you + dick being two weirdos = match made in heaven! ⋮ requested
god. dick grayson is so down bad.
like, actively going out of his way to “accidentally” walk past the dispatch room three times a shift, just to catch a glimpse of you through the glass. you in your oversized headset, answering 911 calls with that calm, specific voice of yours, like someone who’s seen things and read all of wikipedia. maybe twice.
you’re not even a cop. you don’t carry a badge. you sit in the little soundproof booth tucked next to the bullpen and field life-and-death from a rolling chair with a plastic frog on the monitor. and you look like you belong there—kind of deadpan, totally off in a way that makes him want to study you under a microscope.
you always say hi when he brings coffee. never asks for it. he just shows up with one of those “uh-oh, i accidentally grabbed two” smiles and leaves it on your desk like a sacrifice to the unknowable god of his feelings.
and you? you just blink at him and sip it. maybe murmur “thanks.” like you’re politely tolerating the station’s golden retriever detective.
(he is friendly. but he is not this friendly to anyone else.)
one time, during a lull in paperwork, he leans on the edge of your desk and tosses out: “if you were invited to a fancy ball in the 1700s, what would you wear?”
he expects a laugh. maybe a shrug.
you don’t even pause. “a pineapple dress.”
“…what?”
“not a print. actual pineapples. tied to the fabric. and a hat made of pineapples stacked on top of each other.”
he stares.
you keep typing.
“…do i wanna know why?”
“pineapples used to cost more than gold,” you say, completely serious. “if i wore pineapples, it would mean i’m wealthier than the host. it would embarrass them. i’d dominate the social sphere. then i’d sell the pineapples to the guests at a profit. capitalism!”
a beat.
“i’d also wear gloves,” you add thoughtfully. “pineapples are spiky.”
he doesn’t speak for a full minute. just looks at you like you’ve cracked open a hidden door in his brain.
he’s in love. it’s terminal.
weeks pass. he tries everything. more coffee. weird trivia. one-liners. asking for help with forms he definitely knows how to fill out.
and you? you just assume he’s being nice. station morale, right?
when he finally breaks, it’s bad. embarrassing. full-body public meltdown in the middle of the bullpen.
“okay,” he says, loudly, standing on a chair.
someone drops their sandwich.
you look up.
“i know i joke around, i know i’m friendly, but i’m serious. you. me. dinner. one date. i’m not playing, i’m not teasing, i’m in love with you. like. weirdly. i think about you saying pineapple facts at 2 a.m. and i can’t breathe.”
silence.
he drops to one knee.
“please. please go out with me. i will wear fruit if you want me to.”
your headset squeaks as you slowly remove it. you look around at the entire station watching this unfold.
“…you’re not joking?”
he shakes his head. eyes big, stupid, desperate.
you blink. “…can we go somewhere that sells pineapple juice?”
his whole face lights up.
“i know a place.”
someone claps. someone groans.
and you? you smile like maybe he’s as weird as you, which is perfect.
lieutenant!simon can’t stop thinking about his child growing inside sergeant!reader PT. 1 HERE
Simon doesn’t mean to start keeping tabs on you. It just… happens.
He finds himself clocking roll call faster than usual, eyes scanning instinctively for your name, your shape, the way you carry yourself. He's relieved when he sees your still squared steady shoulders. Good. Still standing. Still here.
He tells himself that’s enough. It isn’t.
By the third day, he knows your schedule better than his own. Knows when you disappear between drills. Notices when you’re slower leaving briefings. Wonders, absently and obsessively, if you’ve been to the medbay yet. If you’ve told anyone. If you’re sick. If you’re scared.
If you’re alright.
He asks around carefully. Too carefully. “How’s the Sergeant doing?” he says once, like it’s a throwaway, like he hasn’t rehearsed the question in his head.
“She’s fine,” comes the answer. “Same as always.”
Same as always. Right. Price clocks him immediately.
“You’ve spoken to her lately?” Price asks later, casual but watching.
Simon shrugs, too stiff. “No.” Price’s eyebrow lifts the smallest fraction.
“She mention anything?” Simon adds, then curses himself internally.
“About you?” Price asks.
Simon doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Price just hums quietly and changes the subject, which somehow makes it worse.
At night, Simon lies awake staring at the ceiling, mind replaying the same impossible image on a loop. You in the doorway. The test on his desk. The door slamming. And then, unbidden, something else.
Small. Fragile. Real. His. Yours.
He wonders if you’ve felt it yet - not movement, of course - just the weight of knowing something’s there. Wonders if you look in the mirror differently. If your hand ever drifts to your stomach when no one’s watching.
Christ.
He wants to check on you properly. Wants to ask questions he has no right to ask. Wants to make sure you’re safe, that you're being careful.
Instead, he watches. He waits.
He loses his fucking mind quietly, professionally, from a distance: counting footsteps, memorizing patterns, carrying the constant, unbearable thought of a small life growing somewhere just beyond his reach.
he remembers the first time you left him, the way you gently gave into the fever and went. the heat of your skin rose and rose, then it was over, and then you were gone. he gave you one last kiss on your cracked lips and pretended you were there to feel it.
he mourned, of course. harder than he had ever mourned any other lover he had ever entertained.
it was fifty years later before he saw you again. a baker's daughter, softer around the waist, with the same laugh you've always had. of course, you had no memory of your past life, but you fell into loving him like it was habit.
that death was the hardest.
Heat took you once again, this time in the form of fire. the bakery's flame caught your skirt and you along with it. by the time you were saved, it was too late. the final days of your life were spent in horrible pain, crying and screaming and begging for death. by the time it came, it felt overdue.
the cycle kept repeating. the two of you would meet and within five years, you would die. illness and childbirth and a stray bullet from war; even in the lives he tried to avoid you, tragedy would follow. once, you had married another man, only for him kill you within the month.
the worst part, he thinks as he stares at the most current iteration of you, is that his chest still flutters with joy when he sees you for the first time. that, despite the trauma and heartbreak and horror, he still loves you more than anything.
He can feel it coming this time. There's a tickle in the back of his mind, like a click ticking down each second he has left.
"You've got-" He tugs the laces of your boots, your foot stepping up on his thigh. He loves kneeling over like this, at your feet. it reminds him of the very short life you had as a princess. "To tie your shoes better."
"What's gotten into you?" you laugh. "I'm not made of glass."
He lets you pull away, sitting back on to his heels. It's amazing how little your face has changed over all of your lives, how you still look the way you did when he first laid eyes on you, just with more lines around your smile. This is the oldest you've ever been-- and maybe ever will be. "Are you sure? I could swaddle you in bubble wrap, just to be safe."
You roll your eyes with a smile. "Sure, I'll just walk around the office covered in bubblewrap. My boss will love that."
The itch in his head gets stronger.
"Why don't you stay home for work today?" His hand runs up your leg, more appreciative than sexual. "Spend the day with me."
He leans forward and presses his head into your thigh, the way you've always been weak for. Your hands immediately find his hair and scratch his scalp, your body's tension giving in just a bit.
"Well..."
"Please." He's not really speaking to you. "Just give me one day."
You give in gently.
"Anything for you."
.
It happens three hours later.
You're laughing, pulling your shirt back on post sex. Lately, you've been insatiable and he knows why.
"I'm just saying-" you muse. "we're stable, we're in love. I'm just waiting for the ring."
He knows. He still has your original ring, the one he always takes from your finger before burying you.
"I'm not getting any younger. I wanna have babies and t-"
Your eyes shift a bit. It's subtle, until you make this garbled sound, not quite a word at all, like your tongue has disconnected from your brain.
Before he can get up, you're on the ground. Just like always, you're give into death gently.
The beat of your heart is gone before he can even call for help. By the time the EMTs arrive, you're cold. They cover you with a blanket, like it saves your diginity as you wheel you out of the apartment building. He cries, just like he always does, when the doctors tell him it was an aneurysm, that nothing could have saved you.
That's the horrible truth he needs to learn to swallow. Nothing could have saved you. Nothing will save you.
For the first time in centuries, he speaks to the thing that made him. It comes only in the deepest of nights, when the winter air is most bitter.
"Why do you curse me like this?"
The voice tastes of forgotten pine, a species now lost. "Why do you speak in tongues I do not know?"
The language should be dead, but it rolls off his tongue as easily as it did back then. No written word, no official name in the modern tongue: a secret between him and the monster he's bonded to.
"You take her from me, life after life." He never ages, but he feels young again, angry, reckless. "You lied to me when you promised a painless life. You lied when you promised no one else would die."
The wind howls with insult. There's a moment where he can feel it there, hunched and hovering above his shoulder, maw gaped and empty.
"The only lie is the one you tell yourself."
It's gone again, nothing but a whispering voice on the breeze. Without worshippers, it no longer holds much power. Without him, it would fade into nothing, just like the other forgotten gods.
"I know your mind does not fail you. You remember your first meeting with the girl."
"In the summer fields."
"Ach. Your lie." It growls its words. "That was her second life."
He has no answer to that. No, he had met you in the fields, right after the grain had sprouted. The memory is his prized possession.
"You play your tricks again."
"You truly forget the face of the woman you sacrificed in my name?" The hiss runs a chill up his spine. "The one who you killed with your own hands? The one who's blood you drank to live for all eternity?"
Blood is always the price. He had taken a woman from the neighboring village, covered her face in cloth so he could not see the tragedy he was committing. The ritual was long, grueling, and the girl had almost died too soon multiple times, but she fought to live, fought against his hand-
"No." Those screams. Were they yours? "That's- no."
"You had chosen her to die, so you may live."
His stomach turns as he remembers the taste of your blood on his lips, the metal aftertaste as you fought with the last ounce of life-
PAIRING: best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (I just love beefy men so much ❤️🩹); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 14k
A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.
Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted.
Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.
Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.
Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.
Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.
The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.
The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.
When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.
The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”
“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought.
“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.
Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere."
You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”
He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.
“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.
“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”
Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.
“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”
You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.”
“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”
You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”
He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”
“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.
“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.
“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”
“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.
“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”
“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”
He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”
You sigh. “Buck—”
“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”
You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.
Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”
You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.
He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile.
You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams.
Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.
Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.
Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.
Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.
Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.
Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along.
Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.
Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.
But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.
You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.
And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.
With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.
With him, you don’t need to think ahead.
He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.
You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.
He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.
Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.
Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up.
Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.
He only knows there’s never been an end.
Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.
You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.
Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.
You have never kissed him on the lips, though.
Bucky thinks about that more than he should.
He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.
He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.
He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.
Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.
He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.
Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.
And sometimes... it’s just unbearable.
You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.
The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.
Bucky has imagined telling you.
It never gets far.
In his head, the words sound steady, confident.
But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.
So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.
From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.
Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that.
You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.
So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes.
But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.
He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.
With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.
Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.
But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.
Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”
Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”
Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.
“James seriously, I have to finish—”
“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.
“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”
You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.
“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.
And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.
Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”
“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.
“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”
“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.
You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”
You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”
“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”
“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.
“They look at you.”
“They look at everyone.”
“Not like they look at you, baby.”
There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.
“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.
You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.”
You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway.
“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.
You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.
You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.
Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.
“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”
You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.
“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.
“Careful.” You snicker.
“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”
“You almost tripped over the air.”
“Well, the air started it.”
He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual.
“There,” he hums. “Contained.”
His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”
You go rigid at that. “James.”
“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.
“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s almost three hours long.”
“It’s cinema.”
“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”
He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”
“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”
“You loved it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”
He gasps softly. “How dare you!”
You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”
At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.
“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”
“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”
“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.
“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”
“You cried during the docking scene.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”
After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.
“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.
“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.
Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.
When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.
“Still cold?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You shivered.”
“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.
You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”
Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.
He lets it go on longer than he should.
His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.
“What is it?”
“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.
“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”
At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.
“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”
His jaw tightens.
“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”
“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”
Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.
“I can help you.”
The words leave him before he can fully consider them.
You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why—”
“You have your own stuff to do—”
Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”
You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”
That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin.
His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.
His eyes close briefly.
This is not the time.
But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”
“Like what?”
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.
He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”
It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.
You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”
You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.
“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”
You tilt your head. “What?”
“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”
The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.
“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.
He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.
“What?”
You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.
“Since... the last time I had sex.”
His stomach drops.
“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.
You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”
The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.
His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”
You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.
You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.
His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.
But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.
“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”
He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”
You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”
It’s not a question.
Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.
“Recently?” You perk up.
He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”
You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.
“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”
Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.
“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.
“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”
“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.
“You are everything to me too.”
The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.
“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.
Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.
“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”
Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.
Just a clean slate of neutrality.
The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.
Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now.
She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.
She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.
She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.
She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.
Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”
“James.”
He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.
“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”
His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.
You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.
Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”
His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.
“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”
You hold his gaze. “And then?”
“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”
You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.
“I won’t hate it.”
That confidence nearly unravels him.
“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.
At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.
You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart.
Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.
Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.
His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.
Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.
Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.
Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”
Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.
His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.
“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.
“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”
Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”
“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question.
“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?”
“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.
“Show me.”
“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.
His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”
“But—”
Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.
“Then let me help you.”
There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.
“Where are they?”
“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”
Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.
His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.
It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach.
A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too...
Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.
But it’s yours.
And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—
And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.
“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”
“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.
“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.
You nod, certain but coyly.
Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.
“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.
He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.
“What about here, mh?”
You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.
“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.
Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.
“Here?”
You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.
“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”
That only makes it worse.
You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.
“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”
He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.
Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.
“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.
“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.
“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”
Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.
“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.
“And here?”
A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.
“And what about here, angel?”
Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.
His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.
Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.
“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.
“The toys.”
“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.
“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.
“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.
“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.
Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.
“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”
Oh.
You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.
Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs.
“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.
You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again.
“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.
“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always.
“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.
“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.
“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”
The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him.
“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.
Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.
“Feels so good, right?”
Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.
“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting.
“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.
“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames.
“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.
Yes, a good girl. His.
“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”
You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core.
“Shit.”
You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.”
“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.”
Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation.
“Good girl.”
All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.
“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down.
His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner.
“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up.
“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.
“Swallow.”
Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.
“Beautiful.”
“Bucky please.”
“Please what? Need words, angel.”
Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out.
The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.
You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you.
Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”
“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.
His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”
Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.
“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.
He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”
“I need—can I touch it, please?”
Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”
“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”
You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.
“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”
At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.
“Then slap it for me.”
You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.
“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge.
“Again.”
You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around.
“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery.
“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”
“Please.”
“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”
Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”
Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”
You nod enthusiastically.
“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”
“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.
“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”
“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”
The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.
“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”
The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.
Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance.
Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.”
He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.
Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens.
“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.
“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously.
His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock.
He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds.
His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.
“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts.
“Give it to me, doll. Use me.”
You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble.
“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.
“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.
“One more.” Bucky kisses you.
“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever.
“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”
Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick.
Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.
“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.
“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”
“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”
He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.
Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”
You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.
“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.
With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.
“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.
You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.
“You are mine, right?”
“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds.
“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”
“Your good girl.”
That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.
“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.
“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.
“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.
“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.
Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.
“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.
He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.
“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.
“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”
The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw.
“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.
It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head.
And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.
You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.
“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”
His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done.
Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.
You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.
Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.
“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.
Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”
You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.
“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”
A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.
It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.
“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.
“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”
Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.
Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.
His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.
“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”
And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.
you come into the home afraid. you won't let your owner pet you, or the big dogs play with you at all- you just hide in your cage and sniffle all day.
so your owner has to be slow with you.
first, he's affectionate with the other puppies in the house in front of you. Long hugs and belly rubs, open mouthed kisses and shared beds-- you even hear them at night, bed springs creaking...
once you let him get close enough, he treats you like a princess. tender touches, long cuddles, tight, tight hugs. you get extra attention when you let the boy puppies sniff you-- you even got to sleep on the owners bed when you let one of them hug you!
...but then he starts to push you farther. insists you hug him with only panties on and then holds you there for a really long time, sometimes even pressing his hips into yours. in bed, he rolls over and forces himself between your legs, so tight that you can feel a lump in his pants rubbing against your pussy.
"Do you like this?" he asks. You nod, hesitant. The weight makes each breath a little harder to pull in, but your core is hot for more.
"Good. You need to get used to men on top of you. "
i do think after the super serum bucky is quite… big, like thick enough, long enough, perfect enough to hit your little spongey spot that makes you see stars.
so when you take him for the first time, he’s cooing at you, poor little thing with such a tight pussy, never had a man as big as him to give you a proper orgasm—always faking it before with others.
“thatta girl, breath babydoll you got it..” bucky murmurs, slowly sliding into you. your cunt already soaking wet after he fingered you making you orgasm three times in order to stretch you out.
“buckyyy..” you whined, your breathing a little heavy, your cute little cunt squeezing him making him hiss. “fffuckk, such a tight thing, daddy’s got you baby..”
you’re squirming as bucky’s metal hand grips your hip making you stay still while his other hand is wrapped around your throat—not to tight though.. just enough to make you look at him.
your eyes are hazy, blissed out while his are full of love and hunger as he slowly starts moving—in and out, in and out. obscene squelching sounds echoing in the bedroom. did i mention this was raw?
your eyes start rolling back until bucky lightly slaps your cheek, “eyes on me baby.” you whine as you lock eyes with him, your legs wrapping around his waist. bucky moans from the feeling as he speeds up, “gonna fill you up, never wanna leave this pretty little pussy, yeah you’d love that wouldn’t you doll? my perfect, sweet girl.”
Oooooh I have an idea !!!!!! Fuckboy Bucky falling in love with you ! He’s begging you for a chance , one which you deny continuously knowing his reputation. He sends you the fluffiest texts , pictures of things that remind him of you but you won’t budge ! And one night , you’re drunk while all of you are out ! He keeps you close all night and then he takes you home ! He’s a gentleman . So you’re more than surprised to find him sleeping on your couch the next morning !! He greets you with a smile and then you thank him , give him a small peck and finally grant him that date he’s been begging for months for
college fuckboy buck x f reader
OOOH I love Fuckboy bucky, his name is Bunky btws. Bucket is the cheater, Bunky is a fuckboy but he can be redeemed so we all still love him.
"Come onnn y/n" Bucky groaned, having asked you out for the 4th time this year. "Please? Just give me a chance, one date, please?"
You rolled your eyes while he leaned against your car, having trailed behind you after your class finished.
"Please?" He gave you his best puppy eyes, his bottom lip jutting out into an almost convincing pout but you willed yourself to ignore how adorable he looked. No. It wasn't worth getting your heart broken.
"No thank you Barnes, I don't want to join your roster"
You got into your car, shutting the door without waiting for him to respond, mostly because you were worried you'd break and agree to going on a date. Bucky sighed, watching you pull out of the parking lot without looking back; he really did like you. A lot. He wasn't great with emotions, he bottled up his feelings and deflected his emotions. He distracted himself with girl after girl but you were never just a distraction. You were different to him. You were really sweet. You helped him with his papers. You helped him take notes in class. He didn't intend on falling in love with you but here he was now, begging and pleading and chasing, hoping one day you'd say yes.
*****
You heard your phone ping, opening your lock screen to see a text message from Bucky.
"Thank you for the study notes, you really are a sweet heart"
You shook your head, snorting to yourself, he was probably copying and pasting the same text message to the other four girls he spoke to in class. It was bad enough you actually found him cute; he was well aware of how charming he was. You truthfully hated it. He was attractive, sweet, tall and the biggest fuckboy you knew. He didn't do relationships. Your phone pinged again to yet another message. It was a picture of a little golden lab sitting in his lap, the both of them having nearly identical facial expressions. Large twinkling eyes, an innocent but not so innocent face, fluffy hair (and fur).
"Saw this puppy, thought you'd like it"
"Guess which puppy I was referring to"
"Get it? Because were both adorable?"
You bit back a smile, immediately frowning afterwards. No. You would not be going down that rabbit hole with him. You only gave him your number so you could arrange study meets but Bucky took advantage of it, sending sweet messages and pictures of things that reminded him of you.
"My ma found my teddy bear from when I was little, reminded me of the one you have on your lockscreen" (Picture of a fluffy brown bear with the words Baby JBB embroidered on the front)
"Remember when we got coffee after studying late at the library?" (picture of a coffee cup and heart sugar cookie)
"It's sweet like you" (picture of a mini cupcake)
You sighed, scolding yourself every time your heart fluttered. No. It didn't matter how much he tried. You wouldn't give in. You wouldn't budge.
*****
Your body felt heavy and light at the same time, just a couple of drinks in. More than a couple. Many. You could feel the bass of the music thump through your whole body, swaying freely on the club dancefloor, seeing a familiar face in the crowd off to the side.
"Y/n?"
"Buckkyyyy" You slurred out, giggling while you stumbled towards, falling into his arms. He caught you with ease, holding you close to him, his heart racing because he didn't want you to feel uncomfortable being so close to him. You bounced on your heels, still swaying to the music while still in his hold, completely in your own world.
"Careful doll, are you okay?" He chuckled while you gave him a hazy smile, your eyes glazed over, letting out a tiny yawn. Your face heated up hearing him call you doll, you hated how much it made you feel giddy on the inside.
"Yessssss" You nodded your head, your eyes closed because you were starting to feel tired. "M'not drunkkk"
"Are you sure?"
"Mhm, very sure Buck" You mumbled, burying your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of his cologne and something that was distinctly him. Like warmth...home...your heart...no. Nope. You tried to pull away but your body betrayed you, snuggling further into him as he held you.
“Think you might be lying y/n” Bucky snickered leading you to sit in a quieter lounge area of the club. You didn’t hesitate to crawl into his lap, throwing your arms around his shoulder with your face nuzzled into his neck. You squirmed until you felt comfy, sighing contently when you felt his arms around you again.
You pulled away from him suddenly, cupping his face to make him look at you; you looked at him with wide eyes as if you just realized something. Bucky watched you curiously, his heart braking because your adorable drunk antics were only making him fall for you more. He only wanted one chance.
“I think I like Bucky” You whispered while squeezing his cheeks together, making his lips pout. “I have a crush on him”
Bucky bit back a smirk, his cheeks blushing while you continued to look at him with owlish eyes, waiting for his response.
“Really? You think so?”
You nodded vigorously, slapping your hand over his mouth before he could say anything more.
"Shhhh don't tell anyone, its a secret" You continued to whisper, your hand trailing down to his chest to play with his chain. Bucky couldn’t tell what was worse; how sweet you were when you were like this, the fact that you just openly said you liked him and the fact that he had no chance with you. Even if your drunken ramblings were saying one thing, he didn’t want to keep pressuring you.
“M’sleepy” You stretched on him like a cat before snuggling into him again. Bucky smiled softly, carefully lifting you in his arms, getting into a cab to take you home.
“Do you have the keys doll?” Bucky gently nudged you while you clung onto him outside of your door, mumbling something about them being in your purse. Bucky fished them out, opening the door and carrying you in, kicking his shoes off before taking you to your room. You sighed happily feeling your soft bedsheets about to fall asleep again but Bucky wasn’t having it. He knew you wouldn’t want to just fall asleep with your makeup and dress on. He cleared a bit of space on your sink counter before coming to get you.
“Let’s get you cleaned up” He carried you to the bathroom, setting you on the counter. He grabbed some of your makeup wipes, removing your makeup and lashes while you kicked your feet, looking at him with heart eyes. His touch was warm and gentle, grabbing a bit of moisturizer to finish off. He massaged your skin, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his heart beating out of his chest because he so badly wanted to lean in and kiss you.
“I brought you your sleepshirt bubs, I’ll be right outside the bathroom okay? Get changed and we’ll get you to bed”
You nodded, clumsily trying to unzip your dress but to no avail.
“Buckyyyyyy” Bucky poked his head into the bathroom, chuckling at your pouty face.
“What is it doll?”
“Take it off”
Bucky stared at you with wide eyes, had this been any other situation you wouldn’t have had to tell him twice. He held the strap of your dress up while unzipping it for you, making sure it stayed up before leaving the bathroom. You some how managed to get changed, leaning against the doorway for support while Bucky waited. He lifted you in his arms and helped you under the sheets before tucking you into bed. He grabbed a glass of water and some pain medication to keep by your bedside table while you started to fall asleep.
“Good night y/n”
“Good night baby” You smiled in your sleep, softly snoring within seconds. Baby. He knew he was head over heels in love with you. Bucky made his way to your living room, crashing on your couch for the night incase you needed anything in the middle of the night. He checked on you twice to make sure you were okay, blushing each time he saw your adorable curled up form. He would have given anything to be able to cuddle up with you and hold you close to him.
******
You rubbed your eyes, still feeling a little disoriented. You were home. How did that happen? You remembered dancing....and then...
You crawled out of bed, surprised to find a glass of water and pain meds on your bedside. Who put them there? You were grateful anyway, quickly downing all the water and taking one of the tablets. You made your way to the kitchen, gasping when you saw Bucky scrolling through his phone, sprawled on your couch.
“Bucky?”
“Good morning doll” He smiled up at you, his eyes still tired from checking up on you throughout the night.
“You brought me home?” He nodded while you hesitantly came and sat beside him, nervously biting on your lip. “You stayed here?” Some of the memories of last night flooding back. His soft hands on your face. Carrying you into bed. Tucking you in. You heard the door creak each time he checked on you.
While your heart melted, Bucky’s heart raced, fearing you thought the worst. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he took advantage of you. He scrambled to sit up properly, his puppy eyes wide.
“I promise nothing happened doll, you were tired so I called us a cab and brought you home. I helped you get ready for bed but I didn’t see anything, I just tucked you into bed and-
You lips pressed against his, cutting off his rambling,
“Thank you. Now about that date you’ve been asking for.....”
5 years later
Bucky spun you around, pulling you towards him, his hands holding your waist close to him. Every time you thought he couldn’t get more handsome, he’d some how one up your expectations. Tonight he was in a dark suit, his beard trimmed,
“Y’know, you admitted you had a crush on me that day” He whispered, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips.
“When” You narrowed your eyes while he chuckled, swaying with you on the dancefloor.
“The day you fell in love with me” He stated matter of factly, while you shook your head, your skin heating up. The affect he had on you never went away.
“Who said I fell in love with you Barnes. All I did was agree to go out on a date with you”
“And what else did you agree to” He wiggled his eyebrows, pecking a kiss onto your nose.
“I didn’t agree to anything else” You shrugged, giggling when he dipped you, nipping your jaw, earning a bunch of whoops and whistles from the crowd.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: frat boy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader (college au)
ᴡᴄ: 4035
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: situationship!!!, underage drinking, underage smoking, bucky being a flirt, suggestive, making out, jealous!bucky, (small) age difference (reader is 20, bucky just turned 21), possessive!bucky, house party!!!
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: bucky barnes is the last person a cheerleader should fall for. unfortunately for you, he seems to disagree.
ᴀ/ɴ— is this a build up so i can post smut without feeling icky? yes, yes it is !! (also this is not proofread.. its also 1am currently as i write..)
The bass of the music was vibrating through the floorboards of the Sigma house so hard you could feel it in your teeth. It was Rush Week, which meant the house was packed with way too many freshmen trying to look cool and way too many seniors trying to hold onto their youth.
You smoothed down your cheer skirt, the pleated fabric feeling a bit too short as you leaned against the sticky kitchen counter. You were twenty—still technically a year away from legal freedom—but with your uniform and a borrowed ID, nobody was checking.
"You look like you're thinking about leaving," a low, raspy voice rumbled right into your ear.
You didn't even have to turn around to know it was him. Bucky Barnes. The man was a walking red flag wrapped in a blue fraternity sweatshirt, with a backward baseball cap casting a shadow over eyes that were currently tracking a drop of condensation sliding down your neck. He had turned twenty-one two weeks ago, and he’d been making sure everyone knew it by buying rounds he didn't need.
"I was thinking about how much I hate the smell of this house, Barnes," you lied, finally turning to face him.
Bucky didn't buy it. He never did. He stepped into your space, one hand coming up to rest on the counter right next to your hip, effectively pinning you against the wood. He smelled like clove cigarettes and something dangerously clean.
"Funny," he murmured, leaning down so his lips were brushing the shell of your ear. "Because you've been here for three hours, and you haven't taken your eyes off me once."
"You have a big ego."
"I have a big everything, sweetheart. Don't start a fight you don't want to finish."
He reached out, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it down just enough to expose the glimmer of your teeth. The possessive tilt of his head changed the vibe instantly. He wasn't just flirting anymore; he was marking territory.
Earlier in the night, he’d seen you talking to a linebacker from the rival school, and the look on his face had been pure, unadulterated ice. Bucky didn't do "labels," or so he claimed in the daylight, but the second another man breathed your air, he became the most territorial person on campus.
"I saw you with that guy by the kegs," Bucky said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding dangerous and low. "What was his name? Actually, don't tell me. I don't care."
"He was just asking for directions, Bucky. Relax."
"He was looking at you like you were a snack, and you were smiling back." He leaned in closer, his chest brushing against yours. "I don’t like people touching what’s mine. Even if 'mine' likes to pretend she’s independent."
"I'm not yours," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Bucky leaned down, his nose grazing yours as he took the red cup from your hand and set it behind him, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Keep telling yourself that," he rasped, his hand sliding from the counter to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. "But we both know where you're sleeping tonight. And it sure as hell isn't the sorority house."
The air in the kitchen was getting too thin, too hot, and way too loud. Bucky didn’t wait for an answer—he just kept his hand firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of bodies. People bumped into him, but he didn't even flinch; he just kept his eyes on the hallway, his jaw set in that stubborn line that meant he was done sharing you with the room.
"Bucky, people are looking," you breathed, tripping slightly over a stray shoe in the hall.
He caught you effortlessly, his fingers digging into your waist for a split second before he smoothed them out. "Let 'em look. They already know."
He led you up the creaky wooden stairs where the music became a dull thud beneath your feet. The second floor was a different world—darker, smelling more of laundry detergent and old wood. He didn't stop until he reached the door at the very end of the hall. He kicked it open, pulled you inside, and shut it with a definitive click of the lock.
The silence of the room was jarring. It was just the low hum of a desk fan and the moonlight filtering through the window, hitting the messy stacks of textbooks on his desk.
Bucky didn't turn on the light. He just leaned back against the door, watching you in the shadows. He reached up, slowly pulling his cap off and tossing it onto the bed, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead.
"You're being quiet now," he challenged, his voice echoing in the small space.
"I'm waiting to see what your problem is," you said, crossing your arms, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way the silence between you felt heavy and electric.
"My problem?" He took a slow step toward you, then another, until the tips of his sneakers were touching yours. He was so much taller without the chaos of the crowd around you. "My problem is that I spent two hours downstairs watching you laugh at things that weren't my jokes."
He reached out, his hand hovering near your neck before his fingers finally brushed against the stray hairs that had fallen out of your ponytail.
"I don't like being sidelined," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Especially not by you."
"We aren't a 'we', Bucky. You're the one who said that back in September."
Bucky flinched, just a tiny bit, before his expression hardened. He moved faster than you could track, his hands grabbing your waist and lifting you up until you were sitting on the edge of his high dresser. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
He stepped between your knees, leaning in until your foreheads pressed together. "I say a lot of stupid things when I'm trying to be the guy everyone expects me to be."
His breath was warm against your lips, and for the first time all night, the cocky frat-boy mask slipped. He looked frustrated, desperate, and completely focused on you.
"But I’m pretty sure the guy who spent all week checking his phone to see if you texted isn't 'independent,'" he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Are you going to keep punishing me for September, or are you going to kiss me?"
The silence in the room stretched thin, the only sound the distant, muffled throb of a bassline through the floorboards. You stared at him, your hands still curled into the fabric of his shirt. The bravado he’d carried downstairs—the "king of the party" energy—had evaporated, replaced by something much more raw and grounding.
"I’m not punishing you," you whispered, your heart doing a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I’m just trying to keep my head above water."
Bucky didn't move away. If anything, he pressed closer, his weight shifting until you felt the solid heat of him between your knees. His hands moved from your waist to the wood of the dresser, flanking your legs, trapping you in his orbit.
"You're doing a hell of a job," he muttered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. "Because I'm the one who feels like he's drowning."
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He leaned in, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that tasted like a long-overdue confession. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry and frantic, full of the frustration of the last few hours of watching you from across a crowded room. His hands slid up from the dresser to your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you right to the edge of the wood until there wasn't a single inch of air left between you.
You let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The messy strands were soft, contrasting with the tension in his shoulders.
Bucky pulled back just a fraction, his lips grazing yours as he spoke, his voice wrecked. "Tell me to stop. Right now. If you don't want this... if you want to go back down there and talk to that guy... tell me."
"I don't want to go back down there," you admitted, your voice trembling.
A dark, satisfied smirk flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Good. Because I'm not letting you leave this room looking like that."
"Looking like what?"
"Like someone else has a chance," he rasped.
He moved his kisses to the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that made your toes curl. One of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady as he mapped out every inch of your skin. It was more than a hookup, more than a situationship moment; it felt like he was trying to memorize you.
He shifted, lifting you slightly so he could hike himself up onto the dresser with you, his legs tangling with yours as he pushed aside a stack of mail and a stray textbook without a second thought. The wood creaked under the weight, but neither of you cared.
"September was a mistake," he whispered against your collarbone, his voice vibrating through you. "I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot, but I’m your idiot. Okay?"
The friction of his sweatshirt against your palms felt like the only thing keeping you grounded as the room blurred into a haze of moonlight and adrenaline. Bucky’s confession hung in the air, thick and heavy, but the restless energy of the house below seemed to claw at the floorboards, reminding you that the night was still in full swing.
"You’re an idiot," you agreed, your voice breathy as you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "But you’re an idiot who’s currently hiding in a dark room while your roommates are probably wondering where their best recruiter went."
Bucky groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a long second as if trying to bottle the quiet before the chaos. "They can wonder. I’ve done enough 'recruiting' for one night."
"We need a drink," you said, gently pushing against his shoulders. "A real one. Not whatever mystery juice they’re serving in the kitchen."
He let out a sharp huff of laughter, his hands finally loosening their iron grip on your waist, though he didn't let go entirely. "You’re right. I’ve got better stuff hidden in the pantry downstairs behind the industrial-sized boxes of cereal. But if we go back down there, you’re staying within arm's reach. I mean it."
"Possessive much?" you teased, sliding off the dresser. Your skirt swished around your thighs, and you felt the sudden chill of the room the moment his heat left you.
"Always," he muttered, reaching for his cap on the bed and tugging it back on, low over his eyes. He looked like the version of Bucky Barnes the rest of the campus knew again—guarded, effortlessly cool, and a little bit dangerous—but the way he reached out to lace his fingers through yours told a different story.
The walk back down the stairs was a sensory assault. The temperature rose ten degrees with every step, the air thick with the scent of sweat and expensive perfume. As you hit the landing, the music shifted into a heavy, rhythmic beat that seemed to pulse in time with the flickering LED strips taped along the ceiling.
Bucky didn't let go of your hand. He carved a path through the crowd like a prowling wolf, his shoulders squared as he navigated the sea of swaying bodies. You saw a few of his fraternity brothers shout his name, raising their cups in a silent toast, but Bucky only gave them a curt nod, his focus entirely on the kitchen doorway.
Once inside the kitchen, the chaos was even more concentrated. A group of guys were cheering over a game of cards at the table, and someone had spilled a drink near the fridge, making the floor dangerously slick. Bucky navigated you toward the narrow pantry door, shielding you from a pair of stumbling freshmen with his body.
"Stay here," he commanded, though it was softened by the way he squeezed your hand before letting go.
He ducked into the cramped pantry, his tall frame disappearing behind shelves of bulk-buy snacks. You leaned against the doorframe, watching the party from a slight distance. For a moment, you felt the weight of someone’s gaze on you. Across the room, the same guy from earlier—the one who had sparked Bucky’s silent fury—was leaning against the counter, watching you with a curious, lopsided grin.
Before he could even think about walking over, Bucky emerged from the pantry, clutching a glass bottle of expensive bourbon that definitely hadn't been bought with house funds. He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to feel the shift in the room. He stepped back into your space, his arm immediately hooking around your waist, drawing you flush against his side.
He didn't say a word to the guy across the room. He didn't have to. He just uncapped the bottle with his thumb, took a slow pull, and then offered it to you, his eyes dark and daring.
"Change of plans," he murmured, his voice cutting through the roar of the music as he leaned down to whisper against your temple. "We’re grabbing this, we’re grabbing a bag of those salt and vinegar chips you like, and we’re going to the roof. I’m done sharing the air in this kitchen."
You took a sip of the bourbon—it was smooth, burning a trail of liquid fire down your throat—and looked up at him. "The roof? Isn't that technically off-limits during Rush?"
Bucky’s smirk returned, the one that made him look like he owned every square inch of the block. "Sweetheart, I'm the one with the key."
The air on the roof was a shock to the system—crisp, cold, and smelling like the faint hint of rain instead of the humid, beer-soaked chaos below. Bucky kicked the heavy metal door shut behind you, and suddenly the thumping bass of the party felt like it was miles away, reduced to a dull vibration beneath your sneakers.
"Way better," he exhaled, the sound getting lost in the wind.
He didn't head for the ledge. Instead, he led you toward a shadowed corner where a few mismatched lawn chairs and a tattered outdoor sofa had been shoved against a brick chimney. It was the house's worst-kept secret, the place where the brothers went when the "frat persona" got too heavy to carry.
Bucky sat back on the low sofa, his long legs stretching out in front of him. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small, glass jar and a pre-rolled joint.
"Thought you might need to take the edge off," he said, his voice finally losing that sharp, defensive edge it had in the kitchen.
He flicked a silver lighter, the flame illuminating the rugged lines of his face for a split second before he took a slow, practiced pull. He held it for a beat, his eyes fluttering shut, before exhaling a thick cloud of sweet, skunky smoke into the night air.
He offered it to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. "Careful. It’s the good stuff. Sam brought it back from his trip last weekend."
You took a hit, the familiar, herbal heat blooming in your chest and instantly softening the jagged edges of the night's tension. You leaned back against him, your head resting on his shoulder. Up here, under the pale glow of the moon, the whole "cheerleader and frat star" thing felt like a costume you’d both finally taken off.
"You were a real jerk tonight, you know," you murmured, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the dark.
Bucky let out a low, dry chuckle, his arm winding around your shoulders to pull you closer into his side. "I know. I saw him talking to you and I just... I saw red. I hate the way guys look at you like you're something they can just have."
"And you don't look at me like that?"
He took the joint back from you, taking another hit before looking down at you. His eyes were already starting to glaze over with a heavy, relaxed haze, but the intensity in them hadn't faded.
"No," he said softly, blowing the smoke away from your face. "I look at you like you’re the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this place. There’s a difference."
He leaned down, his lips grazing your temple. He smelled like woodsmoke and that specific, earthy scent of the weed, a combination that felt more like 'him' than the cologne he wore for the parties.
"I don't want to be the guy who just shows up at your door at 2:00 AM anymore," he admitted, his voice rough and honest. He reached into the bag of chips he’d managed to snag, offering you one with a faint, lopsided grin. "Even if I am currently the guy hiding on a roof with a bottle of bourbon and a joint."
You laughed, the sound light and airy as the high started to settle in, making the stars look a little brighter and Bucky's shoulder feel a little softer. "Well, you're a work in progress, Barnes."
"Yeah," he whispered, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your arm. "But I'm your work in progress. Right?"
The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore; it was soft, cushioned by the slow-moving smoke and the way the bourbon was starting to hum in your veins. Bucky watched you, his eyes searching yours for an answer, his thumb still tracing those slow, grounding circles on your skin.
"Yeah," you finally whispered, reaching up to tug at the collar of his hoodie. "You’re my work in progress."
The tension in his jaw finally snapped. He leaned down, crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of sweet herbs and expensive whiskey. It wasn't the frantic, territorial kiss from the kitchen; this was a slow burn, a claim made in the quiet of the night where no one was watching.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shaky breath. "Good. Because I was about two minutes away from losing it downstairs. I don't think I could've handled seeing you walk out that door tonight."
He took another pull from the joint, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dark, before handing it back to you. "Stay up here a while? The party’s not going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure the guys think I went on a 'mission' anyway."
"A mission?" you asked, leaning your head back against the brick of the chimney, feeling the cool air hit your face as you exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the moon.
"Yeah," Bucky chuckled, his arm tightening around you, pulling you so close you could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart through his chest. "Usually means I’m out getting more supplies. But tonight... my mission is just making sure you don't decide you're too good for a guy who lives in a house that smells like old gym socks."
"The socks are a lot," you teased, turning your head to nip at his jawline. "But the rooftop access is a decent perk."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your entire body. He reached for the bottle of bourbon, taking a small swig before setting it carefully between his boots. Then, he shifted, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your skirt bunched up around your hips.
The change in position made the world tilt for a second, the high making everything feel fluid and warm. Bucky’s hands settled firmly on your waist, his fingers splayed wide against your skin.
"You're dangerously high, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register that made your stomach flip.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," you countered, sliding your hands up to cup his face.
Bucky’s eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to let you know he wasn't going anywhere. "Stay right there then. I’ve got you."
The wind picked up, whistling around the chimney, but you barely felt the chill. The heat radiating off Bucky was enough to keep the entire rooftop warm. He reached out to take the last of the joint from your fingers, stubbing it out against the brick before tossing the remains into the darkness.
"You’re staring," he whispered, his voice thick and honey-slow.
"You’re easy to look at," you murmured back, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble. The high had settled into a heavy, sweet languor in your limbs, making every touch feel like it was amplified, echoing through your skin.
Bucky’s hands slid from your waist, moving down to the tops of your thighs. His touch was firm, grounding you as the world hummed around you. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes hooded and dark with a look that wasn't about the party or the frat or the drama downstairs. It was just about you.
"I’m done with the rooftop," he rasped against your lips. "I’m done with the noise."
He stood up, keeping his hands locked underneath you so you didn't have to put your feet back on the cold gravel. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you back toward the heavy metal door.
The walk back down the stairs was a blur of shadows and muffled music. He didn't stop in the hallway this time. He didn't look at anyone. He shouldered through his bedroom door, kicking it shut and turning the lock with a finality that made your breath hitch.
The room was still dark, but the air felt charged, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering heat of the bourbon. Bucky set you down on the edge of the mattress, but he didn't pull away. He stayed between your knees, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a surprising tenderness.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, giving you that one last out he knew you didn't want.
You didn't answer with words. You reached for the hem of his hoodie, tugging it upward until he got the message, helping him pull it over his head and tossing it somewhere into the dark. In the pale moonlight, the muscles of his shoulders looked like they were carved from stone, tense and waiting.
"Bucky," you breathed, reaching out to pull him back down to you.
He let out a low, guttural sound, his weight following you down as you reclined into the pillows. "I've been thinking about this since the moment you walked into the house tonight," he confessed, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your throat, his hands already moving with a practiced, impatient hunger.
As the bed creaked beneath you and the last remnants of the party faded into the background, the "work in progress" felt a lot more like a masterpiece. Outside, the world was still loud and chaotic, but inside the four walls of his room, the only thing that mattered was the rhythm of his heart against yours and the way he whispered your name like it was the only word he knew.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, small town au, banter, neighborly enemies to lovers, pervert!bucky (stealing nude photographs), photographer!reader, fluff, sexual tension, public sex, dirty talk, degrading, breeding kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), size diff and kink
word count: 11.9k
main masterlist || bwa stardew masterlist -'.🌾.'-
a/n: thank you to my precious and dear friend @pinksplace for hosting this incredibly fun event based on only one of the best games to exist. stardew valley. this is based on the character haley that you can romance in the game, so reader kinda has that mean, spoiled princess trope. I only ripped my hair out a million times writing this, so I hope you enjoy!
synopsis:
Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic.
Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.
Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.
You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.
Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.
Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.
Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring.
It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.
Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.
Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?
With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.
Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.
The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.
Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.
And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize.
Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.
You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
Was someone actually moving in?
Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?
To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.
Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.
“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”
The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.
“Excuse me!”
Nothing.
You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”
He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.
You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.
“Hey! Farmer boy!”
The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise.
He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily.
The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.
It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes.
Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.
“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face.
“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust.
Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand.
Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.
When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.
His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.
But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”
You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes.
“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”
Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.
He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.
You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”
He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”
Your shoulders tensed.
You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively.
“H-how do you know that—?”
“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”
Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.
“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”
“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”
Your eyes widened.
Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.
When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”
But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good.
You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”
“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”
Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.
“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”
“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”
Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.
Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench.
That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.
“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.
Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”
And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.
You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.
“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”
Social media?
What kind of woman did this man think you were?
He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.
“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”
Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth.
Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.
You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”
On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.
When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.
“Cute panties.”
Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat.
The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.
You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.
“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”
The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.
She wasn’t scared of you at all.
She was smitten.
“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.
The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!
A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing.
Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.
“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”
“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”
Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.
“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”
Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.
“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.”
Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.”
You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.”
“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.”
“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.
Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.
“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow.
He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”
“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.
“Explain it to me, princess.”
You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”
Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”
“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”
“And what about the men?”
Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”
It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.
“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”
You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”
Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.
He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.
“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”
You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.
“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”
You let out a short, scoffing laugh.
He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?
Was he pulling your leg?
Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house.
“Very funny.”
As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”
It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.
Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive.
He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned.
“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”
You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”
This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.
This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve.
While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.
You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned.
If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.
In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.
“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.
He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.
“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”
“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”
Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.
“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”
“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”
As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.
The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.
Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.
“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.
“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.
The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.
“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”
Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.
Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.
“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”
You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”
Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small.
Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.
Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.
Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.
“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.
“What—?”
“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”
“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”
Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe.
“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”
He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”
For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment.
So, you obeyed.
You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.
Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.
“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”
You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”
“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face.
“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”
You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.
“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.
Bucky offered a small, weary smile.
“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”
He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.
“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”
“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed.
Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.
He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.
Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.
You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.
“Wait—don’t!”
“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”
“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”
Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.
“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.
“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”
He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.
“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”
He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.
“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”
Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”
“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”
You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.
“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”
After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.
“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”
Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.
“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”
Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.
Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.
Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.
Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands.
“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.
All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck.
He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.
“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”
Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door.
He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.
From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth.
You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.
But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.
That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.
As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick.
Why had you taken a picture like that?
Who was it for?
Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?
Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.
“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention.
You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”
“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.
As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.
“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”
Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.
You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.
“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.”
The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.
You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.
“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”
“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”
Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.
“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”
You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”
“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”
You blinked, finally glancing at him.
“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”
Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.
“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”
You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud.
You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.
“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.
When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.
The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.
To him, that just meant you were already his.
“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.
You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”
Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away.
“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”
“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”
“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”
You bit your lip, hesitating.
When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.
“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”
“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.
He was dead serious.
He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.
“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”
Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.
To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.
But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside.
Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.
He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.
It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.
He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.
Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.
It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.
As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.
You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.
Fuck.
You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.
Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.
You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.
“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.
It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.
Too fucking good.
He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”
“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”
You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.
“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”
Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.
“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”
With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.
But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.
“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”
Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before.
Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip.
You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”
“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”
He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.
“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.
“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”
The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step.
His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.
As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him.
“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”
God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.
Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”
He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.
He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.
From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took.
It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to.
His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.
A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.
Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.
He was wrong.
Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body.
Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.
Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge.
Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.
“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.
Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music.
Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.
“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.
He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.”
“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”
“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”
Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”
His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.
You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt.
“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”
Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.
“Then do it,” you challenged.
“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”
Your breath hitched. His girl?
“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”
Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.
“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.
“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”
He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.
“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”
You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours.
He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.
He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.
It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.
“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either.
His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.
Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.
You knew you should’ve stopped him.
You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.
But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue.
How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?
Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.
“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”
You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.
“Answer me.”
“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”
He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath.
He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.
“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”
“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.
With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.
“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.
His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.
The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley.
His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.
“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.
You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.
As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.
“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.
He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.
One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.
“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.
He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices.
Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.
You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”
Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”
You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”
“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”
He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall.
Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.
He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.
“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.
“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”
His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.
“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”
“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.
You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”
Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.
“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”
With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you.
You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.
He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.
He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”
He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”
Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.
As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.
He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.
He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.
“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.
You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod.
He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”
He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.
“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”
“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”
“Can’t?”
He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.
He wanted more.
He wanted to break you.
With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.
Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.
“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.
He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.
“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”
He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.
Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.
As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.
“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.
Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley.
He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.
His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.
“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.
The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”
What was he saying?
His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.
“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”
He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle.
“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”
“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”
His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.
“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”
Your face burned with humiliation.
Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.
“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.
Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”
Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered.
“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”
He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.
“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”
His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.
“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.”
He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.
“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”
The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.
You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it.
“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly.
He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”
Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”
You felt your breath get stuck in your throat.
He was asking for permission?
Your body tightened beneath him.
You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.
“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.”
Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go.
“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.
You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.
“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”
You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.
“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”
“Just cum inside, Bucky!”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.
The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.
He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.
“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”
The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.
Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.
“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”
He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.
“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”
He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again.
He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing.
And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier.
“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”
He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt.
You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.
“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.”
He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier.
“Bucky?”
“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway.
“For my growing collection.”
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!
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First one-shot from my Sabrina-inspired collection.
Pairing: Ex-Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader
Summary: It’s 2am and you receive a drunken phone call from your ex-boyfriend, Eddie- and when Eddie is drunk he has a lot to say.
Content Warning: 18+ smut, drunk!eddie, ex-boyfriend!Eddie, dirty talk, inappropriate/suggestive language, profanity, threatening to drive while under the influence (DO NOT drunk drive y'all. I will beat you with a stick)
A/N: Sorry if this sucked. I was trying to dabble more in phone-sex type writing. The original request was also for reader to be the one to drunk dial Eddie but I thought it would be interesting to switch it around.
────────
“Hello?”
Your voice was tired as you picked up the phone, rubbing your sleep-heavy eyes at you glanced at your alarm clock.
1:47am.
“Give me the phone, dude. You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”
You heard the sound of mumbles and rustling on the other end of the line as you tried to make out what it was that you were listening to- who the hell was calling.
“Nonono. Shhh…shut up. I just wanna. Hey! No! Gimme….gimme that baaaack. I wanna talk’ta her. C’mon. Gimme.”
You heard the familiar sound of Eddie Munson’s voice on the other end of the phone. A voice you hadn’t heard in over a month- not since the breakup.
“Hey, are you there?”
“Gareth?” You ask, trying to make sense of all of this. It was far too late for you to be dealing with it.
“Hey, yeah, sorry. That was Eddie.” He sighs heavily “We told him not to call you. But you know Eddie. He kinda just does whatever he wants.”
“Is everything okay?” You ask, sitting up in bed.
“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s just drunk. And stupid.”
And then you hear it again.
“Hey! Don’t tell her I’m stupid! M’not stupid!”
“Here we fucking go.” Gareth grumbles “Yes, Eddie, you are stupid. You literally just drunk dialed your ex-girlfriend at two in the morning.”
“Not my ex-girlfriend anymore after I-“ His words get cut off as he hiccups loudly “Will you lemme talk’ta her? Please? Pretty please? C’monnnn!”
You could hear the drunken giggles in Eddie’s voice. It was always a dead giveaway that he was tipsy. He got goofy. Well, goofier.
“Eddie, no.” Gareth says sternly “You are not talking to her right now.”
“But I neeeeed to.” He whines “Just wanna talk’ta her for a second. Just, like, a teeny tiny second.”
“No.”
“Gaaaaareth!”
You bit the inside of your cheek as you struggled not to laugh. Fucking Eddie. It was far too late for this shit.
“Baby? Hey, baby!” He bellows in the background as Gareth groans.
“Eddie, she doesn’t wanna talk to you, man. Go drink some fucking water and sleep it off like I told you to.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” You ask, growing worried at how exasperated Gareth sounded. Eddie must have been giving him a hard time all night.
“Yeah. Like I said, he’s just stupid.”
“How’d he end up calling me, anyway?” You ask “I-“
But your words were interrupted by Eddie yelling in the background.
“Baby! Hey! Baby, baby, baby! Listen! Gare, is she listening? Babe, are you listening?”
“No, Eddie. She is not listening.”
“Oh, fuck off!" Eddie replies “I know she can hear me. Baaaaabe! Tell Gareth you wanna talk’ta me. I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. Somethin’ important.”
“Jesus Christ,” you sigh “He’s really off it, isn’t he?”
“Eddie, will you please shut the fuck up?” Gareth finally snaps.
“Gare?” You sigh “Just put him on the phone.”
“You sure?” Gareth asks “I don’t think-“
“It’s fine, Gare. I’ll just let him say what he needs to say.”
“Alright…” Gareth replies, his voice unsure. The next thing you knew, the phone was being hijacked by Eddie whose voice bellowed over the line.
“Baby?”
“Yes, Eddie?”
“Fuck, finally!” He exclaims “Never thought he’d get off the phone. He hogs the fucking line like he pays the bill or something.”
“Eddie, you’re calling from his house.” You point out.
“….Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Semantics and all that. How’ya doin’, baby?” He flirts “S’been awhile.”
“What do you want, Eddie?” You ask, cutting right to the chase. You didn’t have time for games.
“Ea-sy.” He sasses “Goddamn. A guy can’t call his girl to ask what’s goin’ on? Geez…”
“Eddie, I’m not your girl.” You remind him.
“Yeah, whatever, babe. Semantics.” He states “What good are they in the grand scheme of things, anyway?”
“Well, in this case, I think they’re pretty important.”
“I don’t concur but you are free to your own opinion, m’lady. My…beautiful…lady.” He laughs, causing you to roll your eyes.
“Eddie, you have five seconds to get to the point or I’m hanging up.”
“No! Don’t! Don’t hang up, please. Just talk’ta me. Miss your voice, angel. Miss you. So much.” He sighs longingly “That pretty, pretty voice of yours.”
“Eddie, this isn’t funny. I’m hanging up now.”
“Nooo! Do. Not. Hang. Up. I need- Baby, just listen….M’sorry. I know you’re mad. I was stupid. Soooo stupid but I miss you. Miss you so much. Can’t stop thinkin’ about you.” He rambles “You’re in my head.”
“Well, Munson, I hate to you break it to you but you need to get me out of your head.” You warn “You doing this right now isn’t good for the both of us.”
“Says who?” He challenges.
“Me.” You argue “Now, hang up the phone. Go take some Advil, drink some water, and go to bed before you make a fool for yourself. You’ll regret this in the morning.”
“No, baby. ‘M not gonna regret this. I regret letting you go. I was so stupid. So fucking stupid. Stupid, Eddie. I was a stupid, bad boyfriend.” He agonizes “Don’t wanna be stupid anymore. Wanna be with you, baby. I miss you.”
“Eddie. No.” You reply sternly “Stop.”
“Nooo.” He groans “I can’t. I love you, baby.”
“Eddie, you don’t love me. You’re drunk.”
“S’true.” He laughs “M’drunk but I also love you. Love you sooo much. Never stopped.”
“Jesus Christ…”
“Y’know what I love about you th’most?” He asks, a tiny hint of a giggle escaping his lips.
“What?” You sigh.
“You put up with m’shit.” He says “Y’do it better than anyone else. I was s’lucky. Lucky me.”
“Well, not anymore.” You sigh “Now Gareth puts up with your shit.”
“Yeah but s’not the same. I miss you.” He whines “D’you miss me?”
“Eddie…”
“D’you even think about me?” He pouts “You’re probably already seein’ someone else. Probably fucking someone else. I fuckin’ think about it and it kills me, baby.”
“Why?” You ask “We’re not together anymore, Eddie. We can both have sex with whoever we want. That’s how breaking up and being single works.”
“But I don’t wanna be single.” He complains “Shit sucks! Don’t wanna have sex with anyone else either. Jus’ you. Only you, baby. Couldn’t even get hard for anyone else if I fuckin’ tried. All I wan' is you.”
“Eddie..” Your heart pounds in your chest at his admission. Even after all this time, he still had the power to make you feel wrecked over his words. He was probably so drunk that he didn’t even realize it.
“C’mon, baby. We were so good together.” He pleads “Come back t'me.”
“That was before, Eddie.” You point out, trying to stay firm. You absolutely could not fold.
“Yeah but we can fix this. I can fix it, baby. Lemme fix it, sweetheart.” He pleads “I’ll do anything to get you back.”
“Eddie, you are so drunk right now.”
“Mmm.” He hums “And horny. Don’t forget horny.”
“Another reason why you need to hang up and go to bed.”
“But I don’t wanna.” He whines “Not when I’m getting somewhere.”
“Getting where, exactly?” You huff out a laugh.
“I dunno but you’re still talkin’ t’me so I must be doin’ somethin’ right.” He points out.
Cocky little shit.
“Goodnight, Eddie.”
“Nooo, wait!” He says “C’mon, baby. I miss you. You miss me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“C’mon sweetheart, I know ya do. Fuck, I miss you. God, I miss you. Haven’t gotten off in so long. My fucking balls are hurting, baby.”
“Eddie!”
“What? S’the truth!” He says “Using my hand isn’t the same. Doesn’t feel as good as you. God, I fucking miss you. You and that tight, wet-“
“Oooohkay!” You gasp “Stop! That’s enough!”
“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t act all shy. You used to like it when I would talk to you like this.”
“That was before, Eddie. Now I don’t.”
“Maybe you just need a reminder then.” He suggests “Because I’ve never forgotten, sweetheart. Fuck, I remember everything. How good it was. How good you feel. How you taste. Mmm fuck!”
And, for some reason, you stay on the line. You close your eyes as you throw your head back into your pillow. Fuck, this sucks.
“Baby? You still there?”
“Yeah.” You sigh “I’m still here, Eddie.”
“Good!” He says “Good, good, good….because I’m horny, sweetheart….and lonely. Sooo fuckin’ lonely. I want you, babe. I need you.”
“Eddie, this isn’t-“
“Shhh! Stop it. Stop tryin' ‘ta fight it. It’s pissin’ me off.”
“You’re the one who’s pissed off?” You scoff “You called me. With your bullshit. At two in the morning, might I add.”
“Yeah but you love my bullshit, baby. You looooove it. You put up with it s’well ‘cause you know that I make it worth your while.” He chuckles deeply.
“And how exactly do you make it ‘worth my while’?”
“Mmm….Cause I dick ya down so fuckin’ good that you always forget why you’re mad.” He flirts “S’why you lemme get away with s’much, right, sweetheart?”
“Edward Munson, I swear to god I’m hanging up now.”
“No you’re not. You’re not gonna hang up. I know you. Know you soooo well. Know what makes you weak.” He hums “Know what’s makes you tick. If you wanted to hang up, you woulda done it already. No, you don’t wanna hang up. You wanna listen to me as I tell you allll the dirty fuckin’ things that I’ve been thinkin’ about, baby. It’s been weeks. So much time for me ‘ta think. You wanna know a secret?” He laughs, coming out deep and mischievous.
You couldn’t help but be curious. “What?”
“You’re gonna hate me but I, uh, I still use those pictures of you. You know which ones I’m talkin’ about? The dirty ones?”
“Eddie!” You exclaim “You were supposed to throw those out!”
“You wan’ ‘em, back?” He offers “I mean, because if you do, you’d have to come over’ta my place and come get ‘em.”
“Whatever, Munson. Keep them. I don’t even care.”
“That’s not true.” He tsks “You don’t mean that. You do care. As a matter of fact, I think you care soooo much. I think you secretly get off from knowin’ that your ex still needs to look at you ‘ta cum….and, baby, there’s soooo much cum. So, so much now that you’re not here to help me empty my fuckin’ load in you.”
Before you can stop yourself, you let out a desperate whimper. It was so quiet- hardly even there but you knew that it wouldn’t have slipped past Eddie.
God fucking dammit.
“Oh…” Eddie chuckles, low and deep in your ear as you squeeze your eyes closed. Fuck. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Fuck, I knew you would. Always looooved to see me suffer. Loved to hear me be fuckin’ needy for you. Well, baby, m’so…fuckin’…needy without you. Dunno whatta even do with myself. So lost without you, angel. You and that tight…wet…cunt of yours. Fuck. Miss my girl, baby. Miss you sooo much.”
"Eddie..."
"Tell me, sweetheart, do you miss me? Do you miss my cock? My big fucking cock stretching you open. Fuuuck, I bet you fucking do, baby. God, I miss you. My good girl. Used to be so good for me. Used to let me fuck you anytime I wanted it. Fuck, you were always so fucking horny for me. You still horny for me, baby? Hm? Tell me. Fucking tell me."
"Fuck...yes, Eddie. I...I'm still horny for you, okay? Is that what you wanted?"
"Mhm. Exactly what I wanted, baby, thank you." He hums appreciately.
"Fucking jackass..."
"Your jackass, baby. All yours. Never stopped being yours. Only wanna to be yours. Still want you to be mine. Want you back. Fuck, I need you back. Do I have to fucking beg, sweetheart? 'Cause I will. God, I need you back. Need you wrapped around me. That fucking pussy of yours....those lips. God, sweetheart, I'm so fucking gone for you and you don't even care."
"I do care, Eddie." You admit "I just-"
"You just want me to suffer. That's it, right? You wanna teach me a lesson. You wanna make sure that I know what life is like without you. Well, sweetheart, it fucking sucks, okay? So lets just fucking make up already so that I can fuck you stupid. Like you're mine again..."
"Never stopped being yours." You whimper, growing so wet at his words. His devotion.
"Yeah? Fuck, baby, I knew it. Knew you still loved me." He sighs longingly "Fuck, I need you right now, angel. Right fucking now. Are you home?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Don't go anywhere."
"Eddie, you can't fucking drive!" You exclaim "You're drunk. You're not thinking."
"No, baby. No, no, no. I'm thinking too much. About you. God, you're in my head. Need you so bad."
"Eddie, baby, you're drunk. How about you just sleep on it, okay? How-"
"Nope!" He interjects "Need my keys. Where are my fuckin' keys? Keys....keys, keys, keys....fucking keys! Gareth! What'd you do with my keys, you dickhead?"
"Eddie-"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck.....okay.....new plan. You, sweetheart, need to come to me. Yeah? How's that sound?"
"Eddie, maybe we should just wait it out. It's not-"
"Sweetheart, listen, I don't think you get me right now. I have been without you for over a month. I am literally dying here. I need your pussy. Desperately. I need relief. Sweet fucking relief. I need to fuck you. I need to fucking bend you over the nearest fucking surface and fuck all of the fucking cum that I have been fucking backed up with for weeks. All of it. Need'ta give it to you. Right fucking now. I need to fucking bury my dick in that tight....sweet...little pussy of yours. I don't care if it's the last thing I do. I don't care. I neeeeeed it."
"Fuck, Eddie..." You moan "You sound so hot when you say things like that...."
"Yeah? You think I'm hot when I say filthy shit like that, baby? 'Cause I'm about to be fucking gorgeous by the time I get over there. So, what's it gonna be? You gonna be a good girl and let me come fuck you? You gonna let me give you this hard fucking dick? Huh? Or are just going to play games?"
"Okay." You say.
"Okay?" He asks.
"Come over here and fuck me, Munson."
The line goes silent for a moment. So silent that you were worried that the call had dropped. Then you heard the most guttural, animalistic growl that you've ever heard come from him.
"Fuck, baby, Christ! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Don't fall asleep on me! I'll be there in fifteen minutes, sweetheart! I love you!"
The line immediately goes dead.
Well, you thought- staring at the phone in your hand before hanging it up.
pairing: teenage dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular girl!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, banter, enemies w/ benefits, bucky bashes on trap music (sorry if you like it), pining but semi unrequited, john walker (kind of slandering him. also sorry), angst if you squint, miscommunication, fluff, semi-public sex, alcohol, jealousy, m!masturbation, soft dom!bucky, dacryphilia, degradation, dirty talking, pet names: "pretty princess" "angel"
word count: 11.7k
series masterlist || masterlist
a/n: getting a lot of rodrick x regina edits on the tiktok tl... so i had to whip out a fanfic inspired by that. i called bucky a teenage dirtbag but they're in college. dedicated to the biggest teenage dirtbag rodrick rules herself @54nboo. erin rules.
synopsis:
You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts.
That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts.
You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.
Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.
Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.
You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.
And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.
Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”
All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.
Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.
“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.
Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.
“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.
“Buck,” Steve tried again.
Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”
“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”
Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.
He did have a chance with you.
He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.
The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.
God, he fucking despised girls like you.
But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.
Just like him.
Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.
He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.
Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.
He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.
Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.
Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”
And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.
You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.
👑: hey
👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?
No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.
And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.
bucky: yeah
bucky: looks bad
From there on, you were his dirty little secret.
And he was yours.
“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”
“Hate her or want to fuck her?”
Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”
Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”
Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”
“Get out of my face, Steve.”
Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.
And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?
But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.
“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”
You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”
John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.
“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”
“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”
A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”
You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”
John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.
“That’s my girl!”
My girl?
You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.
“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”
“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”
“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.
Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.
You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.
“Wait—hold on—”
You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.
Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.
“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.
“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”
“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”
John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”
“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”
John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.
“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.
John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.
Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”
John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…
Bucky had called you an angel!
“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”
“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”
John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”
“Bucky,” you warned.
His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."
“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”
He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.
Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.
“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.
“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.
“John and I aren’t dating—”
“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”
“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.
You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.
But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.
“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”
You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”
Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.
“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”
You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.
“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”
“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.
Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.
But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.
That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.
“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”
You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.
“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”
Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.
“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”
Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.
Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.
“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.
“To your gig?” you frowned.
He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.
Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.
He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.
“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.
“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.
He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”
You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.
But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.
Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.
“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”
It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.
Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”
Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”
“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.
Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”
Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”
“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”
As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.
Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.
He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.
His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…
It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.
“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.
“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”
“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.
“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.
Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.
Just him.
His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.
He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.
“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.
He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.
“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.
He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.
“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.
“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.
He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.
“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.
“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”
The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.
His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.
Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.
Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.
He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.
It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.
Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”
“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”
“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”
Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”
He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.
Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?
And that was all it took.
He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.
“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”
They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.
And that was the final truth Bucky hated.
He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.
Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.
You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”
“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”
“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.
Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.
“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.
You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.
“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”
“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”
You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.
“I just wanted to get out of there.”
“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”
You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.
“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”
He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.
You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”
If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.
“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”
You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”
“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”
Your smile faltered.
His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.
Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.
You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”
Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”
“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is what you said.”
A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.
But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.
So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”
You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”
“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”
Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”
You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”
He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”
Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.
At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.
You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”
He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.
“That looks disgusting.”
He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.
He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”
You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.
When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”
The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?
With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”
He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”
He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.
And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.
After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.
He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.
“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.
“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”
Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.
“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”
“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”
He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”
A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”
“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”
You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”
“Shut up,” you mumbled.
You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.
He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.
“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.
He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.
You were close, so fucking close.
All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.
He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.
“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.
He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.
Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”
You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”
He nodded. “We should take you home—”
“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”
He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”
You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”
His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.
“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”
You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”
He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”
You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.
Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.
His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.
You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”
He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”
You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.
His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.
You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.
“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”
You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”
He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”
“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.
His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”
A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.
“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”
A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.
“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.
You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.
“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.
“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”
You nodded, biting your lip.
Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”
Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.
You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.
It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.
“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.
He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”
While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.
The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.
You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.
He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.
“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”
“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”
He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.
“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”
He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”
Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”
“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.
You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.
“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”
“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”
Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.
“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”
“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”
“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.
You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.
“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”
“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.
A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.
“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”
Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.
“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”
“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.
“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”
“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.
A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.
“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”
Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.
Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”
You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.
“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”
He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”
His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.
“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.
Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.
A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.
And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.
“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”
“Come to my show on Friday.”
“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”
You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.
“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”
He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.
“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist, “you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”
Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”
It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.
He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.
He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.
Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.
“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.
He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”
“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”
His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”
“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”
You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.
It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.
It was Thursday afternoon.
Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.
But it was no use.
Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.
Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.
Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.
But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.
Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.
Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.
He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.
It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.
bucky: can we talk?
bucky: i’m sorry
bucky: i miss you
Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.
bucky: you looked happy today.
He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.
And then nothing.
No reply.
Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.
Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.
Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.
It was Friday morning.
Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.
In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.
You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.
He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.
He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.
“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”
Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.
“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”
You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.
With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.
Your eyes widened.
He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.
“Bucky, I—”
Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”
Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.
“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”
“They’re probably not that good.”
All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.
Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.
“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”
But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.
And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.
“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”
“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”
“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”
You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.
“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.
They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”
“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”
One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”
You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”
One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”
“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”
The group went silent.
You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.
Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.
It was Friday night.
The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.
Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.
Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.
He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.
But not your face.
“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”
Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”
But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.
Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?
You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.
And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.
What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.
He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.
And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.
He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.
He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”
Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.
Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”
The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.
Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.
He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.
He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.
As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.
Until he saw pink.
There, near the middle of the crowd.
You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.
And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.
Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.
This was love.
You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.
“Hey, loser.”
THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.
but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.
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Omg I love this so much! It also fills me with nostalgia! Reading this, I'm getting all the early 2000s, 2010s teen romcom vibes with Teenage Dirtbag playing in my head!
clark kent is so loud in bed. he doesn't mean to be either, but he's had the biggest crush on you for the longest time and he's afraid making too much noise while being inside you would put you off. with that being said, he bites his lip hard enough for it to bleed and makes these puffs of air through his noise and grunting softly while he fills you with his terribly swollen cock, (you'd been teasing him the whole duration of the date he'd taken you on and you'd decided to help him out when you got back to your place) holding back any of those shamefully loud moans he makes when he's fucking his fist to the thought of you.
"haa- clark, baby... y-you okay? t-there's blood on your chin..." you manage out as he fucks into you from above, the mating press he's holding you in having his cock speared into you so deep that's impossible for you to think straight. even talking was a huge difficulty right now.
he winces and wipes at his lower lip, grimacing. "gosh- yeah sweetheart... d-didn't even realize, 'm sorry..."
you whine at how he's holding his cock in place at your womb and buck your hips to relieve the pressure, and the minute you do and clench down on him, he can't hold back anymore.
"oh hell-" is the last thing you hear before he lets out the most pornographic moans with his head thrown back and his eyes rolling. he nearly cums on the spot when his tip hits that particularly soft, warm part of your hole sucks him in just right.
"you feel- ohh - you feel- y-you feel so-" his words slur off into a long, helpless moan that goes whiny at the end, his hands dragging up your thighs and pulling you down onto his cock hard and fast.
you feel him swell inside you, his rhythm now sloppy and uncoordinated. he is pussydrunk. he folds over you without even thinking, forehead pressing clumsily to your cheek, his breath hot and shaking against your ear as he fucks you in these deep, unsteady thrusts that force little choked sounds out of you every time he bottoms out.
you can feel his trembling as he fights not to cum and embarrass himself more but he's failing.
clark whimpers into your neck when you tighten around him again. "please dont... mmm- don't squeeze me like that, i can't...” his voice cracks, and he sinks even deeper, rutting into you like he physically can't stop himself.
"clark, don't hold it in," you whisper, coaxing in a way that goes right to his spine. "i like hearing you, clark."
missing perv!bucky hours :/ literally him waking u up like this
the thick, leaking tip of his cock nudges against your soaked entrance, smearing precum over your folds. “fuck... just like that,” he groans out. he pushes in just the swollen, aching head of his cock inside.
you gasp, your greedy cunt clenching around that shallow, teasing and painful stretch, sucking him in.
he moans, grinding the tip in circles against your pussy. “yeah... squeezin’ me so good, sweet girl. fuck, your pussy’s suckin’ just the tip like it’s starvin’ for it.”
his hand snakes down, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, keeping the thick crown buried inside your fluttering hole, as he starts to stroke himself.
“b-bucky—” you whimper, arching.
“shhh, jus’ take the tip. jus’ this.” his hips jerk erratically, fucking you with nothing but that shallow penetration, the ridge of his cockhead catching your rim.
“feel how fuckin’ hot your cunt is? milkin’ my fuckin’ crown... gonna cum right here... in this tight little hole... gonna paint your walls—” you feel his balls draw up, slapping your ass.
“gonna flood you... pump my load right where you need it—right where you feel it burnin’ for me—” a guttural groan comes from his throat as he moves inside you.
he cums in heavy spurts, flooding your clenching entrance, coating his tip as he keeps stroking, milking every thick rope deep where he’s barely seated.
“fuck, fuck—yes...” he shudders, hips grinding the tip impossibly deeper as ropes of cum spill into your pussy.
his hand works his shaft faster, smearing his release around your stretched, sticky rim, mixing it with you. “take it, you slut... take all of it... feel it poolin’ right there? my cum sittin’ in your pretty cunt... fuck, so much... drippin’ out already...”
he collapses over you, his cockhead still plugged inside, still spilling the last thick drops.
“mine. jus’ the tip... an’ my cum sittin’ right where it belongs. markin’ your pussy.” his thumb swipes through the mess leaking from your stretched hole, shoving it back inside.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”
word count: 11.4k
main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event
a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?”
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”
“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.
He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”
“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”
“… Excuse me?”
“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”
“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”
You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
“…What’s yours?” you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
“Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”
“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”
You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”
You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And that’s exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.
He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.
“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”
“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.
“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”
Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”
He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”
Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. “Are you sure—”
“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.
“You’re overheating!”
Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
“...Tired,” he croaked.
Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”
Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”
Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.
“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”
“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”
“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”
You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”
He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.
“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.
“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”
“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”
“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
“Crap—!”
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.
You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didn’t look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.
“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”
“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”
“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.
“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”
Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”
“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”
“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
No—he loved this.
“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
“Careful, sweets.”
“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”
“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.
He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”
Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”
“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”
“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”
“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”
“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
“Here.”
“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Exactly right, sugar.”
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”
“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.
Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.
“So goddamn pretty.”
“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”
“Like what?” you breathed.
“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”
You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
“Feels like I already have, little doll.”
Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.
It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.
“Bucky, please—”
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”
Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
“… No panties?”
Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
“Bucky, wait—!”
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”
“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”
“No?” he cut you off.
He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”
Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.
“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didn’t help him at all.
“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. Breed…
“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”
His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
“Oh my god—!”
“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”
When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
“Understand, sweets?”
“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s so smug about being experienced, but it’s not even just confidence; it’s because his head is ruined by all the dirty things he’s seen in porn. and not the normal, heavily produced and scripted stuff, the disgusting bottom-barrel videos. grainy clips with horrible lighting and loud, sloppy sounds.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ the kind of stuff that's fried his dopamine receptors and rotted his brain to what it his now. he can’t even picture kissing anyone without also imagining spit dripping down their chin or tears filling their eyes from choking on his tongue shoved down their throat.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he's wound himself up on every gooner video he can find, and now he can't get off to anything soft or normal anymore.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he thinks spitting in someone’s mouth is baseline, cum eating, deepthroating, crying during sex, tummy bulges, choking... is all just part of “normal” sex.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s the boy who can’t kiss without grinding his hips, can’t hug without grabbing, can’t think of you, his sweet innocent little crush without relating those porn scenes onto your body.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he can't hold eye contact for long because if you look at him even a little he’s instantly flashing through ten scenarios in his head of how he can make you drool and scream instead.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ has no shame about being hard in inconvenient situations, like talking to you, or watching your thighs rub together when you sit, or seeing your plump ass strain in your pants when you bend over.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ always leaning back in his chair, legs spread indecently wide, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s hiding something. he is, his fat, drooly cock.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he doesn’t even try to hide when he palms himself through his pants after a particularly bad bout of staring. smirks right at you, daring you to say something.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ makes everything pervy and ensures you watch him as he does. the way he eats a peach mimics eat the way he eats someone out, slow at first, tongue tracing the skin, deliberately messy, sucking until juice runs down his chin and he’s groaning like he can taste you instead. he chews pens until they’re slick with spit and then pulls them out of his mouth with a pop, twirling them between his fingers before grinning at you, like look at me, look at what i can do with my mouth.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he’s a mutterer. constant mutters. “fuck, the things I’d do.” “not fair wearing that around me.” “bet you'd scream real nice on my cock”
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ his room smells like cum. sour, musky. his sheets are stiff, his socks crusted, his pillowcase stained where he’s humped into it imagining it’s your hole. he buys the tiniest fleshlights possible too, ones that match your skin tone.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ he doesn’t bother covering up when you catch him. if you open the door and he’s got his pants shoved down, cock in hand, drool dripping from his lips, he grins. keeps stroking, locks eyes with you, groans louder.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ vocal. moans, whimpers, filthy cursing. he pants your name when he cums, sometimes gasping out the dirtiest shit.“so tight, fuck, want your throat, want your cunt, please, please. gotta knock you up.”
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ keeps you in his spankbank for everything. you can giggle and he’ll jerk off about how your body jolted, chest and thighs jiggling from the motion. you can push your hair out of your face and he's imagining grabbing a fistful of it to fuck your face.
He picked up carpentry as a hobby after he retired, something to keep his hands busy and hopefully calm his nerves from the intense PTSD he suffered from. That hobby turned into a full-blown passion, whittling away at various types of wood, creating small animal sculptures that he hand-painted with varnishes to offer a protective finish for the creatures.
He felt calm when he worked, the nightmares and awful memories of the past drifting away, and people liked his creations too, allowing him to have a small shop where he could sell them, earning himself a healthy paycheck, but there was no one he could spend it on other than himself, no one to spoil and love :(
Enter you, a sweet little thing that catches his attention as soon as you walk into the shop. You were so polite and kind, explaining that you were looking for a gift for a friend, and Simon practically starts peacocking in front of you, showing off all his handcrafted work, but he can't forget to show off how strong he is, too! Thick biceps flexing when he picks up a heavy piece of wood, claiming he'll make something new, fresh, just for you. Anything for you.
And, God, when you give him that sweet smile of yours, bidding him goodbye with your gift bag in your hand, the poor guy is practically whipped. If only you knew what you did to him, the way his jeans tightened seeing your low-cut neckline, soft, doughy breasts that would fit perfectly in his large hands. It just flips the switch in his brain and turns on his primal instincts :(
Simon had to take a breather in the back, jerking himself off like he was in heat, thrusting his strong, broad hips into his tightly closed fist, his fat tip drooling thick, potent sperm like a faucet. His last two orgasms were spurted into his can of varnish, mixing his seed with the finish that he planned to coat the small sculpture of your body he was already creating, just so he could feel a little closer to you <3
Next time you came around, he was going to drag you into the back and give you a hands-on session :))
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