pecking his scruffed cheek before retreating to your side of the couch.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, tossing the blanket back over your legs and unpausing the movie. “Now, shut it before you wake everyone up.”
You curled up under the blanket, biting back a bratty retort, and returned your attention to the movie, willing your racing heart to settle. But just when you’d finally managed it, squashing all the un-friend-like thoughts into the back of your mind where they belong, Jason popped up onto the screen with a clash of strings and startled a yelp out of you.
Bucky’s metal hand fell onto your thigh to steady you, squeezing lightly. “Easy, doll,” he soothed. “Sure you can handle a haunted house?”
You stuck your tongue out at him, not trusting yourself to speak around the lump in your throat.
He snickered, removing his hand to drape his arm over the back of the couch. “Don't worry. Those teens will have to get through me first, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, hiking up the blanket to cover your expression, certain your pupils had turned into cartoon hearts at the brief contact. Platonic, friendly contact, you reminded yourself, even as your knees pressed together, ribs knitting tight around your lungs.
Yup, totally platonic.
You knocked on his door at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, practically vibrating with excitement. The two of you agreed to meet at his place because it was closer, despite his insistence on picking you up. Ever the gentleman. But you were friends, this wasn't a date, and him picking you up at your door would only muddy the waters of your mind further.
You reached up to knock again, nerves making you impatient, when the door swung open under your fist.
Bucky stood on the other side, haloed by his hallway light, metal hand braced against the door frame. Your stomach did a kickflip.
“You're going to freeze,” he said flatly, eyes skimming your fishnets and mini-skirt, over the distressed, cropped sweater that barely covered your tits, let alone kept you warm, before flicking up to your face. He was dressed in black jeans and a charcoal colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“It's like 60 degrees, you dinosaur.” You rolled your eyes, slipping under his arm and into the apartment. It was cleaner than usual, pictures dusted and straightened, books in their proper places, blankets folded and draped over the back of the couch. You could even see fresh vacuum lines on the area rug, and you stopped looking before your brain could wonder if he tidied up just for you.
“The sun hasn't set yet,” he argued. “You need a jacket. Or pants.”
“Bucky, I'll be fine—Alpine!” You cooed, spotting the cat sitting primly in the doorway of Bucky's bedroom, tail swooshing across the hardwood in mild interest. You crouched down towards her, and she allowed you to scratch the top of her snow-white head. “I’ll be fine, won't I, Alpine? Yes, I will.”
He made a frustrated sound in his throat, and you heard his boots tread towards you. For a breathless moment, you thought he was going to grab you, but he just stepped around the two of you and into his bedroom without so much as a downward glance.
The rest of the team constantly complained about the Winter Soldier sneaking up on them, but you swore you could hear him moving around through the walls, always knew when he was about to step around a corner or out of an elevator, just from the way the air shifted. His energy was tangible across your skin, electric as a thunderstorm.
“If you catch a cold, don't come whining to me,” he gruffed, re-emerging with his own coat. Of course, it was the leather jacket that made your knees go a little weak every time he wore it. “Did you at least eat a real dinner before we go to this thing?”
“Does a protein bar count?”
His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “No, but popcorn is a whole grain, right?”
“Right!” You beamed.
“Good enough, I'll get you some popcorn at the festival—you sure you don't want a jacket?”
“Oh my god—yes, I’m sure.”
He held his hands up in surrender, then grabbed his glove from the table by the door. “After you, brainiac.” He winked, opening the door and gesturing outside.
You playfully checked his shoulder as you walked by, smirking up at him. “Bye, Alpine! I'll have him back by midnight!” You tossed over your shoulder.
His gloved hand found your lower back, nudging you out into the hall. “Don't claw my couch,” he added, pointing towards the cat before shutting and locking the door behind him.
The festival was straight out of a nineties film, with orange and black striped tents, glowing jack-o-lanterns hanging from half-bare trees, and fog machines spilling across the leaf-strewn ground. It was chillier than you expected, the sky clear and moon-bright, a light wind making the pumpkins bob and sway overhead. “Monster Mash” mingled with the multi-colored fog, the lights thumping in time with the music. It was crowded, certainly, but not so much that you couldn’t move freely around the walkways and tents.
Or, maybe that was due to the glowering super-soldier-turned-guard-dog on your left.
You tossed another piece of popcorn into your mouth, crunching happily as you perused the row of vendors. There were custom soy candles and tea blends and orange blossom honey, homemade jewelry and crystals and handpainted decor. Food stands were littered throughout, serving fresh apple cider donuts, their sugared scent heavy on the air, foot-long corn dogs, and slices of pizza the size of your head.
When you stepped up to a booth, managed by a young person selling crochet cryptids and monsters, Bucky stepped right up to your back to shield you from passersby, close enough that you could feel the heat of him burning through your open-knit sweater. Suddenly, you couldn’t read the little sign in front of you, the letters jumbling as all your attention zeroed in on his proximity. The scant inches between his body and yours.
“What’s that one?” Bucky asked, his voice low and way too close to your ear as he reached around to point to a plush in front of you. You suppressed the shiver that dripped down your spine.
“That’s, uh, M-Mothman,” you stuttered.
He hummed, his hand moving to grab a teeny gray Frankenstein’s monster, a keyring attached to its head. “Hey, look. They’ve got me too,” he joked, thumb wiggling the monster's stitched-on arm to wave at you, and your heart lurched so hard you got a little dizzy.
“Frankenstein’s monster is my favorite,” you mumbled, hoping he couldn’t see the way your hands trembled from this angle.
“How much?” He asked the vendor.
Your knees went gooey. “Buck—”
“Let me.”
And five minutes later, the little Frankenstein’s monster was bobbling merrily from the strap of your purse.
“Tell me about Frankenstein,” he said, slinging an arm over your shoulders when a group of boys veered too close and tucking you into his side.
Excitement lit like a firework in your chest. “Frankenstein’s monster,” you corrected, and dove into half a dozen lectures’ worth of lore while you continued meandering around the stalls.
Bucky nodded along, raising his eyebrows at all the appropriate moments, and you could have sworn his eyes were twinkling brighter than the fairy lights, softening with every run-on sentence and abandoned point. But then he reached across you while you walked, snatching a handful of popcorn before you could wrench it away.
“Hey!” You cried, feigning indignation. “That’s mine.”
“I bought it, but fine,” he argued after swallowing. “May I have some of your popcorn?”
A wicked idea flitted through your mind. “Sure,” you said, grabbing a particularly large piece. “Catch!” You tossed the popcorn up at him, and he leaned right, mouth open to catch it, and it bopped against his forehead before falling to the foggy ground. “That was terrible,” you teased.
He scoffed. “Try again. And actually aim this time.”
You tossed another kernel, deliberately sending it too far left, and burst into a fit of giggles when he nearly toppled over trying to catch it.
“Alright, brat.” He caught your wrist as you readied the next projectile, bringing your hand to his mouth.
The world stilled around you, eyes focusing like a camera lens on his lips as they parted, the pink of his tongue darting out as he ate the piece of popcorn directly off your fingertips. No actual contact was made, but you felt it all as keenly as a kiss.
“Was that so hard?” He smirked, turning forward to continue strolling like he hadn’t just knocked your world off its axis.
Panic skittered between your rib bones. This was veering way off the friendship course. You were just his friend, you were not supposed to be studying his mouth like it was a circuit board. Abort, abort, abort.
You stuffed your hand into the bag of popcorn and launched a handful at his face. “That better?” You teased.
He didn’t fight it, catching a few pieces as they showered over him, his smirk never faltering. “Not quite, but I’ll take it.”
You rolled your eyes and desperately tried to ignore the growing ache in your chest and between your legs as you walked into the area with all the carnival games. This area was louder than the last, filled with bells and horns, the clicking and whirring of games, the cheers and boos of the players. Kids ran around with arms full of stuffed skeletons, ghosts, and candy corns, and you tried not to look too longingly at the plushes. But, of course, when you glanced up at Bucky, his eyes were already on you.
Another flurry of butterflies tickled your lungs.
“Do you want—”
“Come and test your aim! Only five dollars for five shots! Gotta pop five balloons to win!” One of the workers shouted from a dart-throwing game, cutting him off. “C’mon, man! Think you can pop all five and win your girl a prize?”
Your girl. Your girl. Bucky’s girl. No, you internally scolded yourself. Bucky’s friend.
Thankfully, Bucky didn’t engage, attempting to steer you away when you turned to look.
“Ah, that’s what I thought!” The worker pressed on. “Bro doesn’t want to embarrass himself! Come over here, sweetheart, I’ll win a prize for ya’!”
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.
“Bucky, don’t let him—”
“You wanted a prize, right?” He dragged you behind him up to the booth, and slapped a five-dollar bill on the table in front of the worker, who was very obviously no more than seventeen years old, his name badge reading Mike.
“Just five rounds? You sure, old-timer?” Mike goaded.
Bucky shrugged. “I’m feelin’ lucky.”
Mike set the darts on the table and stepped off to the side, leaning over the table to peer at you. “You think he can do it?” The teen asked with an oily smile.
“With his eyes closed,” you replied curtly, moving back to give Bucky some room.
Bucky glanced down at you, a warm smile melting the ice in his eyes, before he loosed his first dart. The balloons were organized by color, with a few gold and silver ones scattered throughout, presumably for the larger prizes hanging from the awning.
The first dart hit one of the gold balloons so hard, it nearly tipped the board backwards.
Mike choked on his drink. But before he could say anything, Bucky threw the next four darts, one for each golden balloon, the pops loud as firecrackers. Each one made your heart jump higher in your throat, beating like a drum beneath your skin.
“Holy shit,” the teen mumbled, eyes wide. “Are you like—”
“I believe that earns a jumbo prize,” Bucky taunted, pointing at the giant purple bat hanging in the corner.
Mike tugged on one of the darts and found that it had hit so hard, the tip had bent into the wood. He’d almost certainly need pliers to pry them out. “Sure, uh, y-yeah.”
“It's barely going to fit in my apartment,” you giggled, wrapping your arm around his and squeezing. “Thanks, B.”
He winked at you. “’Course, doll—actually,” Bucky interrupted the teen as he struggled to reach the bat. “We’ll come back for it later.”
“But what if someone—” Mike started.
He dropped another ten on the table, letting his sleeve hike up just enough to reveal his metal wrist. “You’ll keep an eye on it for me, yeah?”
Mike's jaw dropped, nodding frantically. “Yes, sir! Whatever you need—”
Bucky waved and steered you away before he could make any more of a fuss. “Fucking kids,” he grumbled when the two of you were out of earshot.
“Yeah, well, you showed him,” you chuckled, noticing that your arm was still looped in his and quickly retracting it.
“Didn’t do it for him,” he said, a smug smile crinkling the corners of his azure eyes, and you nearly dissolved into a puddle right then and there.
God, you were hopeless.
Only a few people separated you and Bucky from the entrance to the haunted house. It was vampire themed, built to look like a gothic mansion, draped in cobwebs and red velvet, bloody footprints and drag marks along the sidewalk leading up to the entrance. Organ music blasted from a nearby speaker, the resonant notes sprawling out like the crimson fog at your feet.
Bucky stuck tight to your side, head on a swivel as you inched along, metal hand gripping the railing to create a barrier between you and the people behind you. Not that they dared get closer than a few feet, but Bucky didn't seem to care.
“Hey,” you said, drawing his attention from the scare actor prowling a dozen paces away with a plastic chainsaw. “Everything okay?”
He made an affirmative noise in his throat, gaze returning to the actor.
“Welcome to Count Dracula's castle!” The greeter at the door crowed, flinging his red-lined cape wide. “Are you ready for a tour?”
You and the rest of the group going in with you whooped with excitement as he lead you inside. Bucky shifted to stand behind you, and you had to admit, it did make you feel a little less nervous than you normally would.
The house was dark and winding, with flashing red lights and swooping bats. The metallic smell of blood was pumped through the vents, faint enough to creep you out without being too visceral. Nothing had jumped out yet, but Bucky still inched closer to you, a hand falling to your hip.
The shock of it nearly made you stumble, the bare skin of his real hand scalding against your exposed midriff.
Then, with a screech of organ keys, a girl covered in blood came tearing out of one of the rooms, screaming her head off as she raced through your group.
You jumped, a giddy peel of laughter bursting out of you, and Bucky’s arm slid fully around your waist, turning to iron as he yanked you back against his chest. You could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, but he kept you moving forward when you tried to peer back at him.
Every scare actor that jumped out seemed to ratchet Bucky's stress higher and higher, but you were having a blast, adrenaline surging through you as you moved deeper into the castle.
“Having fun?” He murmured against your ear as you passed through a quieter hallway overlooking a haunted graveyard.
You nodded, grinning ear to ear, and some of the tension in his shoulders ebbed.
Then, the group was split up, leaving just you and Bucky to navigate the next section. You clung a little tighter to him, the music growing soft and eery, shadows creeping closer. A distant scream made you jump back into Bucky's arms, and he wrapped you up in both of them. One across your waist, the other around your shoulders.
“I've got you,” he shushed, nose brushing the shell of your ear, and your lower belly flooded with heat, thighs tensing.
And of course, a poor scare actor chose that moment to throw himself at you from a dark wardrobe, wielding a kitchen knife above his head.
Bucky was there and gone in a blink, moving so fast he was little more than a lethal blur. He grabbed the actor's wrist in a crushing grip, slamming it back against the wall so hard the plastic knife clattered to the ground. Bucky kicked it away on instinct, sending it skittering into the shadows.
“Bucky!” You gasped, reaching for him, but knowing better than to actually touch him.
“Jesus Christ, man!” The actor wailed, squirming under Bucky's ruthless hold. “It's not real!”
Bucky dropped him just as quickly as he'd seized him, letting the kid crumple to the ground, cradling his wrist to his chest.
“I think you broke it, asshole,” he whined, scooching away from the still looking super-soldier.
“You're lucky I didn't rip it off,” Bucky snarled.
“Alright, alright—” like grabbing the collar of a growling dog, you tucked your fingers into Bucky's palm and urged him to take another step back. “We're really sorry, just—just put some ice on it and, uh, pick a different target next time. Bucky, come on.”
After a few racing heartbeats, he finally relented and let you drag him out of the closest exit sign and into the bustling festival once again.
“Are you okay?” You asked, leading him into a quieter corner behind one of the vendors.
He clenched his jaw, eyes lowered to the ground. “I shouldn't have come.”
Your heart cracked. “Bucky, no—”
“You were having fun and I—I can't control myself—”
“Hey—” you cupped his jaw, lifting his eyes to yours, “—it was an accident. There's no one else I'd rather be here with.”
His eyes softened, his pupils expanding slightly, but he shook his head. “I'm not good at this sort of thing, and you and I both know it.”
And suddenly, you weren't talking about the festival anymore. Your hand fell limp at your side as anxiety slithered up your throat, snaring your tongue so you couldn't speak.
Friends, friends, friends. Just friends.
He tilted his head, brow furrowing. Something in your expression must have given you away. The anxiety tipped into panic, and suddenly you needed to be anywhere but here before you made a complete fool of yourself.
“Hey, why don't we, uh—let's try the corn maze!” You said, definitely a little too loudly in your haste.
“Right now? Honey—where are you going? Wait—”
You were already gone, peeling off into the crowd and across to the entrance for the corn maze, marked with giant scarecrow guardians and a wooden sign illuminated with multi-colored lightbulbs: “Linus's Corn Maze: Find the Great Pumpkin!”
He caught up to you before you could plunge into the dimly lit path, hand circling your wrist. “Why are you runnin’ from me?” His accent slipped out; it always did when he was frustrated, but you couldn't handle the fizzy way it made your blood feel. Like freshly popped champagne.
“No, no—I’m not!” You couldn't look at him, racking your mind for an excuse. You just needed a second, just a moment to get your head straight so you didn't fuck this all up. “I bet I can find the Great Pumpkin before you!”
“Wait, just hang on—”
“Last one to the center has to buy funnel cake!” You dashed to the left, disappearing around a wall of corn, pretending not to hear him shouting your name. God, you were stupid. So, so stupid. That was about the lamest excuse you could have possibly come up with, but it slipped out before you could rangle it in, desperate to regain a semblance of control.
You kept walking, keeping a brisk pace as you took random turns, going deeper and deeper into the corn maze as you tried to sort out the thoughts swirling in your head. Eventually, you stopped passing other festival-goers, the shadows growing longer, darker, as you drifted further from the festival lights. Your path is illuminated by flagging fairy lights and the moon. The music was distant now, muffled by the crinkle and hush of countless rows of cornstalk.
He was going to be so pissed when he found you. And he would find you. It was only a matter of when.
Why had he been looking at you like that? Calling you honey? Did he know how you felt and was just toying with you? Or was he just oblivious to the effect he had on you?
No, Bucky never missed anything. The slightest hitch in your breath would have him looking up from his work. He could read you like a book.
But Bucky wasn't cruel, either. He wouldn't lead you on or tease you for developing feelings. So, what was he doing? Trying to pick you up at your apartment, fussing over your needs and outfit, buying you the little trinket that you were now holding in a death grip as you walked. Was all that his idea of being friends? Because you weren't sure how much more of this you could take.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, lungs drawing tight as you walked and walked and walked. Every snapping twig and scuffle made you flinch, wondering if it was Bucky about to spring from the stalks. But there was something else coiling in your belly beside the fear, something heady and slick, a thrumming between your legs that grew stronger with every passing second. Mixing with the adrenaline to create an intoxicating cocktail that was soaking through your underwear.
Fuck, where were all the other people? Surely, it wasn't just you in this maze…
You turned another corner, stepping out into a larger clearing. Hay bales and pumpkins were littered around the space, brightened with extra string lights and paper lanterns. The Great Pumpkin sat on a platform at the center with a giant, toothy grin, mocking you. Because standing right beneath it, jacket discarded and beefy arms crossed over his chest, was the Winter Soldier.
“Hey!” You called, plastering on a smile even faker than the pumpkin. “You win! Guess I have to…”
The intense look on his face stole the breath from your lungs, words puttering out. He crooked a gloved finger, a silent order to approach, and your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.
You crossed the clearing, stopping an arm's length away. “M’sorry,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around yourself to cover your body, the cold wind passing straight through your pathetic little sweater.
“For what?” He asked, his voice not quite as sharp as his expression.
“For running away…”
“Look at me,” he ordered, stepping closer and tilting your chin up with his right hand. His eyes were burning, firelit, but not with rage. You knew what he looked like when he was angry, and this was something…different. Something you hadn't seen before that had your legs trembling. “Why did you run?”
Your lungs withered in your chest, excuses dying on your tongue. “I—because, uh—”
“You want to know what I think?” He asked, voice rough as the gravel underfoot. “I think you've been running from me for a while.”
You knew better than to lie, so you said nothing, frozen like a rabbit.
“We’re done with that,” he purred, hand sliding along your cheek to card into your hair, tugging at the roots to crane your head back. He leaned in closer, warm breath fanning across your wind-bitten lips. “I’ve caught you now.”
Unable to bear it another second, you shifted forward, closing the last few centimeters between you, and pressed your lips to his in a tentative kiss. It was barely a peck, but it damn near knocked your soul out of your body, streaking through you like a bolt of lightning.
He groaned low in his throat, grip tightening, and kissed you back with a fervor that made your head spin. His mouth pillaged yours, rough and claiming, teeth dragging along your lower lip until you gasped, and he tangled his tongue with yours, swallowing the breathless little sounds you made. You curled into him, hands sliding over the solid expanse of his chest, relishing in the warmth of his body as it sheltered you from the biting October wind. Both of you pushing and pulling, desperate to be closer.
You couldn't believe this was happening, that he wanted you as badly as you needed him. If it wasn't for the near-painful grip he had on your ass and the burning heat of his kiss, you'd think you were dreaming. Or had died and gone to heaven.
But it was real. He was here, in your arms, kissing you like he was starving and your mouth was his favorite meal.
“Bucky,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to mouth at your throat, the muscle of his tongue hot and heavy against your pulse.
“Taste so fucking sweet,” he gruffed, teeth scraping across your collarbones. “Knew you would, my sweet girl.”
Fuck, maybe you had died and gone to heaven.
“Your girl?” You squeaked, heart racing like a rabbit trapped beneath your ribs.
He lifted his head, those ferine eyes boring into yours. “Mine.” Eyes still locked with yours, he walked you backwards until you bumped into a stack of hay bales, the straw rough against the tender skin of your thighs, and you gasped. His mouth was on yours again, seeking, hungry, and he tossed you on top of the stack like you were weightless. Hips wedged between your knees, a leather-clad hand spread across your lower back, anchoring your body against his.
“Bucky, where—” a moan splintered your question, delicate as shattering glass, when his pelvis tilted against yours. “Where are all the people?”
“Cleared them out,” he sighed against your lips. “They were getting in the way.”
“In the way?” Your brain was rapidly emptying, gray matter turning to mush as you rocked back against him, need spiraling like an inferno through your body.
He nodded, his bare hand dipping between your bodies. “Had to find you—needed you.” His fingers hooked through the netting of your tights, grazing the soaked gusset of your panties. “May I?” he asked, grit-laden, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“Please.”
His elbow wrenched back, tearing through the nylon with an audible snap. “Chasing you made me fucking crazy—you make me fucking crazy.”
You bobbled your head, his words barely registering as his fingers dragged over your panties, pressing the fabric against your puffy heat. Making you feel just how wet you were for him. Pleasure rippled through you, the relief bordering on agony, and you burrowed your face in his shoulder, as if you could escape from it. Hide from the intensity of how he made you feel.
“Ah, ah,” he tsked, gloved hand scruffing you like a kitten and tugging you back. “You’re done hiding from me, remember?” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, gliding through your slick to smear circles around your aching clit. “Your body can’t lie, hm? You liked running as much as I liked chasing, didn’t you? Quick little thing.” His voice had taken on a saccharine edge, whiskey-sweet with just as much kick. It burned through you, intoxicating.
You whimpered, tipping your hips into his searching palm, fingers curling in his sweater.
“Use your words, smart girl,” he purred with a wolfish smile.
“Y-yes, Bucky,” you stuttered. “But I never meant—I-I didn’t know you wanted me—fuck—that you wanted me too,” you confessed, your train of thought slipping like silk through your fingers.
“Oh, honey,” he said, releasing his hold on you. His belt clinked, zipper sliding down. You felt it then, just how desperately he wanted you too, hard as a fist and thrumming as he sawed through your slit. “I would chase you to the ends of the earth.”
Your thighs clenched around his hips, a broken moan escaping when the head of his cock nudged against your clit. “I can’t wait anymore—please—”
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he grated, jaw flexing as he notched the tip at your entrance. “Breathe for me, baby—oh, fuck—” he eased inside, just the tip dipping into your heat, and both of you gasped, the stretch bordering on euphoric. “That’s a good girl, taking that cock so well—goddamn, you feel unreal—”
He slid about halfway in, inch by brutal inch, your body tight as a clenched fist, but you were flying high, pleasure washing over you like the tide. He was everywhere, everything, and you clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He bracketed an arm around your waist, drawing you closer as he sank to the hilt, muffling his moan into your hair.
“How’s that feel?” He asked, stroking your hair while you trembled around him. So tender it made you dizzy.
“More,” you whined, mouthing at the harsh angle of his jaw. Savoring the feel of his stubble against your skin. “Fuck me, baby, please—”
He didn’t hesitate, drawing his hips back painfully slow just to slam back into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You keened, vice tightening around your guts as he set a punishing pace. All you could do was cling to him and take it, the obscene sounds of your bodies echoing into the night air around you. But, he held you like you were made of glass, despite fucking you like you were anything but. Careful to keep his metal hand laid flat against the hay behind you, though you could hear the soft whirring and clicking of the plates from the effort of holding still.
“Feel like fucking heaven—knew you would,” he panted, smearing a sloppy kiss to your shoulder where your sweater slipped down. “My good girl, huh?”
You nodded, meeting him thrust for thrust as the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. “Yours.” You dragged him in for another blistering kiss, teeth knocking together in your fever. His hips lost their rhythm, stuttered as he groaned low in his throat.
His fingertips found your clit, rubbing tight little circles that had your toes curling in your boots, eyes crossing as you pleasure mounted higher and higher. Teetering on a razor’s edge of oblivion.
“C’mon, honey. Come for me—fuck, I’m right there with you—” his cock kicked inside of you, surging even deeper than before, and you shattered.
Bliss spilled through the cracks of you, brilliant and burning as liquid gold. Bucky tipped over the edge with you, muffling a cry into your neck as he fucked you both through it, ringing out every drop of pleasure until you both sagged against the hay, panting and delirious.
“Baby, baby—” he cooed, peppering kisses across your sweaty temple as he smoothed the hair out of your face. “Are you okay?”
You nodded, picking a piece of hay out of his hair with a grin. “Perfect, now.”
He smiled back, shoulders dropping, and he kissed you again, this one slower, sipping, savoring. “Naughty thing, letting me fuck you in the middle of a corn maze—” he teased.
You gasped, giggling and swatting at his shoulder as he hauled you up. There it was again—that fuzzy, champagne feeling. “And now I’m gonna let you buy me a funnel cake.”
“But I won!” He protested, grabbing his jacket from a nearby stack and wrapping it around your torso.
“Yeah, and already got your prize.” You smirked, pecking his cheek.
“Fair point, brat,” he hummed, catching your chin to draw you in for another kiss. “Taste sweeter than funnel cake, anyway.”
I use to follow this f1 fanfic creator here coz of Lando. Then lately I’ve seen how they’re basically wishing Lando to DNF, I got scared, I blocked them.
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader
mcu timeline. post-thunderbolts.
synopsis. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request.
warnings. smut ( switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here! ) bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the thunderbolts*
reader inclusivity. some implications of the reader being shorter/smaller than bucky, reader has a specific fear + a specific scar.
word count. 14.3k
hyde’s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)
Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.
In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.
It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational.
“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”
Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.
“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.
“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane. “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”
No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.
“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”
“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”
Bucky wants to disobey.
He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.
It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.
Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.
“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”
“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”
His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.
“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”
“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.
He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”
“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.
“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.
The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.
A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.
“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”
If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.
For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.
“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.
“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”
Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.
“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”
“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”
“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.
“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”
There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.
Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.
The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…
“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.
As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”
Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.
What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.
Instinct commands him to reach for two things.
First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.
A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.
And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.
“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.
Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.
Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.
There, that’s what it is.
Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.
“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.
He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.
His right palm is growing sweaty.
“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”
“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”
He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.
“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”
As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.
You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.
“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.
“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”
Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.
“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.
Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.
“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.
“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”
“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”
“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.
Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.
“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”
Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.
Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.
In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.
“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”
“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”
His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”
The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.
“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”
Five weeks pass before the call arrives.
On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.
On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.
The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.
“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”
“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”
They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.
“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.
“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.
Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.
“And you’re being reckless!”
“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”
The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.
A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.
Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.
After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.
An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.
From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.
“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”
“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”
The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted.
“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.
“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”
One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.
But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.
Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.
“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”
“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”
“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”
Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.
Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.
The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.
“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”
“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”
“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”
“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.
“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”
Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.
At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.
“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.
“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”
“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”
“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.
The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.
Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.
Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.
Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.
For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.
If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.
Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.
It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.
You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.
“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.
“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”
Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.
After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”
“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”
“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”
To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.
“Why?”
“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.
“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”
“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”
“Oh, so you notice things now?”
“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.
There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.
“Like what? This is just my voice.”
“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”
“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”
It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.
Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?
A throat clears itself over the comms.
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.
There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.
“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”
“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”
The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.
The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.
The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.
“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.
“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”
“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”
A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”
“For once.”
“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.
Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.
A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.
Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.
“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”
“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.
For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?
You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.
“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”
A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.
He doesn’t get to make a single wish.
All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.
With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.
“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”
“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.
“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.
“James.”
“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.
Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.
“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”
“Bucky!”
The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.
Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.
“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.
“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”
“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”
“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”
The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.
“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”
“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin.
“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”
A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.
Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.
The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.
“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.
“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”
“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.
The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.
“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”
Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.
“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.
Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.
“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.
The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.
“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”
Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.
Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.
You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.
It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.
Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.
Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.
What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.
One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.
Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.
Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.
Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.
“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”
“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”
“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”
He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.
The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.
Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.
You weren’t supposed to get hurt.
“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.
“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”
“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”
An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.
“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”
You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.
“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”
“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”
“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”
There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.
“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”
A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.
“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.
“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”
The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.
A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”
“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”
Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.
Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.
You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.
“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.
The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.
But you like to play dirty.
A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.
Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.
“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”
A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline.
“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”
His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.
Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.
“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”
The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.
“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”
Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.
Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.
That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.
“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”
Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.
You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.
“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.
“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”
The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.
“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.
Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.
“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”
The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.
No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.
“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”
When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.
Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.
Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.
You must be a dream.
“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.
And, oh, does he watch.
Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.
“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.
The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.
You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.
It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.
“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”
“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.
Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.
“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.
“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”
“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.
You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.
Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.
Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.
“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.
Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.
The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.
“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”
Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.
“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”
“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.
“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”
The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.
So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.
“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”
Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.
Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.
The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.
His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.
“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”
His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.
“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”
You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.
“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”
That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.
In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.
Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.
“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.
“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.
You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.
One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.
“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”
“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.
“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”
“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.
“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”
The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.
You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.
His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.
Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.
“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”
A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.
One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.
“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”
Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.
That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.
The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.
“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”
“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.
He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on.
Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.
“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”
He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”
“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”
“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”
He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.
You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.
Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.
One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.
“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”
“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.
He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.
“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”
“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.
“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”
“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.
Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.
And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.
When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.
Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.
“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”
The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.
Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.
Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.
More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.
Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.
“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”
Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.
The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.
“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”
“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”
The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.
“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.
“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?”
“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”
“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”
“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.
“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”
He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.
The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.
“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.
“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”
“Your heartbeat.”
+ extra hyde.
· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic)
· besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous.
· dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍♂️
· anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3
· lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;
the kinktober prompt: cockwarming · hickeys · lingerie (it's a hattrick!)
as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.
⚜️ WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, mafia!au, angst, porn with plot, childhood best friends to arranged marriage to lovers, repressed feelings, noncon mention (does not happen), allusions to age gap but no direct reference, dom!bucky (soft and mean), fingering, oral, unprotected piv, dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink
🔑 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described to tumble down at one point) and is able-bodied
🔱 AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's not a fic by unificsation if uni doesn't crash out a little when writing it lol. this is my first bwa collab and i worked hard to live up to the talent in the room—i just hope it shows in the story! please be patient when you read this, i beg!
the jewelry aspect in this is inspired by @flockoff-featherface's rendition of mob!bucky in the previous collab! there are some bwa references here, too, though not of everyone because i couldn't fit it naturally and didn't have time to rework things 😭 please know that i love you all, ardently and equally!!
The mahogany door to the suite swings open. Even at night, New York shines beyond floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, busy streets twinkling like rivers of stars. A switch turns on. Warmth floods the space with its velvet finishes and Canaletto walnut counters, the lights beamed through brushed bronze sconces on the walls.
Two figures slip inside. A laugh rings true—yours.
“I can’t believe you got them to make Mom’s tiramisu! Did you have to ask Dad for the recipe?”
Bucky smiles at your back, watches the tumble of your hair from that updo like he didn’t spend the whole night staring at you. Here in your shared home, he’s free to monopolize. No secret audience in the public eye, just twin flames on the top floor of one of the many buildings he owns.
“Your dad wouldn’t write it down. Said they’d steal it,” he taking off his suit jacket to drape it on an armchair, then drops metal cufflinks on a terrazzo tray. “The people at the Chateau were nice enough to follow his instructions through the phone.”
You giggle, mostly at the image—his father-in-law speaking into a brick phone with glasses all the way down his nose—but also a little bit from the wine.
It was vintage. Older than your husband, but certainly not smoother than he is. He was charming all throughout dinner. Got you blushing from compliments even before they poured you the burgundy Bordelaise.
You catch him rolling his sleeves up in your periphery.
And the Chateau was an excellent place. Great service, equally amazing food. The restaurant was efficient without sacrificing intimacy: tables spaced out and sleek, lights dimmed, carpeted floors dampening the sound of delicate cutlery. Bucky didn’t have to say much to get what he wanted, only needed to spare a glance for the maître d’s full attention.
But maybe that’s more because of who he is, though you don’t doubt the restaurant’s hospitality.
No business in their right mind would leave the king of New York wanting.
What you don’t know is that mob boss James Buchanan Barnes spent a good couple of hours worrying about where to take his wife to dinner.
But he made the right choice, like he always did. It charmed you inside and out: lush interiors, a decadent five-course meal with garnishes as pretty as garlands, powder rooms bigger than some people’s apartments. You passed each second marveling like you yourself weren’t accustomed to a life of luxury. Like you weren’t born in it.
And then there was your soft moan when you bit into the food. He didn’t know if he should be jealous or proud, but he can’t complain.
Not when you’re celebrating your first anniversary as a married couple.
“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” you sigh as limbs drag themselves towards the suede settee. He watches as silk ebbs and flows on your skin, soft dangerous ripples lit by hazy highlights from the floor lamp. The dress is one he hasn’t seen before. He’s a stupid man for not taking you out more often.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he sits next to you. You press a smile against his cheek, the peck chaste, thumb brushing against his ringed knuckles.
How you break him with the easiest of touches is beyond him.
The orange dim of the room reflects a look in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while. A trace of mischief. Or is it amusement? Either way, it reminds him of bygone eras spent with you: trampolines, tree-houses, and twenty questions. Back when you were young and stupid and free, a foxy daughter and the bloodhound of an old family.
“Bucky?”
“Yes, princess?”
“Close your eyes for me?” you smile. “I got you a gift.”
He shakes his head with an acquiescing chuckle. He’s never said no to you.
Blue eyes close.
“You’re beating me to it.”
“To what?”
“The presents.”
“Ladies first, as you like to say,” your reply is playful, and he hears movement. Shuffles all paper-like. “Anyway, I thought dinner was your gift.”
“Dinner’s not enough, doll.”
Then the couch sinks next to him and his skin holds your warmth even without touch. Something light falls on his lap.
“Open.”
Blue eyes land on an ivory folder sitting innocently across his thighs. Embossed at the front is an ornate B—his family insignia. The one you made yours, too.
His blank face meets a smile that can only mean excitement. You tilt your head to the piece of stationery, a small ‘go ahead’ that nudges his curiosity past the precipice. He flips the cover open.
Inside is a neat stack of papers. The black ink at the very top of the first page screams at him, all capital letters and antipathy:
REQUEST FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Eyes snap to yours. You bite back a pleased grin.
“Happy anniversary, Bucky.”
The first time you left him so dumbfounded was on his fifteenth birthday.
Yes, Bucky Barnes was once fifteen. Not as tall or muscular. Lighter in both the color of his hair and the weight on his shoulders, compared to the man he is now.
But even a conqueror like him had a childhood: days when his biggest woes were bad weather or Becca’s unending boy problems that he somehow had to hear about.
On his fifteenth birthday, his biggest woe was you not attending the party.
It was a rather big thing. They prepared favors. Balloons, too—despite his insistence on not having them. Indulgent food for the children and an open bar for the chaperoning adults.
All of his family was there and so were his friends, but sweet little you somehow became the best of them despite having nearly nothing in common with him other than interest in each other’s company.
He was older, you were younger. He was a Yankees fan, you thought the baseball diamond was the prize for winning a game. He laughed when he told you that was what they called the field, and then you were laughing too.
It was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.
Something clicked then, except ‘click’ was too inconsequential a word. Shifted, more like. Fatal like tectonic plates, fated like a story.
At that fifteenth birthday party, Matthew got too into catechism for Bucky to have a conversation with. It was also the year relations with the Starks got slightly tense due to suspected swipes at each other’s assets, which meant he and Tony barely met, let alone spoke. The Romanoffs and their eldest daughter Natasha were away for overseas business.
Sure, Bucky always had Steven Grant Rogers by his side. But you and Steve were the best in his books for entirely different reasons.
Even with Steve there, it hurt when you weren’t.
But it wasn’t your fault. You’d been sick all week, down with a nasty bug he wished were a real one instead of a mere turn of phrase—that way he could actually crush it for you.
That way he wouldn’t be sad because the girl he liked couldn’t make it to his special day.
When his mother asked what cake he wanted for the party, he said your favorite flavor instead of his.
What was the point of that if you weren’t here at all?
Then, just before he was supposed to blow the candles out, you showed up. Pretty dress, pretty hair, even prettier face. For a split second, he thought his wish was granted before he even got to make it. Year-on-year myth made material.
“I got all better for you,” you grinned. A little tired, sure, but happy to see him.
He hugged you as tight as the twinge in his chest. You giggled into his shoulder. The adults melted with a chorus of awwws—only made worse when you parted to kiss his cheek.
Just like that, his birthday was made.
You gave him a gift. The one in the wrapped box was great—but your presence is the better present.
Because that was everything he ever wanted: you next to him.
When he started carving order out of underground chaos with his own two hands, you made him understand why the work was necessary. He wanted to protect you. To keep you safe, even before he was old enough to receive his first Glock.
Before he became king.
He blew on your skinned knee when you fell off your bike. Pulled stray twigs out of your hair. Let you steal the heart of his family dog—then his in the process. The two of you grew taller, and still he took care of you: hid you from the guards while he snuck you out to play, then took the brunt of the scolding when you got found out.
For all his easy smiles, you’d always look at him like it was your fault. Doe-eyed. Guilty.
He’d pull you in, pat your head, say it’s okay. Keep the little thank you, Bucky you murmur into his chest like it was buried treasure.
And then college called.
The Barnes’ had history with Princeton, so that was where he went. But the distance from New York to Jersey had nothing against where your parents decided you’d go.
Europe. You told him about it while he was interning.
He said he was excited for you. He lied.
The night before your flight, you cried in his arms. Not the kind of cry that wrenched guts in its wails—the kind that was hushed. Compliant. You cried like he wouldn’t fly across the ocean every weekend just to see you. Like you were in the final stage of grief. Acceptance.
He held you through it. Stroked your hair. Said it’s okay. Promised to call.
What he didn’t do was tell the truth. Declare feelings. How he realized he’d only ever thought of you when he sat across a revolving door of women that fought to be near him. How he replaced the sound of their laugh with yours, only to be disappointed when the self-afflicted spell broke.
How he’d be so much happier be if you were the one he held at night.
Those thoughts festered over the years. Then they’re locked for at least a few more, because tomorrow, it’d take a seven-hour flight to touch your fingertips. Tomorrow, you’d be a name on his phone, a voice on the line, a specter in the corner of every room.
He wasn’t sure he’d keep the secret if he visited. So he didn’t.
Better for you to be a continent away loving him as a friend than shunning him as a foe.
Better for you to shun him as a foe than forget about him entirely.
Time passed. He changed. His feelings didn’t.
Then a few years later, you returned: smarter and stronger and more beautiful, standing just a little taller. Like you’d come into yourself while he wasn’t watching. But even then, you were still you. The girl with twigs in her hair, who now understands ‘three strikes and you’re out’ and batting orders, just with a degree and acquired confidence. Still laughed that same laugh when he picked you up at the airport.
Neither of you wanted to part from that first hug in years, just hands on each other’s backs. You buried your face in his wool. He memorized the smell of your hair.
Your families must’ve put two and two together after seeing that reunion. Or maybe they’ve noticed for a while, bode their time like the good criminals they are.
The arranged marriage didn’t feel like the punishment many of his cohort purported it to be. But then again, he had it good.
For one, he knew who he was marrying. Didn’t have to go through polished profiles and fake first dates. The Barnes family was prestigious enough to attract posers on the regular—they didn’t need any more. Your folk had things greater than reputation: connections, controlled resources, and you.
For two, he loves you.
He never said so out loud.
And he didn’t dare ask you how you feel, but you never said no to the deal, either, even when the two of you agreed how egocentrically strategic it was. Both your parents wanted a power consolidation. They used affection to get it. Yours.
He lingered with you by the balcony of his summer home where the decision was announced, sipping the night air. Come morning, it wouldn’t taste the same.
“Why didn’t you fight it?” he asked.
“Because it was you,” you answered.
He didn’t push. Not when it could capsize him into saying something he might regret.
“Not like I’d know what to do without you, anyway,” you smiled wryly, voice quiet above the breeze and cricketsong.
“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmured back. Eyes looked into yours.
You looked back, then rested your head on his shoulder.
“I know. You always do.”
That was how it happened. Like an avalanche: the late afternoon fittings, lilies, and diamond rings. He didn’t know there were so many types of papers he had to consider for the embossed invitations.
But amidst the flurry, it still didn’t feel like punishment. Never like punishment, but a reward. As if being born in blood and brutality didn’t stop some force of benevolence from acknowledging his patience and deciding he deserved mercy.
That mercy was you in a white dress. An angel before the altar. A kiss followed by church bells.
Matthew Murdock blessed the marriage—Father Matthew Murdock, pardon him. Bastard went from boxing prodigy to priest.
Bucky was ready then, that first night. Ready to spill his guts on the honeymoon suite floor, heart close to bursting with held-back hurt. All the things he felt throughout the years. Things you made him feel, dream, do in the dark. A matrimonial confession that would lead to either crushed ribs or open arms.
Hell or heaven. Nothing in between.
But then he saw you sit in bed with your pajamas—the one with tiny daisies on it—and you beckoned him, patting a spot on the king-sized bed.
Every sentence he scripted was lost in an exhale. What remained was a conviction so cold, it kept him quiet for a year.
He couldn’t lose you.
That night, you ended up cuddling like you were children again. Traded stories about what transpired during the grand reception.
“Your kiss was very convincing,” you smiled conspiratorially.
He didn’t tell you he meant it. The kiss. The vow. The till death do us part.
It’s been a year of that—wedded bliss that you treated like a sleepover.
Touches remained innocent. Gazes remained guileless. You told him his kiss was convincing, but he didn’t know yours would be, too. The soft brushes of lips against his in public dinners. The way your fingers tangled with his.
It was so easy to believe that you married not by circumstance, but for love.
But behind closed doors, it was like the two of you never grew up—or at least you acted that way. Talked about your long day and his dirty work. Fell asleep in innocuous hugs that settled his soul. Took turns being big spoon and little spoon on a whim.
He prefers being little spoon. That way, he feels your breath on his back, and you’re left oblivious to the malady in his sweatpants. Easier for him to escape to the ensuite and touch himself at the thought of you.
Specifically, the thought of you looking at him like a man and not your childhood best friend.
It was a barren purgatory, and he went through like it was all milk and honey.
But now you’ve gone and done it.
He stares at the printed text, slowly crawling back to the present. Your name under petitioner, his name under respondent. He swore to never say no to your wishes, but he never thought you’d wish for this.
Divorce.
The question slips out of him, reeling barely restrained.
“What the fuck is this?”
You tense.
His baritone dips the way it does on his worst days, only now it pulls you under with it. It’s enough to drain the smile on your face until you’re left with a blank look. A canvas for confusion. For turbulence.
Then horror floods the thrum of your veins, making blood run cold.
It reminds you of fear that follows a grave mistake: like the time you accidentally broke an heirloom vase, except the weight in your stomach is a hundred-fold now, and so is the mess on the floor.
You’re glued to your seat by the sensation, instinct to move replaced by ice.
“What do you mean?” you ask, hiding a tremble.
Blue eyes snap to yours. There’s no joking twinkle. No affectionate narrow of them—not when his jaw is as locked as a steel vault. Though you can’t read his expression, it definitely isn’t one you expected him to wear.
He should be happy. This should be what he wanted. But instead he stares at the folder like he’s wondering if this is a dream.
You might be watching a nightmare unfold.
Then he throws it across the room, sending papers and your heartbeat scattering.
“That was my question, princess,” he murmurs, a flash of a storm in his eyes. “Explain.”
Shadow looms over you while he rises to his feet. The movement tears the truth out of you, nervous eyes darting everywhere except his face.
“Well, since the merger’s stabilized, I thought…” you breathe, “I thought that we don’t have to keep this up anymore.”
“Keep what up?” He chases like a dagger: quick, incisive.
“The marriage,” your eyes finally meet his, hoping you’ll witness him see sense. Hoping for awareness to wash over him, that he’ll melt into a kind smile and say: right, I get it now, thank you for absolving us of this thing our parents put onto our shoulders.
That balm doesn’t arrive, and anxiety continues to burn. You stammer.
“Bucky, I’m saying you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness anymore—”
But he scoffs instead, grin devoid of humor. A hand runs through his hair.
“That’s what this marriage is to you then? A burden?”
The turnabout scathes more than his previous silence. Maybe because you never expected this outcome. It is also deeply unjust: why he’s pinning this on you is beyond any logic, especially knowing what he did.
Your eyebrows knot as you stand, a reflection of rising temper more than conscious choice.
“How could you ask me that when you’ve made it clear how much of a burden this is to you?”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just had a great time at dinner!”
You let out a laugh. It’s funny how he thinks you don’t know.
“I’m talking about you smelling like ten different perfumes every night for the past month, Bucky.”
He must think you’re sound asleep each time he slips under the sheets, but the truth you don’t want to admit is that your body stirs at his presence. Even half-conscious, you feel time tick by: one in the morning becomes two, and then three, which is when he comes home most nights.
There in the dark, you breathe him in, wanting comfort, only to find a bouquet of betrayal.
Jasmines and the sea. Camellias, cocoa, and citrus.
They spin like a carousel, switching, erasing his forest green scent only to replace it with the shade of jealousy—one you struggle to school into submission.
You have no right to that feeling. He was never yours to begin with.
And now you watch as his face falls. It fuels your step and the fire beneath your voice.
“I’m not stupid. I noticed. You don’t talk to me about your day anymore, we barely eat together, you come home smelling like women. A great time at dinner doesn’t exactly erase that.”
There’s a pang in your heart. You will it to pass.
“This marriage might have been arranged, and we might not really be husband and wife, but you sleeping around behind my back is still disgraceful. Not just for me. For the both of us.”
Bucky stares back. You speak before he can—he’ll ruin you otherwise, with or without words.
“You could’ve told me, Buck,” you soften. “You know I won’t blame you. You deserve company.”
Company. The kind he won’t look for in you because he’s your good friend—your very best, even.
Expecting him to want to sleep with you is wishful thinking. Expecting him to stay celibate is like muzzling a dog you don’t even own.
“Let’s not pretend this is what we wanted. What you wanted.” There’s nothing interesting about the rug, but you stare at it anyway.
Maybe its modern pattern will rewrite the ancient ones woven in your head. A tangle of old afflictions—expectations, comparisons, the value you brought to the table dictating the love you begged to receive.
A quiet voice prickles in the back of your mind. It tells you it’s not that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage; he just doesn’t want you.
Scheming parents made you a coincidental casualty that landed on his lap, and now you’ve become a problem he’d be better off without. So much that he’d rather distance himself from you than talk about it like you used to.
Even though you’d let him fuck other women if it meant he’d stay.
A greater woman would have cut ties and run. Next to her, you feel like a little girl with a broken sense of self-esteem.
Maybe this divorce is your attempt to prove something. Anything.
Your gaze is blank at the scattered papers on the floor. The only thing you’ve proven so far is your lack of conviction—running away at every shadow of something real.
How did it come to this?
“I just want us to be friends again,” you whisper.
Something crackles against your skin. The air turns into an emotional minefield. An invisible string tugs your gaze, pulling it back to his with the force of nature. The way he looks at you crushes your faith.
It looks like he’s falling apart, too.
You can tell through the clench of his jaws and fists. Through the flicker in his eyes. In the breath you barely remember to take above a tyrannical tension. Tightrope over bear traps.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “Well, I don’t want that.”
Pain and embarrassment punch you with monosyllabic words. He might as well change that last one to ‘you’.
I don’t want you.
But then he steps forward. You look up at him, trying to hold your ground. It doesn’t work. His steadiness knocks you back, feet moving away from him like repelling magnets.
“We can’t be friends anymore,” he says. Your back hits the wall.
“I don’t understand—”
His smile is mirthless.
“‘Course you don’t.”
Bucky stands tall in front of you, silhouette casting a shadow with no escape routes. The hand on your face is the final nail to an uncovered coffin—it holds the hinge of your jaw, the last rites of a relationship. Blue blade-like eyes cut your defenses and drive you into a corner.
His face hovers over yours.
At this distance, he’ll see the sadness past your irises, so you look away. His hand tilts you back to face him.
Then he speaks, soft, and whatever troubling thought you have shatters into a million shards—the second time tonight.
“You don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with the woman you love and not touch her.”
A thumb smooths over your cheekbone, as if to placate the shock. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up.
“And I’ve loved her since she practiced cursive with my name.”
Your missing breath fuels memories, your mind plays a reel. It shows what he’s talking about: a movie, with scenes that slipped between cracks of life lived and fractured.
You’re wearing your favorite skirt. The weather is so nice outside. There’s clumsy handwriting on ruled paper. He smiles when you show its loops and curls:
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend
The words ‘best friend’ are now overshadowed by a single one with four letters.
Time stands still. Gravity swallows your feet into the ground.
He tips your chin up. A taunt.
You can’t run, the gesture says, now that I’ve said it.
And you can’t because he’s pressing up against you, trapping your body between cold wall and warm chest. As if mocking your speechlessness, his finger swipes at your bottom lip, parting them more.
“Sweet girl doesn’t understand what she does to me,” he hums, tracing the perfect edges of your lipstick, “doesn’t even know she gets me hard just by kissing me good morning and good night on my damn cheek. Why d’you think I wake up first and go to bed last, hm?”
Hot breath fans your ear. Hands move to his torso in a bid to steady yourself.
“I tried to be good, honey, I really did.”
Mouth brushes your jaw. Your head lolls to one side in response: are you running, or are you giving him room to take more of you?
“Tried to take my greed out elsewhere, except it didn’t work. They don’t have your body. Your voice. Your face,” he growls.
“They’re not you.”
He’s nipping at your ear, licking the shell as he murmurs.
“Couldn’t even fucking touch them.”
The confession sinks in the way ink does in water: slow, pulsating, before it grows and takes over.
He loves you.
“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.
He scoffs. “Hated you?”
The look on his face clogs your throat. Eyes dark, lips parted—no sign of focus brought by contempt, though you certainly are the object of his perturbation.
He’s lost. The crack in his voice brings the point home.
“How can I hate you when you’re all I ever wanted?”
“Buck—”
Whatever you wanted to say is cut off by a stern shove of your shoulder against ivory wall. The syllables melt into a single whimper.
“I’m your husband, sweetheart,” he breathes across your mouth. “And if you can’t understand that, I’ll drill it into your pretty little head.”
The first kiss he ever gives you is a devouring.
Lips slot. You gasp. For a second you think the Bucky you know is gone: the man who kneels to fix the strap of your high heels, the boy who held you through thunderstorms. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He takes as if you’re his right, voracious like the jowls of a beast. Tongue and teeth further condemns you to his cause—to collapse your walls.
You crumble headfirst.
But he’s still James Buchanan Barnes, the only constant you’ve ever had in your life, so you hold on to him.
A ragged groan slips past when he feels your fingers in his hair. The touch lights up his nerve endings in a bright, loud yes, God, finally—satiated but already screaming for more. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist: both of them strong like shackles in a cage.
“Fuck, I went beyond insane over you,” he mouths, “came so close to just taking you in our goddamn bed.”
The thought sends a chill down your spine. It’s not fear, it’s desire and thrill. You moan.
“You wouldn’t,” you pant, “you’d never.”
“Don’t be so sure,” exhales grow heavy as he paws at your flesh, saliva-slicked lips sucking at your neck. “I’m not a good man, honey. You’ve seen my ledger—our ledger.”
You have. It’s red, just like the lipstick he’s smudging right now as he crashes into you with another violent kiss. You clutch the front of his white shirt, crumpling it. He pulls away to survey the wreck he made.
He smiles at the sight.
“I know the first anniversary’s supposed to be paper, but divorce papers?” he hums. “You’re one hell of a gifter.”
“Bucky, I—”
“Sssh,” lips meet yours again. This time the kiss is languid, almost lazy. In his leisure you find vexation.
“Your turn for your present.”
After leading you to the bedroom, the first thing he gives you comes in an unwrapped box. Its contents are designed to wrap you instead. And they do wrap you: beautiful and bridal, deadly and dangerous in one set. White lace, ribbons, garters that lead to sheer tights—a thing like this should make bridesmaids giggle and say ‘he won’t be able to let go of you if you put this on!’
They’d be right.
Because Bucky is already ruining you.
“Bought this for our wedding last year,” he tugs the balconette bra down, letting your tits spill free like he didn’t make you wear it. “Never got the chance to see you in it.”
The warmth of his mouth captures a nipple. You whine when he delivers a mean suck, spine arching off the bed, a tentative coolness of air before you melt into the sheets again. They’re damp with sweat the moment he crowded you onto your shared bed.
“But we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight. The perfect occasion, yeah?”
Fingers hook at the gusset of your pretty underwear, pulling it aside to reveal slick folds. He touches you there and you stir at the coordinated pleasure that catches you unaware. He hums around your chest. The vibrations send sparks in your veins.
Squirming only sets off clinks of metal.
Bracelets of all kinds knock into each other: some charmed, some bangled. Long necklaces tangle with crystal body chains that flow down your skin like sparkling rivers. The weight of diamond drop earrings sink against the pillow.
The lingerie you’re wearing might be from last year, but these? The glimmering riches he took his time to put on you, save for the princess-cut rock on your ring finger? These are all new, their branded boxes forgotten on the floor.
His gift for a year of marriage.
A marriage you’re only consummating now.
“Look at you,” he moans, “so fucking pretty, you should be illegal.”
He lets go of your chest with a loud pop. Your breath shakes.
“Tell me,” he looks down at your pleasure-twisted face, “who helped you get those papers, baby?”
A finger prods at your slick hole, teasing. You surrender with a sob, except you don’t fight him at all.
“J-John.”
Your voice around another man’s name tips him over to villainy.
He adds another finger at your entrance, circling before pushing both of them deep into you.
You let out a cry, walls clenching around him—wet, tight, a vice he’s already devoted the rest of his life to. Love before first touch.
Manicured nails claw at his shoulders, but they soon relax as he waits. You pulse around his fingers while your lungs relearn how to breathe.
God, you’re soaked. Pliant. Warm.
“Yeah? ‘Cause Steve wouldn’t?”
That gets your attention. You blink up, eyes hazy.
“How’d you know…?”
He kisses your forehead, pulls his fingers out, and thrusts them back in.
“A-ah—”
“He asked if we were doing okay,” Bucky pants, watching your lashes flutter at the languid pace his hand sets. “Thought he was talking about me going out to the supper club again.”
His other hand pushes the hair out of your face while you pant, chasing each pump, crystals clinking above the wet sounds.
“Didn’t think he meant this.”
His thumb flicks your clit, punishment and reward in one touch. Tricks of an unfair trade. Your head thrashes.
“Bucky—!”
Your body rocks with his fingers, a byproduct of drawn-out desperation. It’s an awakening, a cryptic hunger yawning at the bottom of your gut. Now that he’s feeding that emptiness, it demands more.
“Walker must be so goddamn ecstatic his queen came to him for help.”
The crystals chains on your skin jingle alongside rolling hips. Bucky traces the sight with drunken abandon, dead set on destroying you first.
Call it payback for the many times he fisted himself at the thought of this, and call it occupational hazard how he’s already planning methodologies: fingers first, mouth second, cock third.
Then again, and again, and again… until you’re too spent to tell him to stop.
“You made him feel important, honey. Made him think we were gonna split,” he chides condescendingly. Fingers hit a spot in you that form stars at the edge of your vision. He watches you squirm. Transcribes every whimper in his brain.
“Gotta pay for that—c’mon, cum for me.”
Your lips part in a silent scream.
If it weren’t for his hand on your face, your cheek would be pressed against the pillow, but one broad grip has you looking straight at him as he pushes you over the edge.
The last thrust squelches as it sinks, lewd sound crystal clear in the empty room. He watches as you spasm like a live wire. Thighs twitch, eyes screw shut. Then his name on your mouth.
“There we go. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”
He doesn’t partake in the family’s merchandise, but this has to be what a drug high feels like.
Because he’s already addicted while your breath reconstructs itself. Already begging for another taste of you when he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.
“You know I see the way he looks at you?” Bucky murmurs, caressing your face with the same hand that broke you. “Swear he wants me dead just so he can have a chance with you.”
Two seconds pass before your ecstasy-addled brain catches up to the fact that your husband is still talking about John Walker. But any further thought is halted by the heat huffed on your neck.
“Let’s show him who you really belong to, yeah?”
It starts off slow with kisses on the column of your throat, almost kind compared to the rapture of release. His nose traces the slope that leads to your shoulder and he breathes, cataloging your scent: sweat and something floral that you wore to dinner. It pools in his stomach, makes him feral.
You’re prey on a pedestal.
He bares his tongue for the feast. Then teeth.
You sigh, feeling them drag oh so gently across skin. There’s no rush, but when he sinks down, it’s with intent. Purpose. Authority.
Muscles ripple over your lipstick and lace as he latches onto the side of your neck—you hold onto his arms even though there’s nowhere to fall with the mattress against your back. His warmth clings to you in return.
“Oh,” the airy sound slips out when he lets go. Flesh stings with stimulation. That spot will darken tomorrow.
Blue eyes map a path of ruin where he’ll bite next. A plan of attack to spell his name on your neck. The wedding ring isn’t enough of a claim, he reasons to himself.
Minutes later, you’re shaking beneath him wearing a new necklace of his making.
Pinks and reds dot collar to chest in what looks like a botched J-A-M-E-S. In a few hours, they’ll turn into a sunset purple. He marvels at the work of his mouth, stares down at you.
“Walker will learn his lesson. But now it’s time for yours.”
Wide eyes stare up at him.
“You see how the divorce is so uncalled for, honey? You don’t really want me to leave you, do you?”
You shake your head. It hurts, the thought of him leaving, even if it’s for his own good.
Hips pin yours. You feel the hard ridge under his slacks press against damp lace. Blood rushes south, makes you throb.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, but he slips a thumb in your mouth. It presses on your tongue and forces your heartbeat into a stutter.
You say it anyway, stifled, vowels warped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me you’re sorry for making me think of fucking other women instead of you.”
Tears blur your vision. You’re not sure why—maybe from the thought of wasted time, or from the image of him almot rutting into a warm body just to run away from yours. He said he didn’t—couldn’t—but your brain is an errant thing. The space between your ribs tighten.
He’s here to make it right. Are you that transparent? Because the finger in your mouth is still mean, but his other hand strokes your cheek in a manner so opposite you think it might have a mind on his own.
Bucky kisses your temple. Then cheek. Then ear, where his voice rumbles deep.
“C’mon, honey. Say it.”
“I’m sorry for—” drool escapes from the side of your open mouth, “for making you think of f-fucking other women…”
“Instead of?”
“…instead of me.”
“Good girl.”
He grinds down against you harder, the friction catching your clit just right. You keen.
The thumb dislodges, drawing a spit-slick line down your chin, then collarbone, then sternum. He toys with your nipple. The wet touch makes you jolt. Beneath shimmers and gem-studded strings, your skin is smeared with pigment from smudged lipstick.
“Tell me you’re sorry for not giving yourself to me sooner.”
A tear slides down your cheek. He kisses it away.
“I’m sorry for not giving myself to you sooner,” you hiccup.
He leans down to mouth at your nipple again. Spine curling like a big cat above you, hips rolling against yours.
“Now tell me you’ll let me do what I want to you,” he murmurs against you.
The new commandment shepherds silence—not in fear, also not quite submission. You linger at an open doorway while everything about him beckons you to enter, where all the pleasure he’s given you may multiply.
But once you go there, you can’t go back.
He sucks at your chest in a manner so selfish it breaks your reverie. Blue eyes snap to your face when he lets go.
Then he says those words: the exact same ones he said to you the night your fates were sealed.
“I promise I’ll take care of you.”
He rises, face above yours, breathing your air. “I know I was stupid. Stubborn. A damn coward.”
Then, after an inhale:
“I just didn’t want to lose you.”
It’s enough to make you lean up to kiss him, the antithesis of how he started.
Soft, almost solemn. He kisses back like he’s kissed you a thousand times before—and maybe he has in his dreams. It tastes like sticky succumbence, as sweet and as cloying as honey. The more it drips in your mouth, the more you hunger. Your fingers grip his arms, still clothed in that damn white shirt.
The way the both of you are dressed, you can almost pretend this is your wedding night.
He parts first.
“Give me words, sweet girl.”
With instructions so clear, how could you not?
“I’ll let you,” you whisper.
He watches. Waits. It takes every bit of you in your dizziness, but you finally continue.
“...do what you want to me.”
The breath that escapes him is ragged, wanting—like an animal desperate for nourishment. He wastes no time in diving between your legs. Spreads thighs with strong hands, pulling your panties over to one side. You gasp at his breath caressing the apex of your thighs.
“Good,” he rumbles, “gonna make you cum on my tongue.”
Your body becomes his to control. Greedy hands use garters as handles, tugging them to haul your legs over his shoulders as he eats. One of them moves to torment your chest, the other your clit.
He really is a rotten liar, because he makes you cum on his tongue twice. It’s motivated by self-justification: this is what he wanted for so long, surely he’s allowed to take more? He’s been so good, holding back all this time…
The first orgasm rips a loud moan out of you, thighs bracketing his head. He doesn’t stop after that. Eats you like it’s his pleasure. Your stomach twists with the beginnings of overstimulation until the curl of his tongue in your cunt pushes you past that precipice again.
The second time you crest is devastating. You sob under your breath while a strong arm presses both your legs to meet your chest, opening your core up for him like you’re a right and a privilege in one reality.
Seeing you folded in half like that—slick, clenching around nothing—is enough to sever him from sanity.
Or maybe he’s never sane to start with. Not when it comes to you.
“She looks so empty, sweetheart. Let’s fix that.”
A hand takes both of yours overhead, pinning them into pliancy. You’re too weak to even writhe.
Then he feeds his inches into your hole and you cry.
“Bucky—!”
The stretch of his cock is far from comprehensible. It’s excruciating, but each vein inspires addiction. Then there’s the heat, the intoxicating way he pulses inside of you as he pushes ever deeper, nudging places you didn’t know existed, claiming them for himself.
His blunt tip finally sinks all the way in and you feel him in your stomach. In your lungs, your throat.
“Christ, you’re unreal,” he pants against your ear, smokescreens in the form of saccharine things distracting from the dull pain.
“Think she might be made for me, honey. Tight fucking pussy swallowing my cock—”
You moan, walls unwittingly clutching him. He groans.
“Fuck, not gonna last if she’s grippin’ me like that.”
“Bucky,” you murmur.
“Yeah, princess?”
“‘s too much,” is all you can muster, gaze falling to the sight between your bodies. Blue eyes and blown-out pupils follow, and he grins. The grip he has on your wrists tightens.
“Yeah?” he pants in bliss, still buried in you, “This is what I think about every morning. Every night.”
Then he thrusts once, shallow at first. Two strangled voices echo in the room.
“Fuck—wasted my time dreaming of you... could’ve had this all along.”
Your hands don’t know what to do: fingers stretch and claw at air while his hand keeps you where he wants you. He splits you open, hips steadily sawing into yours. It leaves you at a loss, coherence deleted with each rock of him until only three words loop: ‘please’, ‘Bucky’, and ‘more’—because you’re a paradox like that.
A symphony worth waiting years for.
And because he can never deny you, he gives.
Makes you cum on his cock just like that, pounding mercilessly into your sensitive spots. Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while plump lips part, crying out his name again and again. He drives into you just the same, eyes never straying from your face, just to convince himself this isn’t a dream.
The way you clench around your cock tells him it isn’t. Dreams can never feel this good—he knows because he’s had plenty.
“Fuck,” he grunts, cock buried so far up in you that you almost cum again when he does.
You mewl at the hot spurts of him inside. For a second the fever breaks, satisfied with release, but as you’re flooded with his spend, the appetite rises. The ravening isn’t over. His eyes say as much.
A dark intention takes over him, affection corrupted by avarice. What other expressions will you show him? What secrets sounds can he steal from you?
How far can he make you fall?
Minutes melt into hours.
Here you are now, a picture of ruined grace draped across his lap. Lingerie ripped, chains and jewelry in knots, sparkling diamonds in the dark illuminating the blotches around your throat.
He keeps you sat on his cock for god knows how long already. Tears blur your vision, and the feeling in your chest is the same as your poor, plugged up cunt.
Full.
God, you’re stuffed with him—his cock, his cum. A mess in both body and mind, slick with his spend and yours sluicing down your ass and the sheets, overflowing. The drip of it is warm. So is his naked chest against yours.
There are thin pink lines on his skin—your nails dragged down there when he sinks you down onto his length, weak and wanting even after how many orgasms, you don’t know. You lost count. The same scratches must exist on his back from when he fucked you on yours.
Through all this, somehow your husband is still hard as he holds you in his lap. He lets you sob into his neck, big hands caging your hips.
The same hands that dusted dirt off your knee the first time you fell from your bike.
You’re compelled by the cardinal sins. Greed, lust, and gluttony order your hips to roll, to shift, to do anything just to feel something.
He coos, resting his forehead against yours.
“Sssh, you can’t,” and he’s right, because his fingers are bruising stillness into you. “You need to wait, sweetheart.”
You sound like you’re past pathetic. He really meant it when he said he’d drill it into your head: the pace, the pleasure, him.
“Bucky, please—”
“Made me wait all this time, think it’s only fair you should, too.”
Large hands adjust you on him. You gasp, feeling driblets of him escape your cunt before he sits you all the way down his cock again.
“Now, how ‘bout you tell me a story while you learn to be patient?” he breathes. “Something from when you were a kid. About us.”
You want to scream. How are you supposed to speak, let alone think? All you want is to rut into him again, to feel him throb, to drink the friction—
The corner of his lips twitch up.
“Maybe I’ll let you move if you do.”
Either your husband is a telepath, or you’re so wonderfully obvious.
Bucky sees your throat swallow, the gears turning in your mind. His blood sings, and maybe he’s the worst man alive for enjoying this a little too much: watching you work through a haze. His pretty girl, too drunk oncock to function.
One of his hands stroke your cheek, almost coaxing the words out of you, then he coos like he’s not the cause of your misery.
“You can do it, sweetheart. Tell me a story.”
It’s the softness in his voice that damns you.
“I—” you begin, unsure, lungs still clawing for air, “remember that time… after summer break?”
He resists the urge to tease: which summer break? You spent so many together.
“You came back and your voice c-changed.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, teasing your nipple with a thumb. He remembers. You whimper, the sound pitiful, but you’re being so good for him, staying still even when one of his hands went astray.
“What about it, honey?”
“It was… I was so confused,” your voice hitches.
He doesn’t stop touching you.
“You looked the same, but—ah—you sounded like—”
His hand moves from your chest back to your ass. Fingers sink into the flesh, grip you closer to him, as if there was any room between your bodies in the first place.
“Like?”
Your head drops into the crook of his neck.
“Like a man,” you admit, muffled.
He breathes near your ear.
“Look at you now, finally treating me like one,” you can feel him grin, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “Letting me fuck you like one, ‘s that right?”
The nod you give him is slow, like you’re drugged. He lifts you up just enough to sink you down. A temporary relief that makes you mewl.
“So? Do you still want to be just friends?” he grits.
You shake your head, eyes blank and wet. That one thrust is enough to vaporize your vocabulary.
The tears at your lashes makes his cock twitch. He used to hate seeing you cry. Felt helpless with every cartoon band-aid he smooths over your skin. Reminded him of the time you had to fly halfway across the world for a fucking degree, the damp pillowcase you slept on, the way he couldn’t stop you from leaving.
Now? Crying is all he wants to make you do.
“What am I to you now, hm?”
Your breath breaks.
“H-husband,” you croak, “you’re my husband—”
“That’s right. Smart girl.”
As if to reward you, he bounces you on top of him again. You almost collapse onto his shoulder, a ragdoll to pleasure.
“Please, Bucky, I want—”
“Want what, baby? Wanna stop?”
You whimper, shaking your head again in the crook of his neck, arms around his back. He almost laughs, but the spasm of your cunt around his cock, full with his cum and yours, strangles the sound into a guttural groan.
“Tell me.”
“Want more,” you whine shamelessly. He gladly exploits it.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson first.” A hand grabs your face, forcing you to peel away from his body to look at him.
You stare back. He’s sweaty, eyes dark, lips swollen. You’re probably about thrice as wrecked.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Yours—I’m yours.”
“You’re my what? Finish that sentence.”
You nearly choke. “I’m your wife.”
“Attagirl. What else have you learned?” His tone is cruel. Cold. But you know better. Blue irises drown you with devotion in a single look. In them, you find your answer.
“You—ah—take care of me. Make me feel good.”
“There you go, sweet thing.” His lips latches onto yours, a thief to your breath as if you had any left to spare. “D’you want me to take care of you now? Wanna feel good on your husband’s cock again?”
“Yes. Please.”
You feel his cock twitch inside of you.
“Still want a divorce?”
“No—” your hips begin to sway, the hunger clawing at you, but his hands are steel restraints, fingers sinking into flesh.
“What do you want, then?”
“You,” you sob, “please, Bucky, want you—”
He watches your face contort, desperation and desire mingling into the most delicious expression he’s ever seen on you.
One day, he’ll take a picture.
“Y’know, I told you I love you earlier, but you never said it back,” a thumb holds your chin in place. “Think you can do that for me? Say it real sweet for your husband.”
Your chest cracks open with feeling. The night tumbles through you like a tidal wave, where everything comes crashing: his confession, the papers thrown on the ground, all the way to your mother’s tiramisu he got the restaurant to make for you.
Still, the wave builds. It sweeps up old memories to the forefront.t
The two of you on the balcony the night you got engaged. You crying in his arms hours before boarding a plane. A birthday party where the cake was your favorite flavor instead of his.
The surge summits at the memory of awkward pencil scratches.
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend.
Every feeling known to you is suspended like they’re encased in floating water. The nostalgia of youth, unabated longing, dark desires, and a kinship brought about by fate—
—then gravity pulls them down, and they break.
So do you.
“I love you,” you rasp, voice hoarse with timeworn truth. “I love you so much, Bucky, I love you, I love you, I love you—”
He swallows your confession in a kiss, tongues tangled, fingers buried in hair. You grind down once.
He lets you.
So you do it again. And again.
“I love you too, baby, so fucking much,” he murmurs into your mouth. You move with the opposite of inhibition.
“My good girl. My best girl—”
He rips a scream out of you when he stills you again, only to thrust up. You’re already so close, it drives him out of his mind more than he already is.
“Gonna fill my wife up with my cum,” he grits, “make it take. Wanna see you round with me.”
The promise nearly ends you. He senses its impact, feels his own need grow.
“Yeah? You’re gonna leak for days when I’m done with you,” a growl as he mauls your neck more than he already has, “let ‘em see who you belong to.”
“Fuck—Bucky!”
“You’re mine, honey. All mine.”
He triggers your ruin like that. Smiles as he watches you shake in his lap, breathless while he relentlessly ruts into you even as spurts of viscous white oozes down your thigh. He uses his cock to push it back in.
A hint of humor tickles the back of his mind: that after all these years, it took a near-divorce to bring the two of you together.
“Remind me to burn those papers tomorrow,” he rasps against your mouth.
When he pushes you back onto the bed, he’s already making time in his schedule for a renewal of vows.
(warnings: mdni! dubcon + fantasies of noncon, age gap, masturbation, pervy behaviour, voyeurism, sex toys, idk dude just a load of kinky stuff, bucky refers to the reader as kid but she is an adult!, sleep deprivation has this man by the balls [literally!!], yearning?? in my smut fic?? it's more likely than you think!, mentor!bucky is back by popular demand... why did you guys like it so much?) read part 1 here.
thinking about how mentor!bucky can’t help but watch when he catches you touching yourself. it happens weeks after the wet dream incident. and, in that time, bucky decides the best course of action is to mention nothing, continue business as usual, and ignore the sickly sweet siren of lust that calls for him each time sunlight washes over your face. or you celebrate the fact he let you best him the training room. or when you groan his name, voice blanketed by a familiar frustration and, yet, there’s something new there now; something that leaves the taste of sin in his mouth, and the ache of a carnal hunger in his loins.
for all intents and purposes, life moves onward as though nothing has changed between you.
time passes on, missions roll in, and bucky continues to tell himself he’s nothing more than your begrudging mentor. and, hey, if his heart gets lodged in his throat each time he spots that sickly red smudge of blood staining your skin, or his eyes refuse to rest until they find you in every room you occupy together, that’s nothing more than the rational and expected response from a man tasked with keeping a younger, frailer, inexperienced rookie alive on the battlefield. valentina had implored him to take care of you, and bucky barnes is nothing if not a soldier accustomed to taking orders.
late nights seem to spell danger these days.
for a man gripped as tightly by the woes of insomnia as the soldier is, this can only mean trouble lurks in every unlit corner of the watchtower.
it’s too easy for bucky’s mind to wander when there’s no one there to interrupt, too easy for him to sink into the comfort of a two-seater couch and imagine you beside him, gifting pity laughter to whatever shitty straight-to-television movie is playing. too easy for him to overfill his mug with boiling water, caught in a daydream where he’s making tea for two. too easy for him to stand out on the balcony and picture you appearing, windswept and with sleep still falling from your lashes, barely giving him enough time to chastise you back to bed before you’re throwing yourself at him with the demand that he bend you over the railing and force you to stare down at the world bucky’s training you to protect while he stretches your cunt open around his cock-
the building groans and brings him back into reality: the movie has finished, his tea has gone cold, and the balcony is being soaked by rain.
bucky is all alone, trapped in an overwhelmingly empty room. and, while it’s bigger than the square confine that hydra used to house him within, it still feels like a prison; something meant to keep him contained and surveyed rather than warm and safe. the hour has at last arrived where he can make his way to bed and let the loneliness seep into his sheets instead.
it’s not his fault that your bedroom door happens to be on the way to his own. it’s not his fault that your have a habit of leaving it open. and it’s not his fault that his ears perk up at the sound of a mewl — call it the curse of the super soldier, senses enhanced beyond human capability.
the noise comes from you, bucky has no doubt about it.
he knows the noises you make: how you hiss under your breath each time you miss during target practice, how you fight off the post-mission exhaustion with a sigh as you all settle into the jet, how you laugh far too loudly at alexei’s unfunny jokes for it to be anything but genuine, and how breathy your moans get when you grind that soaking pussy against his abdomen-
no, he isn’t supposed to be thinking about that night. that night is archived and filed away under do not reminisce, under any circumstances! even if those circumstances are him struggling to finish to anything but the memory of you.
another cry splits the night, and bucky’s chest, open.
vibranium meets brass in a bashful kiss, his fingers curling around the handle of your door. he steadies himself in the action, brings balance back to his swaying legs as he reckons with the effects you have over him. barely two inches of solid wood between and, yet, he stands worlds away from you: your world is spring, full of blossoming youth and colourful expressions; while his is a desert of blank stares and decades of ice hardening around a heart, winter weaved into not only his history but the very etchings of his being.
if bucky were to touch you, your ruin would surely follow. yet the itch in his palm refuses to quell to any scratch other than the one of your skin.
the third whimper to leave you has him struck with a familiar fear, picturing you caught in the kind of hell-scape only a sleeping mind could conjure. in the months — or is it years, now? — since valentina placed you beneath bucky’s wings, you’ve been sparse with the details you share of your past. but he knows that whatever the anecdotes you keep close to your chest may be, they’re no doubt inflated with pain and misery.
a happy life has never lead anyone to becoming a hero.
the gap between your door and the frame grows a few inches, bucky unknowingly leaning forward like a magnet drawn in by the call of another cry. this time it’s more broken, cracked right down the middle by exhaustion; no, exertion. you’re fighting whatever haunts you, chasing it away.
or are you chasing after it?
sheets rustle and he can’t help but picture you: face smushed into a pillow, laying on your front, your legs kicking out in protest to whatever nightmare has you pinned beneath it’s talons. if it weren’t for the vibrant blue of his iris, his stare would likely turn green as he wrestles with thoughts of wishing he were the one pinning you.
against his better judgement, bucky deludes himself with the idea of entering, of breaching past the doorway into your own private safe-haven; the only room in the watchtower where you have no fear of dealing with his frowned judgement and nit-picking eyes.
two minutes.
he could give himself that, right? two minutes to drag his attention up the length of you, blanket you beneath his gaze, and calm the turbulent waters in his chest telling him you’re in pain, in fear, in a realm where he can’t protect you from the torment of the battlefield… but what if it’s not a nightmare? what if it’s a repeat of last time, your sleeping mind drifting into sin? and, instead of his own solid form laying there for you to grind against, you’re stuck rutting aimlessly into the too-soft foam of your mattress. what kind of a man would he be if he left you to wrestle with your lustful dreams all by yourself?
the hinge threatens to scream as he presses the door a few more inches open. he traps air in his lungs, scared of breathing so loud you waken and spot him peering through the gap in the doorway — only for the wind to be knocked out of him the moment his eyes land on the bed.
because there you lay, just how he imagined you, face down on the mattress.
but not dreaming, no.
not even sleeping.
instead, you are bare — bottom to top — with your legs bent at the knee and your ass in the air. one hand has slipped beneath a pillow and popped out the other side, knuckles pressing up against skin as you grip one of the metal bars of the bed’s headboard; while the other has twisted backwards, manoeuvred into an angle that can not be comfortable. instead of metal, it grasps at silicone, something pink and lustrous.
a motion of back and forth, a slow recede followed by a swift return that sends you lurching up the mattress, steel bars rattling under the pressure of your grip. it’s hypnotising to watch how your body contorts itself, splits itself apart just to welcome the phallic object into its warm embrace.
from what he can see, it’s hardly big. five inches — maybe six, if he were to be generous and assume you’re a little tougher than you look — and yet your grip is shaky, a sweat-slicked palm struggling to keep grip of a flared base. the length between his legs, a near double the size of what he's watching your cunt struggle to take, twitches at the thought of ruining you, of watching your eyes widen in sync with your walls.
fuck, he would have to prepare you, would need to gift you the blessing of his fingers pressing your buttons and the offering of his tongue tracing his name into your skin. or, would he skip all of that? toss you onto the nearest surface, tear off the offensive fabrics hiding your silky wet sins, and crack your shell open; the ideal punishment for daring to dream of him yet deny him the right to truly touch you?
“that’s it, kid,” his mouth is a vessel, guiding the fantasies playing out in his head into the real world with a whisper. his hand tightens around the door handle as your own readjusts its grip over the pink silicone. “stretch her open. want her gaping at me.”
you are divine sin, an emblem of lust placed directly in his line of sight and taunting him to reach for you, take you; the curse you are sure to mark on his soul be damned.
the dip of your back slopes deeper in sync with a particularly harsh thrust of the toy and both your sets of lips spread open with the most devilish of noises: one a squelch, the other a breathy explicit. bucky feels his fingers twitch, itching to snake their way beneath the loose cotton of his pyjama pants and embrace the warmth of his hardening cock.
stronger than any average man, bucky tells himself he can fight it. he can resist the carnal lust commanding his bloodstream southwards. he can ignore the temptation to stroke himself into the hands of ecstasy all the while he stands by your door, spying as you fuck yourself full of a plastic imposter where he should be instead. he can protest the downright despicable desire that urges him to defile you even further than he already had, eyes glued to the ceiling while your hips ground down on him, unconscious and unaware of how his throbbing dick sat mere inches from where you had wanted him most, from where you needed him.
“can’t take it… ‘s too much,” you whimper, and bucky just about paints the inside of his boxers white. this is pathetic. embarrassing. no grown man — much less one of his age and history — should be ready to fall apart for someone as young and delicate as- “bucky, you’re too big.”
the world seems to pause.
bucky stops breathing, your hand stops moving, the tower stops creaking. time grinds itself to a halt and turns a moment into an hour, carving out a space for him to deliberate what he just heard.
his name. on your tongue. in your mouth. clasped beneath the grip of your fingers and thrusting into your cunt. this is somehow both better and worse than the night that shall not be thought about. at least then you were asleep. at least then you were only rutting for friction. at least then you were unaware of what you were saying.
but this, now? you presenting yourself to nothing but the empty space behind you, naked, sweating, and panting into the sheets below as you stuff yourself full of pink silicone? there is nothing accidental nor unintended about the way you’re moaning his name.
bucky gives in.
“no,” careful of the volume, he croaks out a whisper as his fingers finally slip beneath the elastic waistband of his pants. “not too much, just right. know you can take me, kid.” because, even if you can’t, i’d make you take it.
back by the bed, you’ve taken to rolling your wrist in slow, fluid movements, contradicting the whimpered protests that pray for reprieve and cry please no. you are a vision of paradox, one half that seeks out pleasure while the other feigns some sort of pain. furrowed brows and teary eyes clash with soaked fingers and shaky thighs. the hand outstretched towards the headboard slips and cuts off bucky’s spiralling thoughts of you, both arms pinned above your head and tied together by a metal grip, grappling for the headboard of your bed, or a dumbbell in the training room, or the handrail in the elevator, all the while he takes you from behind and rewires not only your body but your soul.
his cock twitches in his palm, like it’s greeting the steady warmth of him wrapping around it. the nerve-wracking panic that you’ll notice him by the door floods his hand with sweat, enough to aid the steady stroke teases himself with, a grip that’s not quite tight enough for him to imagine it’s you.
“fuckin’ filthy girl,” the words barely make it out of bucky before his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip. he’s finally keeping pace with you, matching each kiss of his hand meeting his base with the flared end of the toy pressing against your folds. “‘s that what you really are, huh?”
in his mind, you’re chanting a chorus of yes, yes, yes. i’m a filthy girl, need you to lick me clean.
on the bed, you’re whining a pathetic iteration of his name, “please, please, please. hurts, stop, aah… don’t stop, ‘s so good. gonna break me in half.”
is this what you fantasise about, when the lights are low and you fool yourself into thinking you’re alone? are those airy laughs and shy looks all a mask to cover up something depraved lurking beneath your pretty surface. something that craves to be taken, broken, owned? and by him, of all people.
it shouldn’t excite him.
he put to rest inflicting pain on innocents years ago.
and, yet, for you he wants to pick up that mantle again, harm you in any way you plead him to.
“stop?” for a moment, his eyes squeeze shut, a pause interrupting his hushed voice. he’s picturing you again, head tossing from side to side, bottom lip trembling between protests, while your nails draw blood from his skin and your cunt threatens to cut off the circulation in his dick. “don’t really want me to stop now, d’you? not when i’m finally giving you what you want. all that attention you’ve been cravin’, kid.”
sick and twisted, two words to perfectly encapsulate how he should be feeling, getting himself off in the doorway of the woman he was tasked to train. he should be warding you away from danger like him, not dreaming about ruining every inch of you and claiming you for himself.
another cry of his name becomes bucky’s undoing.
the door slams against the wall.
your grip falters in shock.
his hand meets the swell of your ass in a bruising smack.
“the hell are you doing,” he wastes no times on pleasantries, does not even give you the grace of fully glancing back at him before metal tangles in hair and you’re forced face down into a pile of clean linens and soft cotton, all the while he’s tugging himself free. “fucking yourself silly with a piece of plastic and pretending it’s me? i’m supposed to be your mentor, not the star of your fucked up little fantasies.”
“s-sorry, bucky, i swear i didn’t-”
“fuck,” the word is drawn out, as is the way his hand smooths over one of your ass-cheeks, pausing for a moment to admire the space it takes up in his grasp before he spreads it open enough to catch sight of the seam of your cunt. “she’s winking at me, baby. think it’s about time we gave her something that’ll actually stretch her open, not that tiny excuse of a toy you’ve been making all this fuss over.”
if you agree with his proposal, it’s lost in a sea of high-pitched moans and guttural grunts. the winter soldier took no prisoner and, so, neither does bucky. he does not even gift you a moment of reprieve after the initial burn of him thrusting into you, tip to base, in one quick snap of his hips.
you didn’t seem to want mercy when you were imagining him, why would you want it now that he’s balls deep and sending you further up the mattress with the exertion he puts behind each thrust.
any concern for volume gets put on the back-burner. let the whole tower wake up and stumble upon the sight of him defiling you, for all bucky cares. right now his only concern is to feel you gushing around him and soaking him in however many orgasms he can tear from you.
“buck-aah, please,” your voice is a silver lining of sweetness scratching across the lust filled cloud of skin slapping against skin and the headboard slamming into the wall. beneath him, you can barely hold yourself up, body melting into the mattress and leaving him to do all the heavy lifting, holding up your hips just to keep fucking you at the angle you clearly need. “i’m gonna cum.”
“yeah? ‘s my little protégé gonna cum?” bucky can feel himself nearly there too, heavy balls suddenly tightening in a warning. “c’mon, show me how obedient you can actually be when you’re getting fucked like a brainless whore. go on, wanna feel your tight pussy cum all over this cock-”
a hinge creaks, and suddenly bucky is no longer behind you.
he’s back by the door, hand still stuffed down his pants, while you… you’ve fully collapsed onto the bed, lips split with a ditsy smile. your feet kick out, thighs shaking with overstimulation as your hand continues to feed the pink dildo deeper into yourself, even while you whine in protest of the overwhelming pleasure.
sleep deprivation slaps him in the face as reality snaps him back into place — he had not slammed your door, he had not touched your skin, and he had not made you cum around his cock. instead, he has one foot too far into your bedroom, a door that is too far open to hide him anymore, and the overwhelming heat of your eyes that are far too focused on him to be staring at anything else.
“well,” you sigh, hips shimmying against your blanket as you slowly slip the toy out of yourself. smiling with that same innocence you shoot him across the table during meetings, you blink real slow as you lick a stripe up the length of the silicone and through your own wetness. “did you cum?”
your bedroom door slams, his footsteps echo through the hallway, and bucky ignores the uncomfortable stickiness of his cum staining his knuckles.
when he throw himself into the safety of his own room, all he can wonder is one thing.
how long had you known he was there?
+ extra hyde !
· if this was straight dookie, blame the burnout creeping over my horizon. i'm fighting her, y'all.
thinking about lando being nervous about his role as the older experienced driver when oscar first started and how oscar followed lando around like a duckling his first year. thinking about how lando has been obsessed with oscar’s height from the very start. thinking about how they joke now that oscar is mclaren’s spokesperson. thinking about how lando now tucks himself behind oscar every time they walk next to each other. many thoughts
Monster that catches and mounts the intriguing little human and it's so tight and feels so good when it ruts into it. And it wriggles and squirms and writhes so nicely on its knot and makes such intriguing noises when it gets bred
Human that inadvertantly teaches a monster that humans make great unwilling playful mates and that it's a great time to chase and breed any humans that come into its territory
HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"N—!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
diver
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.
He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.
But why’d Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just… breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”
Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”
The stammering is immediate.
“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“
“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—
God, you can't even say it. Falling for—
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Agh—"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
“Oh?”
“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now it’s your turn to curse.
“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man. (A man who has been practically celibate the past year when he realized this feeling towards you was going nowhere, but nonetheless just a man.)
“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”
“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”
“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“
“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”
You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.
That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
“Argh— What the fuck!”
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”
Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”
You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”
“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”
His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's not—"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”
But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Yup.” Prick.
“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”
“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”
You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Bucky.”
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”
With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”
Your face flushes. “Bucky.”
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.
He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”
“Shut up.”
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“
You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”
“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”
“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”
“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.
“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.
Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”
You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”
“Gonna come from just the tip?”
“Shit. Maybe.”
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
“Breathe,” he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”
You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”
“Do you want me to come immediately?”
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, drunk with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”
“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?
“You—You’re not.”
“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“
“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“
“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
“Thank you.”
Did he just—
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”
“For sleeping with you?”
“No. For letting me sleep with you.”
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—
“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.
“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”
“I’m literally inside you right now.”
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”
“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”
You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”
You freeze. “Huh?”
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”
Your left cheek.
“How come I live to rile you up?”
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”
“Took you long enough.”
Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”
Bucky snorts. “As of a year ago, more like.”
“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. A year— Okay.”
“Take your time.”
“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”
Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”
Your heart skips. “I think I…”
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”
“You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Obviously.”
You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.
“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”
It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. He kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.
“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”
“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.
“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”
A pause.
Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”
You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.
And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”
“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.
18+ - MDNI, friends to lovers, unprotected sex, p in v
author's note: bucky has me in a chokehold but not for the things i actually need to write so... take this i guess 😔
You were falling asleep.
It was already quite clear to Bucky, based on the way you kept subtly sliding down the leather of the backseat. The SUV was silent, aside from the occasional tick of the indicators, the shine of streetlights illuminating you every so often. Sam and Natasha were quiet in the front. Bucky was sitting in the back with you, watching you fight and fail to stay awake.
Eventually, after the fourth time of seeing you try to shake yourself awake, he murmured. "It's okay, go to sleep. I've got you." He brought his arm up, curling it around your shoulders, and tilted your head in his direction.
You didn't fight him, moving until your leg was flush with his, your head heavy on his shoulder. It had been a very long, very tedious stakeout that had ended with guns blazing, but Bucky knew that you had a bad habit of hardly sleeping before a mission. Everyone was tired, yes, but you hadn't built up the same degree of stamina. It was still harder for you to bounce back than the rest of them.
The drive stayed hushed, only the whisper of the tires against the asphalt, sometimes a splash from steering through a puddle, left from the day's rain. It was closer to morning than midnight, by this point.
When Sam finally turned into the compound's hangar after getting approval from the guards, Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been stroking idly at your hair, loose from its braid, and you'd just snuggled closer, one of your hands resting near his hip, half-curled in his jacket. He didn't want to wake you. It seemed a silly thing to do, when he could just get you to your room and let you stay sleeping.
He managed to unbuckle your seatbelt and manoeuvre you onto his lap, which was surprisingly easy to do—you seemed to have melted into a compliant thing, easy to arrange—and pop open the door. One arm supported your legs, another your back, and your head lolled against his neck as he stepped out and headed for the elevator.
He'd carried you before. You'd slipped and fallen on ice last year and hurt your ankle, and he'd held you in the same way, though you'd been trying not to whimper in pain that time. Now, you were nuzzling against him like he was the world's softest blanket. Bucky suppressed a sigh. He liked you like this. He liked when you needed him. He was admittedly guilty of dropping everything to help you, even with small things, like twisting the lid of a jar, or grabbing something off a higher shelf, even if you could have technically reached it. Once, he'd even laced your boots while you'd had your hands full. Sam had given him shit about it for days.
Your room was in sight. He punched in the door's code and let himself in, whispering to FRIDAY to turn on your lamp, not wanting the brighter ceiling lights to disturb you. The blankets were flipped back in a smooth movement, before he was depositing you on the bed. "You gotta take your gear off, pretty girl." He said it softly, not wanting to disturb you too much.
What he said was true—not only did your things need to be catalogued with the weapons and inventory checklist, but it was damned uncomfortable to sleep in one of those catsuits. You and Natasha had both complained about it before. Your brow gained the tiniest furrow. "No…"
Bucky did sigh that time, staring down at you. You hadn't opened your eyes, almost like you wanted to pretend that he hadn't so rudely disturbed you by watching out for your well-being. "Hey, come on. It'll take five minutes, and then you can sleep."
You shifted in the bed, and for a second, Bucky thought he'd convinced you. But then: "You do it. Please?"
You were already dissolving like sugar in water, back into the land of dreams. He wanted to protest. Well, he didn't really want to protest—you'd just asked him to undress you. But he imagined Steve, a tiny angel on his shoulder, telling him that it was improper. He felt his resolve returning as he shifted on his feet, arms crossed, ready to tell you no, when you tilted onto your side and pawed at the zipper on your chest. "Help."
It was pitiful. You were likely doing it on purpose, wanting to be babied, wanting to be able to rest without thinking about it. Lucky for you, Bucky had been wrapped around your finger since he'd met you. Down came the zipper, and then he was pulling your arms free, then sliding it down your ribs, your hips, your legs. He'd already done the kind thing of removing your boots. Now he was tugging your ankles free of the last of the suit, and you remained uncaring that you were only in your panties and bra, while Bucky did his best not to let his eyes roam. He felt like a heat-seeking missile, unsure where to lock in.
Your pajamas, a big t-shirt and shorts, were in a messy pile at the end of the bed. At least that was the easy part, covering you up again. Bucky did his best to ignore the softness of your skin every time his fingers brushed against you. A moment later, you were clothed again, curling up on your side like you knew it was finally time to rest. Bucky pulled the covers up over you, watching your squirm into a more comfortable position, before gathering your gear in his arms. He'd catalogue it for you, no big deal.
The lamp turned off and he made for the door. Light spilled in from the hallway, dim, but enough to highlight your features. It was what made Bucky pause at the doorway, twisting back to look at you, your face smooth and unbothered, your hands folded under your cheek, lips parted just a fraction. Bucky shook his head, turning back to the hallway, set on getting your things catalogued, along with his own, but he whispered, "You're trouble," to the room, to you, before he left.
By late morning, you still hadn't gotten up. Bucky knew you reserved the gym for right after lunch, and you were going to miss that and food if you didn't wake up soon. Much as he hated to admit it, he cared about your success and your comfort.
And maybe he also really wanted to see you all sleepy and confused again. Just maybe.
The electronic beeps of the keypad by your door sounded off when he punched the numbers in and let himself inside, and there you were, turned away from him, but still curled up under the blankets. You'd pulled them so high that your head was barely peeking out. You'd almost completely obscured yourself. He called your name from the doorway, leaning against the frame, unwilling to compromise himself. You didn't move, unresponsive, and he didn't know if you were truly still asleep or if you were just pretending. He tried again, taking a single step in, calling a little louder, a little more forceful, but still got nothing.
Composure cracked like an egg, and Bucky stepped fully into your room, stopping at the side of the bed. "Baby girl, come on. You gotta get up and eat something."
The nickname just slipped out, much like the one from last night had. It didn't matter, he thought. You were obviously too tired to care. You made a muffled sound, something he didn't quite catch, and he placed a hand on your arm, just barely feeling your body heat through the covers. "Come on, up and at 'em."
You did turn then, reaching blindly for his hand. "Come sleep." Your murmured, your fingers catching on his wrist, giving the tiniest tug.
It was a good thing your eyes were still closed, because you missed the way that Bucky's widened. Did you know what you were saying? Maybe you hadn't realized it was him that had come to wake you up.
No, you must have, because then you said, "Cuddle me."
All Bucky could do was stare, his mouth open in surprise. Because it would be so easy. To strip down to his boxers, to slide in next to you, pull you close, wrap you in his arms. It would be easy to do more than that, to do worse than that. And that was precisely why Bucky straightened his spine and pulled out of your loose hold, in order to stop the spiral of thoughts that got progressively dirtier the longer he lingered on them. "Get up, or I'm going to throw you in the shower. And I'll make sure that the water is cold."
That did the trick. Your eyes opened, half-lidded, a tiny scowl on your face as you looked up at him. "Do I have to?" The words were uttered around a yawn.
"Yes. Aren't you doing some crazy Black Widow stuff with Nat today? She'll kill you if you no-show."
You sighed, a long, drawn-out sound, before sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. "You're so bossy."
"What? I literally carried you—"
You waved a hand, trudging to the door, only stopping to slide your feet into a pair of well-worn slippers. "Did anyone leave any coffee?"
You had rendered Bucky speechless. Well, now all he wanted to do was pin you to the wall and give you some very choice words, and perhaps a couple of spanks. Just something to remind you to respect your elders. But he settled for placing a hand between your shoulders and pushing your forward, guiding you through the halls and to the kitchen.
Only Sam and Steve were there, taking a much needed break. It had already been a busy morning for most of the team, with you being the only sleepy, kitten-like exception. Sam raised his glass of water at you in greeting, and you gave a half-hearted wave before making a beeline for Steve. It was like watching a puppy seek out the person that would give it treats with the least amount of work. You buried your head in Steve's chest, dead-center, your arms looping around his waist. "Bucky was mean to me…" You mumbled into his shirt.
You were known to be a stage-five clinger when you were tired. Bucky tried not to be offended that you had chosen Steve as your human-shaped body pillow instead of him. It would have been ten times worse if you had picked Sam. Bucky just sighed and shook his head, and set about making your coffee just the way you liked it, in the silly mug with the penguin family printed on the side. It was the one you always used.
Sam watched him with deep amusement, but kept his mouth shut for now. Watching Bucky bend to your every whim was one of Sam's favourite shows—it gave him endless material to work with.
When Bucky came and stood next to Steve, holding your cup out while he sipped from his own, Steve tapped at your back until you tilted your head from between his pectorals and in Bucky's direction. You blinked owlishly at him as you studied the offering. "Just the way you like it." He prompted, using all of his patience to stand there and wait for you to take it.
Finally, you untangled yourself from Steve and accepted the mug with both hands, then took a sip. You stared down into the depths of the drink and then back up at Bucky. "It's perfect." You said, surprised.
"I make your coffee almost every day. Why are you saying it like that?" He whined, put out. Only you could make him fuss over something so juvenile.
Sam and Steve exchanged a look, one that said, 'let's get the hell out of dodge', before they subtly made for the door, leaving Bucky and you to squabble over the obviously intense subject of coffee preparation.
It wasn't the first time Bucky had done something for you and waited for the praise, only to get a look of astonishment from you, as if you hadn't known he was capable of such a thing. While it was certainly entertaining to watch, the team was always waiting for one of you to start climbing the other like a tree one of these days. The sexual tension had been dialed up to a ten for weeks now. It was best to leave you both to sort it out, far away from the rest of them.
You had been strategically hiding your smile behind your coffee mug for the entire time that Bucky had been protesting, reminding you of all the times he'd made you coffee, or brought you your favourite snack, or done other things for you, as if desperate to remind you that he was competent.
You were still pretty tired, and he had been very sweet to take care of you last night—but you couldn't just say that, now could you? It wasn't like you to be so sincere. So you just let him fall all over himself as he continued a once-sided argument, until you finished your drink and rinsed your mug in the sink, only half-listening to him. When you turned after putting the cup away, he fell silent, expectant, waiting for your rebuttal, but all you said was, "I'm going back to bed. I still have an hour before I need to be in the gym."
Then you moved past him, intent on returning to the fluffy heaven that was your bed, your multitude of blankets and pillows and the softest mattress known to man. Bucky followed along behind you. "You're kidding me."
"No, I'm not. I'm still sleepy." As if to emphasize your point, a yawn barrelled through you, punctuating the end of your sentence.
He hovered behind you the entire time that you plugged in your room's code, a tall, brooding shadow, and followed you into the space. The curtains had let in a little bit of light, but you were sure you could sleep through it. You looked over your shoulder at Bucky, took in the sight of his feet planted on your rug, his arms crossed, a frown on his face, like he couldn't possibly conceive of the fact that you were being serious.
"Are you going to come and cuddle with me now? Offer's still open." You said it with a smile as you climbed into your bed and sat propped against the headboard for a moment, fighting the urge to make grabby hands at him.
It was the fact that you were being sincere that had Bucky faltering for a second. You really wanted to cuddle? You wanted him to lay beside you and hold you close, for him to put his hands on you and keep you tethered to him? You were staring at him expectantly, perfectly still. That was what made his decision.
You felt like you'd never seen Bucky move so quickly. The shirt came off, then the boots and the jeans, and then he was all but diving into the bed next to you. You let out a laugh at his eagerness and sank down into the pillows, turning your back to him. It took less than a second for him to band an arm around your waist and drag you backwards into his chest. It was like putting a heating pad to your skin. You could feel warmth radiating off of him through your shirt, further highlighted when he snuck his hand under the hem and splayed his fingers across your stomach, his palm a brand.
It was nice. It felt like you belonged there, snuggled in his grasp. You felt more comfort from this than from any of your blankets and soft things. You felt like you were part of a matched pair, the way you seemed to fit perfectly against him. "You're like a drug I just can't quit." He sighed into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. "What am I gonna do with you?"
That admission had all traces of sleepiness leaving you.
No, now you were awake. What was sleep? You'd never felt it before, you swore. You only knew the crackle of electricity under your skin. Because what were you supposed to do with that? You knew that you and Bucky came back to each other like a set of boomerangs. No matter how far apart you were, you always found away to be around each other again. He responded to your every whim like that was all he was put on the earth to do. And you'd never admit it out loud, but you did the same thing. If you were ordering refills on gear, you were filling out a requisitions form for him, too. You knew what he liked from every takeout place you frequented, and you ordered for him without a second thought, even if he was going to be late coming back. You'd lost count of how many times you'd made him a guide for any new tech you were supposed to start using, not wanting him to struggle to understand it.
If you were his drug, he was your Roman Empire. The amount of time you spent thinking about him should have earned you a paycheck, if you were being honest. And now he was here, and you were soaking up his warmth like he was a stray sunbeam, and he was holding you there like you were his parachute, because the drop was a long way down.
The way that you fit in Bucky's arms was something that should have been studied, he thought. Why hadn't he done this when you'd asked earlier? Screw Natasha and the gym, he should have listened to your request and been curled around you an hour ago. He shouldn't have even waited for permission.
His thumb moved absently, from his hand's place on your stomach, a line back and forth against your skin. You didn't seem to mind, letting out a content little sigh instead. You wriggled backwards, pressing closer. Too close. Because Bucky was painfully aware, literally, of the position you were both in, and he was all the more aware of the fact that clothes were the only barrier between you.
It would take nothing to shift his hand to your hip, to drag your shorts down. To lift your leg at the knee, to make space for him to slot himself inside of you with a simple roll of his hips. The thought alone made him throb. The breath that left him was shaky, admittedly. You noticed.
It was like you were psychically linked, because your hand came to rest on top of his, stilling the race of his thumb. "What are you thinking about?" You asked, your voice light and airy, but Bucky thought he could sense something else lingering in your tone.
In fact, he knew there was an underlying gravity to the question. You didn't want a lie, you wanted the truth, further demonstrated when you dragged his hand to your hip, right along your waistband. Like a dare. Like an invitation. "I think you know." He said, lips soft against your shoulder.
"Mhm, I think I do."
It was all you said, but it was enough for Bucky to fumble at the waistband of your shorts, one of his fingers plucking it from your skin and releasing it with a sharp little snap! It wasn't quite a gasp or a sigh that left your mouth, but it was enough. That was all he needed to hear from you before he hooked his fingers on the band again and pulled them down with no mercy, your panties coming along for the ride. "God, I've wanted this forever."His hand settled on the curve of your waist, then continued a path over your hip your thigh. He trailed kisses along your shoulder, through your shirt, his breath hot through the fabric.
"Better make it count." You were made of want and desperation, fighting to not squirm with neediness.
"You're gonna be good for me, yeah?" Bucky panted against your neck, lifting your leg just a little, just enough. "Gonna take what I give you?"
"Mhm. Please, Bucky. Want it."
That was all you needed to say before Bucky was freeing his cock with a groan, stroking it lazily before slotting himself between your legs. You were already dripping onto him, and he had barely even touched you. "Fuck, baby girl."
You fidgeted, your walls clenching around nothing. "Need you now. Please. Please, please—" You cut off with a moan when he started to push in, the stretch delicious.
There were a series of sighs between the both of you, bursting from your mouths like birds free from a cage as he kept going, stopping when his hips met your ass. Then he held still for a heartbeat, the moment ticking by both too slowly and too quickly. He breathed your name, voice tight with restraint, every one of his muscles tense, his arm unyielding around your waist. You were warm, drenched, squeezing him like you didn’t want him to go, and he couldn't. Wouldn't. Not yet. Not when he’d been aching for this, for you, for what felt like his entire life.
You whimpered, soft and high in your throat, wiggling back onto him with no shame at all, greedy for more, for whatever he'd give you. "Bucky…"
The sound of his name from your lips, all breathy and needy, was enough to snap the rest of his control, breaking it to pieces. He drew back, slow but deliberate, dragging his cock against every soaked inch of your fluttering walls, and then fucked back in, hard. You cried out with a sweet little whine, your body twitching at the feeling of being so full.
"That's it, sweet girl," he rasped, nuzzling into your neck, mouthing at the skin behind your ear. "Takin' me so good. So fuckin' good." His hips snapped again, but he kept you from jolting forward, making you feel everything he gave you. Your breath caught in your throat as he set a punishing rhythm. Deep, rolling thrusts that left you drooling into the pillow, clinging to the sheets, his arm, your shirt.
You were helpless against it, mind going blank to anything but what he was doing to you. "Oh my god—Bucky, Bucky—I can't—" You gasped when his hand spread over your belly again, pressing you close while his cock pistoned into you, thick and hard as steel, like he was drilling into you, trying to find gold. His fingers splayed, feeling your body stretch and tense, the outline of him a tangible thing as he bottomed out again, another thrust punching a little breathy, "Ah!" from your lungs.
"Yes, you can." He growled it, like a promise and a command, nosing under your shirt to kiss between your shoulders, sweaty and tender. "You will. Gonna come on my cock, sweetheart. Gonna make a mess, yeah? That's what you want."
You nodded desperately, tears beading at the corners of your eyes from how full you felt, from the pressure building behind your ribs like an explosive waiting to be set off. "Y-yes—yes, please—feels so good—"
He wrapped around you tighter, like he could bury you in his chest if he tried hard enough, his fingers sliding between your thighs to find your clit, circling with perfect pressure. That was it. That was what pushed you over.
"Fuck—Bucky—!" You wailed, trembling hard, cunt spasming around him, squeezing so tight he saw stars behind his eyes. The orgasm tore through you like a supernova, loud and all-consuming, your hips jerking, hands fisting the sheets.
"Fuck—fuck—" Bucky clenched his jaw, struggling not to follow, but you were milking him, dragging him closer to the edge with every twitch of your cunt. He was trying to focus on fucking you through it, but you were making it impossible. "That's it, baby girl, that's it. Let me feel you, fuck—you're so tight, so perfect—"
You were still riding out your orgasm when he slammed in again, one final thrust that pushed him over. He held you there, buried to the hilt, his body locked tight against yours as he came with a grunt, the sound rattling in your ears. His hips jolted as he emptied himself into you, thick pulses of heat flooding you so deep, you felt like you could feel it in your throat.
The both of you went limp at the same time, a breathless tangle of sweat and skin and heavy limbs. He stayed inside you, unable to bear the idea of moving yet, not when you were still gasping and shivering, pliant in his arms. His hand moved to cradle your hip instead, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles while you caught your breath.
For a long moment, all that existed was the soft pant of your exhales, the flutter of your lashes as you blinked blearily at the curtains, and Bucky's steady heartbeat against your back. Then, the cadence of your voice, barely audible, mostly unintelligible. He leaned in closer. "What was that?"
"I said," you repeated, sluggish and slurred with the afterglow, "...you're lucky I changed my mind about going back to sleep."
That made him snort against your shoulder, then press a kiss to the nape of your neck, grinning like he'd won a prize at the state fair. "You would've missed out, baby girl."
You hummed, eyes finally slipping shut, your body going boneless once again. "Mmm. You better not move. You're warm."
Bucky had a feeling he'd be calling Natasha on your behalf, to tell her that training was off for the day. He didn't move, obeying your request. Didn't even shift an inch, just tightened his hold, exhaling slow and steady, like he'd found the safest place on earth, the softest place to land. And maybe he had.
so fucking *gentle* with his precious little human wife
bringing her flowers, always carrying her on his shoulder in crowds so she doesn't get jostled
his sweet little plum, so soft and kind, feeding strays, feeding the neighbors, making sure her big boy has all the food he could ever want
but at home, when that big ol husband of hers comes home from the forge, she is *feral*
masterlist Here
Like… big orc husband, calloused hands from the forge, broad enough that he has to duck through doorframes, tusks catching the light when he grins at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters. Everyone thinks he’s terrifying—because of course they do—but they don’t see how he crouches down so she can fix the little curl of hair over his ear before he goes to work, or how he carries her on his shoulder at the market so she dosent have to feel the crush of the crowd.
And her? Sweetest damn thing in the village. Always with flour on her hands from baking too much bread because “what if the neighbors run out?” She gives the best hugs, the kind that smell like sugar and soap, and every single stray animal within a mile radius has tried to follow her home at least once. She makes the whole damn village feel warmer just by existing.
But behind their cottage door?
That’s when she turns into the dangerous one.
Because when her orc comes home, smelling of hot iron and cedar smoke, sweat rolling down those carved-out shoulders—she’s already halfway across the room, tugging at him before he’s even set down his hammer. His huge hands are barely out of his gloves before she’s climbing into his lap, breathless, muttering how she’s been thinking about him all day. And he just… melts for her. He’d let her bite him if she wanted—hell, she does—all teeth and needy little gasps.
He rumbles low in his chest, but she cuts it off with a sharper bite to his lower lip.
“Quiet,” she murmurs. “You’re mine now, husband. And I’ve been waiting all damn day.”
He swallows hard. That mountain of muscle, that warrior who could shatter a man’s skull with one blow, stands still for her.
“Cherub—”
The look she gives him silences him instantly. “Don’t call me that right now.” Her hand slides down his chest, deliberate, claiming, until she palms the growing heat between his legs. “You want sweet? You get that when I’m finished with you.”
A groan escapes him before he can stop it, tusks bared in something between a snarl and a plea.
She grins. Perfect.
“On your knees.”
He obeys—of course he obeys—dropping down until she towers over him for once, her fingers tangling in his hair. She tilts his head back, forcing those molten eyes up at her. That sheer, obedient mass of him, kneeling at her feet, makes her pulse roar in her ears.
“You work all day thinking you’re the strong one,” she says softly, trailing her nails along the curve of one tusk. “But you forget… I’m the one who decides when you get fed. And how.”
Her thumb presses to his lips. “Open.”
He obeys instantly, mouth parting, his hot breath brushing her skin. She slips her thumb between his tusks and presses down, watching the way his pupils blow wide, the way his breath stutters. His huge hands twitch against his thighs, wanting to touch, but she shakes her head.
“Not yet. You don’t touch me until I say so.”
The way his jaw flexes tells her just how much it costs him. Good. Let him ache for it.
She leans in close, her mouth brushing the point of his ear. “Get on the bed, dearest. Lie on your back.”
He moves like a man under a spell, the floor creaking under his weight as he obeys. The bed looks small under him—gods, he’s huge—and she climbs up after him, swinging one leg over his hips until she’s straddling the broad expanse of his stomach.
His hands rise instinctively to grip her hips, but she catches his wrists and presses them to the mattress.
“You want to touch?” Her voice is a purr now, sweet and terrible. “Earn it.”
The needy sound he makes right then is everything.
And that’s before she even starts to really ruin him.
He’s beautiful like this.
Flat on his back, all that impossible muscle laid out beneath her, tusks bared in something that is neither a growl nor a moan, wrists pinned under her hands. A mountain of a man reduced to stillness because she told him to stay there.
She rolls her hips once—just enough to drag her clothed heat over the thick ridge pressing up against her through his trousers—and the sound he makes goes straight to her core.
“Gods, cherub…” he groans, voice breaking on her pet name, but she cuts him off with a sharp little shake of her head.
“I told you,” she purrs, grinding a little harder now, “that name is for when I’m feeling sweet. Does this look sweet to you?”
His golden eyes go heavy-lidded, chest rising and falling like he’s just run miles. “No,” he rasps. “You look… like trouble.”
She smiles like a predator. “Good boy.”
With deliberate slowness, she reaches back to unlace his trousers, tugging them down just enough to free him. He’s already hard—thick, heavy, flushed dark—and her breath catches at the sight of him. His hips twitch, seeking more friction, but her grip on his wrists tightens.
“Don’t move,” she warns, dragging her nails lightly over the sensitive skin at his tip. His head falls back against the pillow with a growl that is all need and no threat.
She shifts forward, tugging her skirts up around her waist until there’s nothing between them. The first slide of him against her is perfect—heat meeting heat, slick pooling between them.
His breath stutters. “Please…”
“Please what?” she teases, rocking just enough to coat him in her slick.
“Please—let me in. Need to feel you.”
She leans forward until her lips brush his ear, her voice dropping into a wicked whisper. “You’ll get what I give you, husband. And you’ll thank me for it.”
And then she takes him.
Slow, deliberate, savoring the stretch as she sinks down inch by thick inch, keeping her eyes locked on his until she’s seated fully, her hips flush to his. His jaw goes slack, a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan spilling from him.
“Gods above,” he rasps, eyes wide, reverent. “You feel… you feel like—”
“Like I own you?” she offers, grinding down until his breath hitches again.
“Yes,” he admits, voice breaking. “Yes. Always.”
She sets the pace—slow at first, just enough to make him twitch under her, his abs trembling from the restraint it takes not to buck up into her. Then she speeds up, hips rolling hard enough to make the bed creak, to have him choking out her name like a prayer.
Every thrust is hers. Every desperate sound. Every tiny tremor in his massive frame.
He’s wrecked for her—his golden eyes glassy, sweat running down his temples, jaw clenched against the pleasure threatening to undo him. And gods, she loves it.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, leaning down to brush her lips over his. “My big, strong husband… nothing but a good boy under me.”
“Yours,” he groans, and his hips jerk despite himself.
She grins wickedly. “That’s right. And you’ll stay here until I’m done with you.”
He lasts maybe another minute before he’s breaking apart—trembling, moaning, spilling deep inside her while she rides him through it, milking him until his voice goes ragged and his body goes boneless beneath her.
Only then does she slow, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “That’s my good boy,” she whispers, finally loosening her grip on his wrists.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even try. Just lies there, utterly spent, eyes still fixed on her with that same stunned reverence.
And she smiles, because she knows tomorrow she’ll be back to being the sweet, flour-dusted cherub everyone adores.
But tonight?
She’s the one who left her big, dangerous orc husband wrecked and whimpering in their bed.
i hope to god i get to manhandle a huuuuge orc like this. BECAUSE GOOOOOOOOODDDDD i will be an unstoppable force if i finally get a taste of that monster 🍆 i will be the sweetest, kindest and most enduring PLSSSSSSSSSSS
There is a little but important update on the pinned.
For the sake of my own mental health, I won't be taking any more requests. I WILL finish the ones I already have in my inbox, but after that, I will continue writing only my own fics.
I greatly dislike that this blog became almost like a second job to me, and having a month-long break really demonstrated how less stressed I was during that time. And that's no bueno when it comes to creativity for me. This doesn't mean I won't ever go back to taking requests, but I might need to include getting paid for some things in order to feel... more motivated? Less stressed? More appreciated? Like writing a medium-sized piece for someone and then getting around 50 notes at best is really exhausting. And I want to have fun writing.
So, for the time being, I will keep this blog request-free and self-oriented.
However, you can always send me asks of any sort, of course, even writing ideas, but I will simply post them and maybe comment on them.
