warnings: explicit sexual content 18+, oral, praise kink, sir kink, dirty talk, light dom/sub, uniform kink, mutual obsession, neighbors may hear things, thirsty calendar discovery scene
summary: you’ve been setting off your smoke alarm on purpose just to get sergeant barnes at your door — broad shoulders, wet gear, and all. but tonight, the game catches up to you.
authors note: happy 2,000 followers to me! this fic is near and dear to my heart as its loosly based off of one of the VERY FIRST concepts i wrote for bucky barnes. theres just something about a man in uniform.... 🚒🔥
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It starts with rain.
The kind that doesn’t fall so much as hammers, drumming on the roof of your building like knuckles on a locked door. You can hear it in your kitchen, the steady, heavy rhythm, the hiss of streetwater kicked up by passing cars like waves. The city’s been soaked all day, and now the evening air sits thick and tense, humid the way it gets right before a summer storm breaks into something mean.
It would’ve been a perfect night to behave.
To pretend you’re normal. To heat up soup. To watch something brainless. To go to bed early and not think about him.
You last about twelve minutes.
Then you’re standing in the kitchen barefoot and guilty, biting your lip and staring up at the little black, circular plastic eye in the corner near the ceiling.
The smoke detector.
Your smoke detector.
Your stupid little red button that brings you James Buchanan Barnes.
You tell yourself you’re not going to. You tell yourself, no, you absolutely cannot, because last time Sam Wilson (loud, funny, deeply nosy) had narrowed his eyes in the hallway and gone, “Huh, princess, this is what, the third ‘emergency call’ this month? You runnin’ a grill in your living room or something?”
And Bucky had cut him a look, one brow ticking, and said, “Wilson,” in that low warning way.
Wilson had smirked at you. “Mmmhmm. Just makin’ conversation.”
You’d laughed it off. You’d said something about cheap wiring in old buildings. You’d shrugged and hugged yourself in your doorway and tried very, very hard not to look at Bucky’s soaked turnout jacket clinging to his shoulders, or the way he stripped his gloves off with his teeth.
But you’d seen it. You’re pretty sure he’d seen you seeing it. And you’re not dumb.
You know you’re playing with matches.
You also know you want to get burned.
You close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, and whisper to your empty apartment, “Okay. Okay. Last time. Last time and then I’ll stop.”
You’re a liar.
You drag the chair from the table over to the stove. The chair legs squeal against linoleum, too loud in the quiet kitchen. Your heartbeat hitches. You climb up, stretching on your toes, and reach for the battery housing inside the little circular alarm.
But you don’t take the battery out.
You nudge the test toggle just wrong. Just enough to loosen the casing.
You know exactly how to make it scream now. Practice makes perfect.
Then you step off the chair, pad back to the stove, and turn the front-left burner on high.
There’s a pan on it. Dry.
You leave it there.
You don’t even put oil this time—that had been messy, last time; you’d had to open both windows and wave a dish towel around like you were landing a plane.
Instead you just leave metal on heat, let it sit, let it cook and cook and cook until the scent starts to change. It goes from clean to warm to oh, that’s probably not good in less than a minute. By two and a half minutes, you see the first thin ripples rise from the pan like heat mirage. Little curls of smoke.
You swallow.
Your heart is already beating stupid fast, and they’re not even here yet.
“God, you’re pathetic,” you mutter to yourself, pacing in a small nervous circle. “You’re actually deranged. You’re out of control. You are—”
The alarm goes off.
It doesn’t chirp; it screams.
That high, piercing, shattering shriek fills your apartment in a single breath. You jump and wince, lunging for the front door because you’ve done this before and you know what’s coming next. Your building’s alarm system is tied into the local station for “fast response to potential structure fires,” which is good for the neighborhood and terrible for your self-control.
You swing the deadbolt back and leave the door unlocked.
Your hands are shaking.
Oh my god. Oh my god he’s going to—
The hall alarm starts up a second later. Someone from down the hall yells “What the fuck!” over the wail of it. You flinch and duck back into your kitchen, twist the stove off, yank the pan onto a cold burner.
Okay. Okay, okay.
Breathless, you grab the nearest dish towel and start waving beneath the alarm to “try to clear the smoke.” You know it won’t silence it—only maintenance has the code for that. You’re not even really doing anything useful.
You’re just trying to look innocent.
Heavy boots on stairs.
You hear them even over the alarm. The stomp, stomp, stomp of trained hurry. The low voices. The clipped “Watch your corners, it’s this floor,” you’ve grown embarrassingly familiar with.
Then:
A knock, hard and authoritative.
“Fire department!”
You can feel the grind of that voice in your spine.
You toss the towel, spin around, and try to pull your sleep shirt down a little lower on your thighs before you open the door.
And there he is.
Jesus Christ.
Even if you hadn’t seen him before, even if you hadn’t engineered this, you would know him on sight. He’s not the tallest on his crew, but he looks like the center of gravity. He’s built wide—shoulders that block half the hallway, thick arms roped with muscle, turnout coat open at the collar and hanging heavy off his frame, still damp from either the rain or whatever call they were on before you. Maybe both. His dark hair is pushed back, a little mussed, rain-wet at the edges. His jaw is set. His mouth is a hard line. There’s a streak of black on his cheekbone where soot had mixed with sweat. His eyes, glacial blue, cut straight to you, then sweep past you into your apartment in one practiced scan.
You meet his eyes on instinct.
Something tightens, electric.
“Hi,” you say, too fast, too breathy.
One of his crew, the same loud one from last time, leans around him to peer in. “Ma’am, you got an active—...” Sam stops. Looks at the cold pan on the stove. Looks at the faint haze in the air. Looks back to you, then to Bucky. His mouth curls. “Oh, come on. Again?”
You suck in a breath, trying to look offended, or at least confused. “The stove just— I was making— it started smoking and the alarm just—”
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, unimpressed. He’s grinning, though. “Barnes, you wanna walk her through Fire Safety 101 again, or should I? I got charts in the truck.”
“Wilson,” Bucky says without even looking back.
Just his voice can make “Wilson” sound like shut up.
Sam’s grin widens. “Copy that, Sarge.”
Bucky steps forward. Automatically, you step back. He fills your doorway on instinct, one gloved hand braced high against the jamb as he leans in.
He smells like rain and smoke and clean laundry. You could drown in it.
“You okay?” he asks you, quiet, like there’s nothing else in the hallway. His tone shifts when he looks at you, always. You’ve noticed that. With Sam and the others he’s all clipped command; with you he’s lower, softer, threaded with warmth he pretends he doesn’t have.
Your stomach flips.
“Yes,” you manage. “I’m— I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
He nods once, eyes flicking over you, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of what you’re wearing: an oversized sleep shirt with your college logo and absolutely nothing else. No bra. No shorts. Nothing covering the way the fabric skims down over your hips and barely catches the lowest curve of your ass.
A flush crawls up your chest.
You cross your arms over your chest in what you hope is a casual move, but his eyes catch it. They flick down, then up again. His jaw tightens the smallest bit.
Oh.
Oh.
Your pulse stutters.
Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Wilson, clear the hall, tell ‘em they’re good. I’ll reset her unit.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says cheerfully, and then he’s clapping another firefighter on the shoulder and disappearing down the hall, calling, “False alarm, folks, everybody relax, nobody’s burning alive—yet.”
The alarm keeps screaming, echoing against the narrow walls. Your neighbors are muttering. Doors crack open, then shut again.
And then it’s just you and Bucky in your doorway in the pounding, relentless sound.
“Back up for me, sweetheart,” he says.
Sweetheart.
You feel it like a hand at the back of your neck.
You back up.
He steps inside with you, shuts the door with his boot, and just like that, you and Bucky Barnes are alone in your apartment for the first time.
The second the door shuts, the noise dulls—less piercing, more like being underwater. You can still hear the alarm from the hall, but in here it’s only your unit wailing.
Bucky peels off one glove with his teeth, then the other with his bare hand. You watch that hand. He’s got big hands. Veins, calluses, blunt square fingers. His left hand, the one with the dark leather glove, comes off slower—it’s a metal prosthetic, gleaming dull matte under the fluorescents. You’ve seen that, too. You’ve thought about it too many times. You’ve thought about what that would feel like between your—
“Show me,” he says.
You blink up at him. “Show you…?”
“The stove,” he prompts patiently. His jaw is tight. “The fire hazard. Doll.”
Heat pools low in you at that last word. Doll.
You swallow and turn, padding quickly to the kitchen, acutely aware of him following, of the soft jingle of gear at his belt, the weight of his presence at your back like heat off a furnace.
“It’s off now,” you babble, nerves spilling out of you in words. “I just—I honestly don’t know what happened, I just turned around and it started smoking and then the whole thing went off and—”
“Mmhmm,” he says, which does not sound like he believes you. “Step back.”
You step aside.
He leans over your stove, inspecting. Rainwater drips from the hem of his coat onto your floor. His shirt under the open jacket, dark navy department issue, stretches obscenely over his back and shoulders when he bends forward.
You bite your lip.
He reaches out, puts two fingers to the still-warm pan, then tuts under his breath.
You freeze.
You know what that sound is. You’ve heard it twice now. That’s not oh god this is dangerous. That’s that little disappointed noise he makes right before he lectures you.
Your stomach swoops. You love that noise.
He straightens slowly. Turns to you. Crosses his arms over his chest.
“D’you think I’m stupid?” he asks mildly.
Your mouth opens. “I—”
“You think I can’t tell the difference between a kitchen fire and you cooking fuckin’ nothing in a dry pan until it smokes?”
Your face goes nuclear.
Your lips move silently for a second. “I— I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
His brow lifts, and it’s obscene, the way just that can make your knees want to wobble. “You wanna try that again with an answer that isn’t a lie, menace?”
Menace.
Your breath catches.
You should feel embarrassed. You should feel caught. You should feel anything except the hot, dragging ache low in your belly, the one that pulses every time he uses that tone on you.
You whisper, “I like when you come.”
Silence.
The alarm is still shrieking overhead. Rain still hammers the windows. Your heart is in your throat.
Bucky just looks at you.
For one long, dizzying second, his face doesn’t change. Then, slowly, his mouth curves.
Not a smile.
Something darker.
Something that sees you.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I figured that out.”
Your lungs forget how to work.
He takes a step toward you.
You don’t move.
“You know what happens,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “out there, when we get a call like this?”
You swallow. Your throat is dry. “You… show up?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “We gear up,” he says, like he’s telling you a story. “We roll out emergency. Lights. Siren. My guys put on forty pounds of equipment in under sixty seconds, sweetheart. We run. In the rain, in the dark, in traffic. Because that alarm says somebody might be burning alive.”
Your stomach twists. Guilt flares for a split second, sharp and bright.
Then he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him on your bare thighs and you lose the ability to think.
“And then,” he continues, eyes on yours, voice low and unhurried even while your alarm screams, “we get here and it’s you again, wearing nothin’ but a fuckin’ t-shirt and big eyes, and you tell me—” he tilts his head— “oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what happened, I’m just so scared.”
Your face is so hot you’re surprised you’re not setting off sparks.
“I— I never said ‘Sergeant,’” you whisper, too honest.
He laughs. Low. That same not-smile pulls at his mouth again. “No,” he says. “You never did. You just looked at me like you wanted to climb me like a ladder and said ‘thank you for coming, sir.’”
Your knees almost go out.
You remember that night. You remember saying it. You remember how his jaw had clenched when you did.
“You know we could fine you?” he asks conversationally, like he’s talking about the weather and not about your impending moral collapse. “False call like this? You can get cited.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“You know what a citation looks like?”
You shake your head.
He leans in.
“It looks like me,” he murmurs, “in your apartment at nine p.m. explaining fire code to you line by line. Real slow.”
Your breath catches on a quiet, involuntary sound.
His eyes spark.
“Yeah,” he says, voice roughening. “That’s what I thought.”
Your thighs press together. You can’t help it.
Bucky’s gaze flicks down. Follows the movement. Stays there. When he looks back up, something in his face is different. Less restraint. More hunger.
The alarm screams and screams.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna reset your alarm. I’m gonna radio dispatch and tell ‘em false alarm, no emergency, situation contained. And then,” he continues, so soft you almost miss it under the noise, “you’re gonna tell me the truth.”
Your mouth is dry. “The truth?”
“That you did this on purpose.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “That you wanted me here.”
Like he doesn’t already know.
You nod.
“And,” he adds, voice dropping into something that makes your stomach flip, “you’re gonna tell me what you want now that you’ve got me.”
You cannot breathe.
A tremor runs through you from scalp to toes. “Bucky—”
“Mm.” He tuts again, but his eyes are heat. “That’s not how you’ve been talkin’ to me, is it?”
You feel it all the way down. “Sergeant,” you whisper, breathless.
God, the way his pupils blow at that.
“Good girl,” he says, like praise, like reward.
You almost come on the spot.
He steps away from you before your legs give out and moves with efficient calm you can’t begin to fake. He reaches up, twists something in the housing of your alarm with one sure hand, and the wail cuts off mid-scream.
The sudden quiet rings.
Your ears buzz in the absence. You sag against the counter and try to get your lungs back.
He unclips the radio mic at his shoulder, presses the button, and speaks in that calm, professional tone that makes you weak. “Dispatch, this is Engine 41, Barnes. False alarm, Unit 3B. No visible fire, no active smoke. Resident attempted to cook, pan overheated, alarm tripped. We’ve reset the unit. You can clear us.”
There’s static, then a crackle of confirmation. You barely hear it. You’re watching his throat as he talks. The way his Adam’s apple moves. The faint stubble along his jaw. The way his mouth shapes “Barnes.”
He re-clips his mic. Looks back at you.
You’re still braced against your counter, thighs pressed together, heart going way too fast.
He takes his time peeling his turnout coat off. He doesn’t break eye contact. The heavy, reflective-striped jacket slides off his broad shoulders slow and deliberate, revealing all of him in that dark navy tee. It’s soaked at the collar, rain-dark over his chest and sleeves, clinging to muscle. His biceps flex with the movement. A heavy black strap crosses his chest, part of his harness. His utility belt sits low on his hips.
He hangs the coat over the back of one of your kitchen chairs with military neatness.
Then he steps back into your space.
“Now,” he says softly. “Truth.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Your heartbeat is hammering so hard you feel a little lightheaded.
“I—” you start.
His brows twitch. “Not a great start, menace,” he murmurs.
You exhale in a little rush. “I wanted you.”
He hums. “Yeah?”
“I wanted you to come,” you say, cheeks blazing but there’s no way out now, “and I wanted you to yell at me and I wanted you to— I just— I wanted you.”
His eyes go dark, hungry.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His right hand—big, warm, human—comes up, cups your jaw. Not hard. Just holding. His thumb drags slow along your lower lip, presses there until your mouth parts.
“There’s somethin’ else,” he says quietly. “Somethin’ else you’re not sayin’ yet.”
You shiver. “Bucky—”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant,” you whisper, dizzy. “Please.”
His jaw flexes.
“Please what?” he asks, his voice so soft it almost hurts.
“Please touch me,” you whisper.
Something breaks in his eyes.
And then he’s kissing you.
It’s not gentle.
His mouth hits yours like he’s been holding back for weeks and lost the leash in one second. His grip on your jaw tightens, angling you up, and his other hand slides to your hip, dragging you in against him with zero hesitation.
You gasp into his mouth. He swallows it.
He tastes like clean mint and rain and smoke.
You whimper and grab at his shirt, fisting the soaked fabric at his chest, clinging. He’s solid like a wall. Heat pours off him. He groans, low in his throat, when you open for him, and then his tongue is in your mouth, slow and sure and claiming.
You’ve kissed men before. You’ve never been kissed like this.
This feels like being cornered in the best possible way. Like being owned.
You moan.
He growls.
“Oh,” Sam says brightly from your doorway, “oh, wow, okay, so this is what we’re doing, cool cool cool, love that for you two, I’m gonna go tell dispatch we’re doing an extended safety inspection, carry on—”
The door slams.
You jerk back, mortified, breathless. “Oh my god—”
Bucky doesn’t even look away from you. His thumb strokes under your chin, coaxing you to look at him, dragging you back in. His pupils are blown so wide they almost eat the blue.
“Eyes on me,” he says quietly. “Not on Wilson.”
Your head snaps back like he’s got a grip on your hair.
“Yes, sir,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. You feel his hand on your hip tighten, fingers digging into bare skin through your shirt.
“Fuck,” he mutters again, almost like it hurts. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. You wanna play games with firemen? You get the fireman.”
You make a needy noise that doesn’t sound like you. “Please—”
“Shh.” He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just under your ear. His breath is hot on your neck. “We’re gonna do this right.”
You’re shaking.
“I need two things from you,” he murmurs against your throat, kissing his way down, slow, deliberate. “You’re gonna give ‘em to me and then I’ll give you whatever you want. Sound fair?”
You nod frantically.
“Words, menace,” he chides softly.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Sergeant.”
He hums, pleased. You feel the sound against your skin. “Good girl.”
You squeeze your thighs together helplessly.
“First,” he says, voice low, “you’re gonna tell me if you want me to stop. Any time. ‘Stop’ means stop. You say it, I step back. We clear?”
“Yes,” you breathe, chest heaving. “Clear.”
He presses a kiss to your throat, soft, like reward. “Second,” he murmurs, mouth moving against the frantic flutter of your pulse, “you’re gonna be honest when I ask you questions. You lie to me again? I’ll put my coat back on and I’ll walk right out that door.”
Panic shoots through you so fast you gasp.
“I won’t lie,” you blurt, desperate. “I won’t, I swear, I won’t, just— don’t leave.”
He exhales a quiet curse that’s basically a groan. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Then his hands are on you.
Both of them.
And you learn, very fast, what it feels like to be handled by James Buchanan Barnes.
His right hand, warm and rough, fists in the hem of your shirt and drags it up in one smooth motion. His left—metal, cool and impossibly steady—slides down over your hip and under the edge, palming your bare ass like he’s been waiting to.
You squeak.
He grins against your throat. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what you wanted, doll? You wanted the big, scary firefighter to put his hands on you?”
You’re not sure if you whimper or nod. Probably both.
He pulls your shirt up, up, over your ribs, over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, dizzy and pliant. He tangles you for one clumsy second, laughing softly under his breath when the shirt catches on your elbow, then tosses it somewhere behind you with zero concern.
You’re naked in your own kitchen in front of him. Bare and shaking and wet between your thighs already.
His breath leaves him in a harsh exhale.
“Fuck me,” he says quietly, reverent and filthy at once.
You flush from scalp to sternum.
His gaze drags down slowly, like a hand. Your throat. Your collarbone. Your breasts—he groans, actual, honest groan, when he sees you, like you’re some kind of miracle. His tongue flicks over his lower lip. His jaw flexes. He drags his stare down your belly, to the soft curve there, the dip of your waist, the way your thighs press together, already damp at the seam.
You squirm, suddenly shy under the scrutiny.
His eyes snap back up to yours instantly.
“Don’t,” he says softly. There’s heat in it. Warning. “Don’t you hide from me now. You hear me?”
You nod, dizzy.
“Words,” he says gently, patient even through the hunger in his eyes.
“I hear you,” you whisper.
His mouth twitches. “Good girl.”
You feel that praise like it’s physical.
He leans in and kisses you again, slower now. Deep and claiming, yes, but he slows the roll of his tongue, learning your mouth, mapping it. His hands bracket your hips—one warm, one cool—holding you steady as he licks into you until you’re making those soft, helpless noises again.
When he pulls back, you chase him without thinking.
He smiles. “Needy,” he murmurs, and it sounds like approval.
Your face burns. “You said honesty.”
“I did,” he agrees. “So you’re gonna be real honest with me right now, okay?”
You nod, breathless. “Okay.”
“Have you touched yourself thinkin’ about me?”
You let out a tiny, strangled sound.
His brows lift. “That a yes?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes,” you whisper.
“How many times?”
Your brain goes white.
“I— I don’t—” You swallow. “A lot.”
He hums, pleased. “Yeah? You get yourself nice and wet thinkin’ about me showin’ up in my gear?”
You whimper. You can’t help it. “Yes.”
“Thinkin’ about me bendin’ you over that counter and teachin’ you a lesson?”
“Oh my god,” you croak.
He laughs under his breath, low and delighted. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what I thought.”
His right hand, warm and rough, skims up your side. Over your ribs, over the curve of your breast. He palms you there, big hand covering you almost entirely. His thumb drags over your nipple, slow, teasing.
You gasp, arching into him.
His eyes flick up to your face, watching you.
“That feel good?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathless.
“Yeah?” His thumb circles, firmer now, and your knees actually wobble. “You like my hands on you, doll?”
“God, yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to put his mouth on your throat again.
He kisses down. Slow, unhurried, like he’s got you for hours. The rain’s still pounding outside; the world could be ending and he would still be right here, licking lazy heat along your pulse while his hand kneads your breast.
When he drags his teeth, just a little, along the curve where neck meets shoulder, you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
He groans. “Fuck, yeah, grab me,” he mutters against your skin. “Hold on to me.”
You don’t know if you’re standing or floating.
His mouth moves lower. Over your collarbone. Down. He pauses over your breast, glances up at you once, giving you a breath of space to say no.
You nod so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. “Please,” you gasp.
He smiles against your skin.
Then he sucks your nipple into his mouth.
Your head drops back with a gasp so sharp it’s almost a sob. “Oh—”
He groans, low and filthy, like you taste good. His tongue flicks over you, slow and teasing, then harder, then he closes his teeth just barely, a whisper of pressure, and your stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Sergeant,” you whine, high and desperate.
His groan rumbles against your breast. His metal hand tightens on your hip, cool and unyielding, keeping you right where he wants you when you try to squirm.
“That’s it,” he mutters around you. “Say it again.”
“Sergeant,” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into the soaked navy cotton. “Oh my god—”
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same slow worship until you’re trembling and making noises you’ve never heard from yourself. His mouth is hot, his stubble scraping just enough to make you feel raw in the best way.
By the time he drags himself away from your chest, you’re panting.
He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes dark. He looks wrecked. Hungry.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he says rough and honest. “You understand me?”
You let out an embarrassing noise. “You’re just— you’re just saying that—”
His expression sharpens, instantly. “No,” he says, voice low and firm. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”
You blink.
“You’re perfect,” he repeats, softer but no less serious. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. I’ve been losin’ sleep over you for three goddamn weeks. Don’t you ever tell me I’m ‘just sayin’ that’ again. You got me?”
Your throat closes.
You nod, a little watery. “Y—yes.”
He leans up and kisses you, soft and sweet, like sealing it. Your chest aches.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth.
You whine.
He feels it instantly, stills, and his voice drops to a quiet rumble.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You good?”
You nod fast, dizzy. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m good. I promise.”
Something in his eyes softens — a flicker of pride, or maybe relief.
“Good girl,” he says again, like a reward. And then his fingers slip between your thighs.
You choke on a gasp.
You’re so wet you’re embarrassed. Slick and aching and hot. His fingertips drag through you and come away shining, and he hisses through his teeth when he sees.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, like it’s a prayer. “Look at you. You been walkin’ around like this waitin’ for me to come put you out?”
“Oh my god,” you groan, face on fire. “Please don’t say it like that—”
He grins, wicked. “What, you don’t like bein’ my little fire hazard?”
You let out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, might be a moan.
He drags two fingers—thick, callused—up through your slick and circles your clit, gentle, lazy, barely-there pressure that still lights you up like a match.
Your knees go.
He catches you easily, metal hand tightening, hauling you in against his chest like you weigh nothing. “Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. I got you.”
“Please,” you gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he soothes. “I know, sweetheart, I got you. Gonna take care of you now, okay? Finally gonna give you what you’ve been beggin’ for in that pretty little head.”
You whine, wordless.
“Spread for me,” he murmurs.
You do. You spread your thighs as far as you can with him still crowding you against the counter, shameless now, desperate.
“Good girl,” he breathes, genuinely pleased, and slides his fingers down, down, until he’s pressing one thick finger into you.
You gasp so loud you’re sure someone in the hall heard.
“Yeah?” he mutters through gritted teeth, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like the feel of you almost knocks him over. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
“Bucky—” you choke, then catch yourself so fast you get dizzy. “Sergeant, please—”
His groan might actually hurt him. “Say my fuckin’ name like that again,” he mutters against your skin, “and I’m gonna lose every bit of self-control I got left, you understand me?”
You nod frantically, clinging to him like you’ll float away, because that sounds incredible. “Yes— ah— yes, sir—”
He swears, low and filthy.
Then he starts moving his hand.
It’s over for you.
He fucks you on his fingers slow and deep, not rushing, not pounding, just pressing in and curling, pressing and curling, finding that spot like he’s been here before. Like he was built to fit inside you and wring you out.
You make a noise that doesn’t sound human.
“That it, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes on your face even as his jaw clenches. “That where you wanted me?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, please, please—”
“Yeah,” he grits out. “Been drivin’ me crazy, thinkin’ about this. You know that? Tryin’ to do my fuckin’ job—” curl, press, curl “—and all I can think about is how you’d feel milkin’ my fingers like this—”
You wail.
He laughs, breathless and so fond you could cry. “There she is,” he mutters. “There’s my little menace. That’s my girl.”
Your orgasm hits like a slammed door.
It takes you in one brutal rush, cresting and snapping all at once. You arch, cry out, clamp down around his fingers so hard you’re shocked he doesn’t hiss, and everything goes hot-white and shaking. You vaguely register the way he holds you through it—arm like a band of steel around your waist, mouth at your ear telling you, “That’s it, that’s it, let go for me, good girl, I got you, I got you”—and then you’re sagging against him, boneless and wrecked.
You’re still panting when you feel him ease his fingers out, slow, gentle.
You whimper at the loss.
He groans, quiet and filthy, watching his own fingers. They’re slick with you. He stares like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Then, eyes on yours, never breaking contact, he lifts those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
Your jaw actually drops.
“Jesus,” you whisper, stunned.
He hums around his own fingers, eyes rolling back for one split second like he’s fucking tasting heaven. When he pulls them free with a soft, obscene pop, his voice is wrecked. “You taste like trouble,” he murmurs, grinning slow and dark. “Figures.”
You’re shaking. “I can’t believe you just—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost sweet, “I’m just gettin’ started.”
Your legs almost give again.
He laughs quietly and steadies you. “Think you can walk?”
You blink. “Where are we going?”
His grin goes wicked. “Bedroom,” he says. “Unless you want your neighbors to hear you choke on my cock in the kitchen.”
You make a tiny, strangled sound that does nothing to hide how your thighs press together at the image.
His eyes flare. “Bedroom it is.”
He doesn’t exactly ask permission to move you. He just puts his hands on you—one at your hip, the other low on your back—and steers you down the hallway like you’re his to move. You stumble a little, still boneless from the orgasm, and he huffs a quiet laugh, murmuring, “Easy,” like you’re not both about to do something that’ll haunt your dreams forever.
Your bedroom is a tiny, soft chaos of blankets and laundry and warm lamplight. You’re suddenly, violently aware that you did not plan for tonight to go this far—you didn’t tidy, you didn’t stage, you didn’t—
Oh, god.
The calendar.
You forgot about the calendar.
Bucky stops dead in the doorway.
For a split second you’re confused, then you follow his line of sight and want to actually dissolve.
It’s hanging on the inside of your closet door, right where you’d left it after laughing about it with your friend over wine. The fire station fundraiser calendar. The local “Heroes of Engine 41” charity thing they’d sold at the farmer’s market.
It’s currently flipped to this month.
This month is Bucky.
And not “Bucky in full gear, anonymous hero” Bucky. No. This is “Bucky with his turnout pants low on his hips and suspenders tugged off his shoulders, shirtless, drenched, helmet in one hand, looking over his shoulder like you just called his name.” It’s borderline obscene. Whoever took that photo knew exactly what they were doing. His abs look like they’re carved. His dog tags are dripping water down his chest. His mouth is a soft, dangerous curve.
It’s also signed.
To: Trouble. Try not to burn the place down without me. –Sgt. Barnes
You actually whimper.
Bucky is absolutely silent.
You cannot tell if he’s mad, turned on, amused, or about to arrest you.
Your face is on fire. “That’s not— I mean, that’s not what it looks like—”
His head turns, slow, and when his eyes land on you again they’re molten.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice dropping so low it’s basically a purr. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
You cover your face with both hands. “I didn’t— Sam made me— he said if I didn’t buy one he’d tell you I didn’t support local heroes and I panicked—”
Bucky snorts.
You peek through your fingers.
He is staring at the calendar like he wants to physically climb through the paper and fight himself. His jaw is tight. His pupils are huge.
“You been jerkin’ off to my fundraiser photo, menace?” he asks conversationally, like he’s asking if you’ve had dinner. “That why you needed so many ‘emergency visits’?”
You let out a mortified squeak. “I— I have not—”
“Honesty,” he reminds you softly.
Oh god.
Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”
His eyes close for one glorious second like he’s in pain.
When he opens them again, he looks… different. Rougher. Hotter. Hungrier.
Dangerous.
“Get on the bed,” he says.
You go.
It’s not graceful. You sort of scramble backwards onto your sheets, breathless and wrecked, heart pounding wild. You sit with your back against the pillows, knees bent, thighs parted because you can’t pretend you’re shy anymore. Your pulse roars in your ears.
Bucky steps into your room like he owns it.
Like he owns you.
“Lay back,” he murmurs. “Head on the pillows. I wanna see all of you.”
You melt back, dizzy, spreading out for him without thinking. Your legs fall open in invitation.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“That’s my girl,” he says, voice rough.
You groan.
Then, slowly, never looking away from you, he reaches for his belt.
You almost combust.
He unclips the heavy utility belt, sets it carefully on your floor. The harness strap comes off next. Then his shirt.
Holy god.
You’d known he was big. You’d seen the fundraiser photo. It did not prepare you for the reality of James Buchanan Barnes shirtless in your bedroom.
He’s all broad chest and thick arms, heavy muscle that looks earned, not sculpted, like he didn’t get it at a gym, he got it carrying people out of burning buildings. Scars cross his torso, pale lines and healed nicks, each one a story you suddenly, desperately want to hear. His dog tags hang against his sternum, just like in the calendar, only now they’re real and right there and you could touch them if you reach.
You whimper.
His mouth quirks. “Like what you see?”
“Are you kidding,” you whisper hoarsely.
He laughs softly.
Then he reaches for the button on his cargo pants.
Your breath stops.
He’s not shy about it. He doesn’t tease. He just undoes the button, drags the zipper down, and shoves the pants low enough to free himself.
You actually gasp.
He’s… yeah. Big. Thick. Flushed. Sitting heavy against his lower abdomen. Your mouth goes dry.
Bucky chuckles, low and smug, at the way your eyes go wide. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice gone honey-dark. “Nervous?”
You swallow. “No.”
“Honesty,” he reminds you, amused.
You flush. “A little,” you whisper. “You’re— um.”
“Yeah,” he says with a little huff of a laugh. “That’s what I figured.”
Then he’s at the edge of the bed, kneeling between your open thighs. He braces one hand on the mattress right by your hip. The bed dips with his weight. You feel caged. You love it.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re gonna make me feel good with that pretty mouth, and then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, just like you’ve been beggin’ for in that little head of yours. Sound good?”
Your stomach drops straight through the floor.
You nod frantically. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, sir.”
His groan is borderline pornographic. “Oh, fuck, you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
He shifts up the bed, knees bracketing your ribs. He doesn’t sit on your chest. He’s careful about his weight, about his balance, like he’s done this and knows how not to hurt you. His hand—his warm hand—comes up and cups your jaw again, thumb stroking your cheek.
“You tap me, I move,” he murmurs, voice low. “You gag, you pull off. I don’t force. You hear me?”
You nod. “Yes, Sergeant.”
His eyes flash.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Open.”
You open your mouth.
He groans.
Guiding himself with one hand, he drags the blunt, flushed head of his cock over your lower lip. Slow. Teasing. Slicking you with pre-come. You whine at the taste. He hisses.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Pretty fuckin’ mouth. Jesus.”
Then he slides in.
You moan.
He doesn’t choke you. He doesn’t slam. He feeds himself into your mouth slow, just the head, then a little more, then a little more, until your lips are stretched around him and your tongue is pressed under the weight of him and your eyes are watering.
You whimper.
His head drops back on a low, broken groan. “Oh my god.”
You rest your hands on his thighs—thick, hard muscle under heavy fabric—and hollow your cheeks, sucking.
He swears softly. “Yeah,” he gasps. “Yeah, that’s— fuck, that’s perfect, baby, just like that. Look at you. Jesus, look at you takin’ me like a fuckin’ angel.”
Heat floods you at the praise.
You hum around him, wanting more.
His breath hitches. “Oh fuck— careful, doll, you do that and this is gonna be over real fast.”
You look up at him through your lashes, and the sound he makes at that—half groan, half laugh—goes straight between your legs.
“Menace,” he growls, fond and desperate. “Such a fuckin’ menace.”
You preen.
You keep working him, finding a rhythm. He lets you set the pace, lets you get comfortable. You drag your tongue along the underside of him, swirl the head, suck him back in. His thighs flex under your hands. His breathing gets rougher. His hand tightens on your jaw, not forcing, just anchoring.
“Such a good girl,” he pants, voice gone ragged. “God, you’re such a good fuckin’ girl for me, takin’ me so sweet—”
You whine, needy, and he chokes on a groan.
“Okay,” he mutters, voice breaking, “okay, baby, I gotta— if I don’t stop now I’m gonna— fuck—”
He pulls back gently, letting you breathe.
You gasp, blinking up at him, spit on your lips, eyes glassy.
He looks wrecked.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a shaky hand over his face. “You’re gonna put me in an early grave.”
You smile, dazed and smug.
He laughs, breathless and incredulous and so fond you swear your chest hurts. “C’mere,” he murmurs.
Then he’s shifting, moving you like you weigh nothing. He slides down your body, kissing as he goes—your mouth, your throat, the swell of your breasts, the soft of your stomach. You squirm, breath hitching.
When he settles between your thighs and drags them over his shoulders, you gasp.
“Bucky—” you choke, then whimper, “Sergeant, please—”
He glances up at you from between your legs with a grin that could start wars. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and then he’s licking into you like he’s starving.
You scream.
There’s no other word for it. You slap a hand over your own mouth on instinct, wide-eyed and shaking, because you live in an apartment building and you are about to make enemies.
Bucky growls against you and drags your hand away, pinning your wrist to the mattress with his cool metal hand. “Uh-uh,” he mutters against your soaked pussy. “Let ‘em hear.”
You moan something that isn’t words.
He eats you like a man dying of thirst. Messy, greedy, thorough. He groans like you’re his favorite meal, like you’re his first meal. His tongue drags up and down, slow and heavy. He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision whites out. He slides two thick fingers back into you, easy this time, slick with you and his spit, curling just right, just right, just—
You come so hard you almost black out.
It hits even faster than the first one. Your whole body bows tight, your breath catches in your throat, you sob his title on a broken moan—“Sergeant, please, oh my god, oh my god”—and he groans like you just blessed him.
“That’s it,” he growls into you. “Fuck, that’s it, give it to me, doll, lemme taste it, that’s my girl—”
You’re shaking when he finally eases up, kissing you through the aftershocks, licking you slow until you’re twitching and too sensitive.
He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh like benediction.
Then he’s crawling up your body again, bracing over you, eyes blown and wild, mouth slick with you.
You’re boneless. Floating. Wrecked.
He groans like you just punched him. “Christ you’re a vision.”
Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock slick with your wetness, and pressing in.
You both moan.
He goes slow.
Thank god he goes slow.
You can feel him stretch you, inch by thick, perfect inch, and it’s almost too much—your mouth falls open on a silent gasp, eyes rolling back, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. He’s huge. He’s so big you feel split, stuffed, filled to aching.
“That’s it,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh. “Shh, I got you. You’re okay. You’re so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart, takin’ me so sweet. You’re okay.”
You whine, high and helpless. “Ohmygod—”
“I know,” he groans. “I know, baby, I know. You’re doin’ so good. Look at you. Jesus fuck, look at you.”
When he’s finally, finally all the way in, seated deep, you feel full in a way that borders on spiritual.
You’re both shaking.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You feel— I can’t— I can’t even—”
You let out a breathless laugh that edges on a sob. “Move,” you beg. “Please, Sergeant, please—”
He swears, low and reverent. “You keep sayin’ that,” he mutters, “and I’m gonna propose to you, you understand me?”
You make a half-sob, half-giggle noise.
He laughs, breathless, and then he starts to move.
It’s obscene.
He fucks you slow like he promised, long, deep strokes that drag against every tender, sensitive place inside you, hitting perfect every single time like he mapped you with his fingers first. His hips roll, controlled and heavy. The muscles in his arms flex over you, caging you in. His dog tags swing and tap against your sternum with every thrust.
You’re gone.
You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, head tipped back, mouth open on high, broken noises you couldn’t hold back if you tried.
“That’s it,” he groans, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, sweetheart, take it, take it, fuck, you’re perfect, you’re my perfect fuckin’ girl, shit—”
You’re babbling. You don’t even know what you’re saying. Please and yes and Sergeant and don’t stop and oh my god over and over like a prayer.
He’s shaking, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple, holding himself back with visible effort.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, desperate. “Tell me.”
You don’t even hesitate. “I’m yours,” you gasp, raw and honest. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”
He growls, low and feral. “That’s right,” he snarls, thrusts stuttering. “That’s right, that’s my fuckin’ menace, my little fire hazard, mine.”
You tumble over the edge like he flipped a switch.
Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you sob. Your whole body locks tight around him, clenching, milking him, and you cry out his title on a wrecked, pleading wail.
“Sergeant—!”
He breaks with you.
He chokes on a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped out of him, buries his face in your neck, and thrusts once, twice, deep and hard, before he’s spilling into you with a shudder that borders on violent.
For a second, everything is just heat and heartbeat and rain.
You’re both shaking. You can feel his pulse pounding against your throat. His breath is hot and ragged where his mouth is pressed to your skin. You’re full, stuffed, stretched, perfect.
You’re also absolutely ruined.
He stays there for a long moment, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you even though you’re pretty sure you’d like him to. His metal hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking slow and soothing along your cheekbone. His human hand fists in your sheets like he needs the anchor.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes look soft. Gentle, in a way he hasn’t let himself be yet.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough.
You nod, smiling, dazed and wrecked and so full of him you feel drunk. “Better than okay,” you whisper. “Holy shit.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, relief flickering across his face like sunrise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say honestly. “You?”
He looks at you like you’re the fire and he’d gladly walk in.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m good.”
You grin, sleepy and smug. “So,” you murmur, “you gonna write me up for that citation?”
He groans and drops his face back into your neck. “Menace,” he mutters, words muffled against your skin. “You’re an actual menace.”
You giggle, boneless and warm, and wrap your arms around him, holding him there.
Outside, rain hammers your windows, steady and relentless.
Inside, you’re finally, blissfully, warm.
----
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people hate it when you say things like 'this policy that was mostly meant to hurt [marginalised group] also sometimes hurts [other, less marginalised group]" which is fair bc it can definitely come across as 'who cares if those subhumans get hurt, the problem is when it happens to real people'. but unfortunately a fact about being a marginalised group is that it makes it much cheaper politically to hurt you.
immigration officers arresting citizens is not worse than immigration officers arresting noncitizens, but turns out weirdly enough 'citizens' is a category with a lot more political power than 'noncitizens' and so it's strategically useful to get them opposed to immigration enforcement. so that might affect which things you talk about how much.
Must a show be “good”? Is it not enough to be an alternative history that asks “what if instead of the Catholic-Protestant schism causing complications in Tudor England, it’s Animorphs?” that’s super horny on main, has the vibe of A Knight’s Tale, surprisingly pretty accurate historical costumes (with a few notable exceptions), and a bunch of British character actors acting absolutely wild?
the other Bennet sister fills me with so much hope. for the girls who were never chosen. for the girls who have never fit in. for the girls who’s sisters naturally seem to flourish socially but couldn’t understand why it wasn’t the same for them. for the girls who are overlooked. for the girls who dream of a gentle and stable love. for the girls who tell everyone they’re okay with being alone. this one was for us, love is possible.
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