Have u seen that one video where this guy tries lying on his side in bed but can't rest his head on the pillow because his shoulders are too big LMAOOO. Something like that w beefy Bucky and reader absolutely losing it behind him 😭😭😭😭
You don’t mean to laugh.
You really, truly don’t.
It starts as a quiet little snort behind your hand—barely anything, just a slip of amusement you think you can swallow down before Bucky notices. He’s already half-settled on the bed, turned onto his side with his back to you, broad shoulders rising and falling as he exhales like he’s finally ready to sleep after a long day.
Except… he’s not moving anymore.
He just freezes there.
You squint at him from your spot against the headboard, trying to figure out what’s wrong. The room is dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp catching on the planes of his back—on muscle that’s frankly unfair, carved and wide and—
Oh.
Oh no.
Your lips press together so hard they hurt.
Because Bucky isn’t resting.
He’s trying to.
Very carefully.
His head hovers just slightly above the pillow, neck bent at an awkward angle like he’s attempting to lower himself down inch by inch. You can practically see the calculation happening in real time—his brow furrowing, jaw tightening as he shifts his shoulder a fraction.
The pillow dips.
His shoulder does not.
Your breath hitches.
He tries again.
A subtle wiggle this time, like maybe if he angles himself just right, gravity will cooperate. His metal arm adjusts under the blanket with a soft whir, his flesh hand coming up to tug the pillow closer.
He lowers his head. Stops. Lifts it again.
There’s a beat of silence.
“…you good?” you manage, voice already wobbling.
“Yeah,” he mutters, a little too quickly. “M’fine.”
You bite the inside of your cheek.
He is not fine.
Because he tries again, this time with more determination. He shifts his entire torso, rolling his shoulder forward like that’ll fix it, like maybe he can outmaneuver his own body.
It doesn’t work.
His shoulder hits the mattress first, propping him up like a damn incline, and his head just… hovers there again, refusing to reach the pillow without bending his neck at a truly cursed angle.
You make a sound.
A small one.
Like a dying squeak.
Bucky goes still.
“…don’t,” he warns, voice low.
That’s it.
You lose it.
The laugh bursts out of you, loud and bright and completely uncontrollable, your whole body folding forward as you clutch your stomach. “I— I’m sorry— I’m so sorry—” you gasp between breaths, even as it only makes it worse. “I just— you look like— like a malfunctioning action figure—”
“Doll.”
He doesn’t turn around.
He just says your name like a threat.
Which only makes you laugh harder.
“I didn’t even— I didn’t realize—” you wheeze, kicking your feet against the mattress as tears prick your eyes. “Your shoulders are too big for the pillow— oh my god—”
“They are not too big,” he grumbles, finally rolling onto his back with a frustrated huff. The mattress dips under his weight, the movement making the bed creak softly. “The pillow’s too small.”
You immediately grab it and hold it up. “This is a normal pillow, James.”
He narrows his eyes at you.
“It’s not my fault,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest like that settles it. Which—unfairly—only makes him look even bigger. “You bought cheap ones.”
“I did not—” you start, but you can’t even finish the sentence because another wave of laughter hits you. “You literally can’t lay on your side—”
“I can lay on my side.”
“Then do it,” you challenge, already grinning.
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
And you see the exact moment he realizes he’s been caught.
Still, stubborn as ever, he rolls back over with a determined huff, shoulders squaring like he’s about to win a fight. He adjusts the pillow again, this time fluffing it aggressively before lowering himself down.
Same result.
His head hovers.
Your laugh comes out as a high-pitched, broken noise.
“Stop laughing,” he snaps, though there’s no real heat behind it.
“I can’t— I physically can’t—” you gasp, collapsing sideways onto the bed. “Oh my god, Bucky—”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate it here.”
“You live here,” you shoot back immediately.
“Not anymore. I’m leaving.”
“You’re not leaving,” you laugh. “You can’t even lay down properly, where are you gonna go?”
He turns his head just enough to glare at you over his shoulder, blue eyes narrowed—but there’s a hint of something softer there, something that betrays him.
Because you’re still laughing.
At him.
And he’s letting you.
With a dramatic sigh, he finally gives up, rolling back onto his back and staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s a little ridiculous,” you admit, wiping at your eyes as you scoot closer. “C’mere.”
He eyes you suspiciously. “What?”
“Just— come here, big guy.”
He huffs but shifts anyway, letting you tug him down until his head rests against your chest instead. His weight is heavy and warm, solid in a way that’s grounding, his hair tickling your chin as he settles.
“There,” you murmur, still smiling. “Problem solved.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he sinks further into you, one arm wrapping loosely around your waist.
“…still think it’s the pillow’s fault,” he mutters.
“Mmhm,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Whatever helps you sleep, beefcake.”
He snorts—quiet, reluctant.
And a second later, his grip tightens just a little.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Being put through the mattress until they're at the brink of exhaustion and collapse on top of you.. crushing you beneath their weight.. lazily rolling their hips against yours while their cock softens and mumbling into your neck that you can survive a few more seconds
18+! minors dni! —smut p in v. oral (both m + f). chase kink. fingering (r). breeding kink. cocwarming. cream pie. light choking. headlock. nicknames — daddy / bunny. bucky barnes. hes too hot in this.
6.8k word count. slightly edited, might have some errors.
sort of self indulgent with the nicknames + chase kink, but also based off an as i got <3 longest fic i’ve written in such a long long time…please enjoy my little fic! feedback/comments welcome!
it was a crisp spring day, the windows opened wide to allow the breeze from the lake to waft thru the small cottage. some pies sitting on the windowsill as you washed your hands in the sink, looking out of the window to the yard out front. it was an open space, run over by wildflowers and clovers, creating a soft and supple grass floor that allowed you to walk barefoot most days.
a beautiful willow tree swayed int he breeze, birds chirping high above the branches reaching your ears with a delightful sound. you loved moments like these, watching the sun dance across the sky as you waited for him to return back home.
the long driveway up to your cottage was lit with lanterns, flower pots accompanying the lights to let you stay on track, not venture off too farm into the dense woods that surrounded you. he didn’t want you getting lost in the middle of the night. he knew these woods like the back of his and, but you? you wouldn’t be able to tell north within ten steps into the foliage.
he preferred it that way — these natural barricades stopping you from leaving him, like you would even do that in the first place. you relied on him, needed him around in order to keep the cottage functioning. but you didn’t complain. you enjoyed it.
you loved cooking for him, after he comes home from a long day in the lumbar yard, sweat sticking to his sinking and covered in a fine layer of sawdust. it usually made you sneeze when he would walk through the door, so he has started to strip before coming in.
your cheeks always flushed when he would come back inside with just the white wife pleaser sticking to his chest and his jeans. you could tell he enjoyed how you reacted when you see him, mostly peeking up through your lashes trying to stay focused on whatever task you had at hand.
just like tonight.
he was a little late, but you didn’t mind. you knew on friday’s he took a little longer to get home to you because he was busy prepping the wood for next week. he took his job seriously, and you took him seriously for it too. never once did you ever complain when he would arrive home later than he would promise you that morning of, you knew what his work demanded of you, especially in a small town like this.
“hi babydoll,” his gruff voice found your ears before you gazed up at him with a blush, a smile ghosting your lips. he lets out a sigh as he brushes his hair over his ear, the braid you gave him this morning falling out of its pattern. “sorry i’m late.” he hangs up his flannel on the coat rack, and even though you didn’t need an apology for him being late — he always gave you one anyways.
“that’s okay, buck.” you answer, almost automatically. you loved the rhythm you both had fallen into, something else as a dance that you normally couldn’t do. but he made sure to guide you through the whole thing.
he smiles, watching you pick at some of the petals you had in your hand wanting to use them to press later. as he comes up behind you, you feel a tense shift in the air. the sun was two hours from setting, casting a bright glow in the front room of the cottage. it illuminated his arm, the glint making you tense your thighs at any thoughts of him using it on you.
his hands fall on your waist, and although you can still smell the days sweat soaking on his skin, you could smell the musk of the cologne he sprayed this morning, making sure to put it under his pulse points he knew you loved shoving your head into. his chest brushes against your back, his arms wrapping around your waist now and gently pulling your body into his. you feel a bulge brush against your lower back, a bloom in your stomach making you hold back a whine.
he knew, though. at this point he knew every single reaction your body had, no matter how many times he touched you, kissed you, took you on his cock. he knew exactly what made you tick and bye sure as hell he would use it to his advantage every single time.
“you look pretty today, baby…” his chin rests on your exposed shoulder — a baby blue sundress adorned your skin and stopping at the mid of your thighs, ribbons tying the shoulder straps delicately. a white lace ribbon held the middle of your dress together, one slight pull of the string and it would come undone, exposing yourself under bucky’s gaze.
“thank you, i wore this one for you…” you wore all of them for him, you loved the way they made you feel, almost as much as you loved how he looked at you when you dressed up for him. he presses a kiss into your shoulder, his nose nudging up the side of your neck and his stubble rubbing your sensitive skin until his lips. were right under your ear lobe.
his right hand ventures down further the front of your dress, fingers dancing to find the the end of the dress together bunch up in this hold. you hold a shuddered breath as he chuckles against your skin, feeling nothing under neath the sundress you had on.
“and you didn’t wear anything underneath, hm?” he muses, and you nodded, body slightly relaxing into his frame as he brings his left hand to hold against the edge of the counter and caging you further into the wood. he didn’t want you going anywhere.
“n-no… ‘s too warm today..” you mumbled, half lying and half telling the truth. you didn’t know why you felt so worked up when he would touch you and find that you hadn’t worn anything underneath. you didn’t understand why you wanted to tease him like this, only that you knew that he would make you feel so fucking good. and that was enough for you.
he nods, listening to your complaint as he kisses the skin against your lower ear. “i hear ya, baby.” He grunts softly as you absentmindedly press your hips into him, taking his hands from underneath your sundress and turning you around, your back against the countertop.
“buck, wha-“ he presses he is finger against your lips to shush you, a smile on his lips.
“shh, let me take care of you, hm?” you bite your lip, unsure how this would cool you down, but you couldn’t say no to him as he looks at you like that when he sinks down onto his knees. you gape your mouth gently, wanting to protest as he takes one of your legs and hooks it around his shoulder, thigh pressing firmly into his left shoulder. the metal cooled your skin instantly, but you were too distracted on the hands that stayed under your thighs, traveling up to your hips and angling your cunt towards his face.
your sundress was bunched at your hips, exposed to him in the glow of the sunset. his nose bumped your clit as his eyes looked up at you, breath ghosting over your soaked entrance. he smirks as you open your mouth to say something but you get cut off when he wraps his lips around your clit and tongue flicking slightly, making your brain stop short and hips stutter.
“c’mon baby, let daddy eat..” he murmurs against your cunt before he presses harder, letting go of your clit and tongue dipping to your folds, and licking like a fucking starved man. like he didn’t enjoy your delicious breakfast and lunch you had made him today for work.
like he had never tasted something that was this sweet in his entire life. and honestly, he cannot say he has tasted anything sweeter than you.
eventually you let him settle into the routine of flicking his tongue through your soaked folds, drinking you in before he used that same tongue to fuck your hole and his nose nudging against your clit with each move of his face.
he had you as a moaning mess above him, your and had found their way to his messy brown curly hair, tugging on the strands to bring him closer to you if that was even physically possible. you needed him, craved him so fucking bad even while he was giving you exactly what you were asking for.
“sound so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart..” he groans against your core, a blush sweeping your cheeks, warming your face. you couldn’t help the shiver that ran hourglass your body at the praise, fingers tightening in his hair. he brings his right hand from under your thigh to tease your hole with his fingers, his tongue licking at your clit lazily. your hips stuttered against his face, his eyes peering up over he mound of your bush. he nuzzled his nose deeper into you as he closed his eyes and sunk two fingers into you slowly.
you let out a moan, trying to rut your hips against his face and fingers but he wouldnt let you move from the position he had you in.
“want you to make a mess like this, babydoll.” he grunts against you, slipping his fingers deeper and deeper until he was knuckle deep and you could feel him curl his fingers deep inside of you. the wet sounds picked up as he started thrusting his fingers at the same pace hie sucked your clit, keeping the same rhythm as you moaned a little louder with each stroke
he loved having you come undone like this underneath him, singing songs of gospel every time he pulled his fingers out and pushed back in. he loved your body twitching as your clit throbbed under his tongue, pulling you closer and closer to the edge that only he could send you to.
“thats it, there you go…” he coaxes you softly, pulling the sweetest moans and whines from your lips, fingers digging deeper into his scalp and feeling the tight knot in your stomach that could only mean one thing.
you squeezed his fingers tightly earning a moan from him, his fingers scissoring inside of you while he pulls away enough to look at you and his thumb goes to circle your clit as he fucks you with his two fingers. he feels how close you are, how youre gripping him like a damn vice. it was everything he would want and more.
“c’mon, give it to me,” his encouragement has your toes curling, eyes slipping shut as you feel yourself teeter off the edge and falling right into his hands. making a mess all over his fingers and moth, dripping down to his chin. he smiles as he fucks you through your first orgasm, one of many he was going to get from you this evening.
“good girl…” he praises you as he kisses your inner thigh, slowly drawing his fingers from your sloppy cunt, your own eyes locking with his as your chest heaves, cheeks heated and warm from coming. he smiles, licking his lips as he lowers your leg from over his shoulder, letting you stabilize yourself before he cups your head with his left hand and bringing your lips against his — tasting yourself on his tongue
you both moan into each others mouth, your own hands seeking his body, his skin and his warmth. you need to be wrapped up in all things him.
“want to play a little game?” he murmurs against your lips and your body shivers with anticipation, nervousness. what could he possibly he hinting at? you nod against his lips before hes pulling away and taking his fingers that were knuckle deep inside you two seconds ago, slipping them past his lips and cleaning them off. he moans around his own fingers, eyes glinting with lust as he watches you carefully.
“want to see how far you can make it out there before the sun goes down and i catch you?” you look outside, your cunt clenching at the very idea of hiding from him in those woods, him hunting you and seeing where you went. you knew there was no chance of actually getting lost but like you said earlier — you didn’t know any inch of the woods surrounding your cottage.
that didnt matter though.
the only thought you had was bucky finally finding you and taking you up against the trunk of a large tree, bark scratching against your skin as skin slaps on skin and hes groaning in your ear how good you feel wrapped around his —
“ill take that as a yes, babydoll.” he chuckles, seeing you stare far of, but he heard your heart rate pick up at the mention of him catching you.
he knew you better than you knew yourself.
you blushed against, hopefully that he couldn’t tell but he did. he always did.
“i’ll give you a running start of one minute, then.” he leans to murmur in your ear, his lips attaching to your neck and sucking the most sensitive part of your neck, making your knees buckle. he sucked a mark into your precious skin, running his tongue over the mark before pulling away and cupping your chin with his metal hand to make you look up at him.
“starting…now,” he smiles as he lets go of your chin and instantly, you stood up straighter and senses dialed to eleven. you turn on your heel, trying to muster up the strength again after coming on his fingers as he tapped your butt on your way out of the cottage.
he stood up straighter with you as he watched you leave through the front door, and past the open windows. the window billowing your skirt around you with your hair whipping around you, the sun gleaming onto you. “beautiful girl,” he says to himself, smiling as he toes off his boots and socks, matching your barefoot trek into the woods. he wanted to feel the grass against his own skin, the warmth the soil brings when the sun kisses it long enough during the day.
he wanted to feel more connected to you before finding you.
you felt the warmth whip around you as your toes sunk into the warm earth, the clovers tickling your ankles as the breezed back and forth in the wind. the wildflowers growing towards the direction of the sun’s beams, wanting to be kissed by her.
you looked back towards the cottage, seeing bucky’s shadow move through the cottage in the front room. you wondered what he was doing before you remembered he gave you a count down.
quite honestly, he wasn’t keep in track if a minute had passed or not. he just watched you leave through the line of the dense trees, your hand running against the rough bark as the sun hides behind the green foliage birthed by the long and populated trees surrounding you.
you take in a deep breath, hearing a soft babbling of a brook to your left and the leaves rubbing against each other above you. the soft grass between your toes helped you ground you, even if you had no idea where you were going.
as you trailed on, your heart hammered in your chest at the thought of bucky being right behind you, ready to bend you over the nearest tree and take you from behind. your blood pulsed at the thought, not even realizing that he could hear your heart beating hammering in your chest, that he could smell your cunt with each thought of him thrusting inside of you, owning you like you needed.
you figured that at least ten minutes had gone by and you hadn’t even heard the sharp snapping of a branch under the weight of a step nor the rustling of leaves. it made you shiver, knowing the sun was going down at this point and a bit of fear pulsed through your body. you knew you were safe, but knowing bucky was out there, watching you as it got darker ignited something in you.
he could pick up on your body changes, and it only made him throb inside his pants. he had an idea where you were in a general area — but you were so light on your feet that e couldn’t pinpoint an exact location of you. it frustrated him, knowing it would take a bit longer to find and claim you.
he palmed himself gently, letting out a soft groan at the thought of being able to find you and take you on the forrest floor. he sucked in a breath as he stopped, hearing some leaves rustled from at least five feet away from him. he crouched, hand stuck on his bulge as he peered through some bushes to find you kneels at a river, hands cupping into the water unknowing that he was perving at you through some bushes.
he throbbed as he watched you tip your head back to drink the water from your cupped hands, watching the water dribble down your neck and bloom across the blue fabric of your sundress. silently, he unzipped his pants, pulling himself out through his boxers and wrapping a hand around his shaft, hissing softly. you were oblivious to anything around you and it only made him harder at the thought you were so vulnerable.
he smeared his pre-cum around the tip of his cock as he watched you run the water over your skin, cooling yourself down. your sundress drinking in the liquid and sticking closer to your skin, your nipples pebbled through the fabric. he couldn’t get his eyes off of you, tightening his grip as he starts to jerk himself off to the mere innocent sight of you like this. he wanted to save it, save it so he could fill your cunt up full of him, but he knew the second he found you again and got his hands on you, he would be able to do just that.
as he feels his short and quick orgasm approach, he sees your ears perk up as you look around, licking your lips and eyes glazing over the same bush that he is in. cum splatters on the leaves below, cock throbbing and aching in his hand as he stays there crouched. your nerves are on end feeling watched but you couldn’t tell for sure what it was.
minding your own, you stood up on your own feet, looking around again before dashing off across the river and into the forrest.
bucky lets out groan as he lets go of his cock, shoving himself back into his pants and standing up, wiping his hands off. he needed you now, he couldn’t keep the thoughts of taking you at bay. he needed to feel your pussy wrapped around his cock instead of his hand, needed to hear you whine and beg for him to breed you like a slut in the middle of the woods.
he lets out a low whistle, one that sends a shock wave through your body and right to your clit making you throb. you knew that whistle. that was the one he used specifically in the bedroom when he wanted you to come to him — messy your knees for him while he fucks your throat. you felt a pull in your body as you hear the sharp sound, your cunt begging you to run and find him and submit.
but another part of you wanted him to track you down, to grab you and tell you he was going to ruin you right then and there. you wanted him to be rough with you, wanted him to treat you as such.
as much as you made a mess between your legs with slick coating your thighs at the mere thought of going to him, you continued walking further. you felt your nipples rub against the wet fabric of your shirt, your core tightening with the sensation. you were incredibly turned on by all of this, your senses heightened so much that you could only focus on the end goal of bucky fucking you stupid.
as you continued, you ended up tripping on a loose branch and stumbling against the floor, green clovers softening your fall and your hands catching soft blades of grass. because of your fall, however, you snapped the twig.
which made bucky’s ears perk up to the sound, his body turning in the direction it came from and picked up his speed, taking long strides and barely missing a beat. you whip your head around as you hear him loom over behind you, your heart hammering in your chest and your cunt aching at the mere sight of him.
his eyes were blacked out, lust looming over his facial features, want and need. you couldn’t pinpoint the other emotion that flitted through his gaze, but you knew it was something feral.
as you turn around facing him and scrambling, you start pushing yourself backwards away from him, he smirks as he watches you, knowing he was about to corner the fuck out you, leaving you with no where to go.
“whats wrong little bunny?” he cocks his head slightly to the side, his hand coming to pal himself again as he watches you scramble more away from him. he knew you weren’t scared of him — the opposite in fact. anytime you moved, your dress would bunch up further and further, showing him your exposed and glistening puffy cunt.
his eyes kept trailing between your legs with each step before gazing back to your face. your cheeks were red, from physical exertion and need, feeling embarrassed you were this exposed outside.
“i..i—“ he chuckles as you stop when your back hits the bottom of a large stump, your hands reaching for more clover floor but unfortunately you dont find anything except the rough bark. he comes toe to toe with you, looking down at you as you gaze up at him — your dress bunched to your hips as your knees are drawn up, eyes wide.
as you watch him, he lets out that same low whistle you an away from earlier, but this time you couldn’t help yourself as you sat up, the sundress falling back down to your thighs as you kneel in front of him. his thighs are huge in front of you, his thigh fingers palming his cock through his unzipped pants as his he’d hangs down to watch you, strands of long hair framing his face.
“take me out, baby.” he commands and fuck — you cant help but listen as you fumbled with his boxers, looping your fingers under his waist band and tugging them down enough to free his cock, eyes immediately falling to the tip of his weeping cock. you lick your lips, coming to grab his shaft as if you didnt need any instruction.
and honestly, you didnt. you didnt need him to tell you to open you mouth and take his tip in. he didnt need to tell you to take more of him as you hollowed your cheeks and opened your throat to invit his thick cock further into your mouth.
he didnt have to tell you to cup his balls in your other hand as you started to suck him off like your life depended on it. his moans encouraging you with each bob of your head until he comes to grab the sides of your head to steady you for a second.
“fuck yourself with your fingers, sweetheart.” his voice is low and commanding and while you hated fucking yourself with your fingers because they weren’t like his — you obeyed anyways. two fingers pushed into yourself as your moan became muffled with his cock in your mouth. you were dripping down your own wrist, trying to dig them deeper like his while focusing on how he started to move his hips to the rhythm of your own han.
you steadied yourself with your free hand on his thick thigh, fingered digging into the material as he fucked your throat. he threw his head back with a groan, knowing he was coming close to spilling down your throat but he didnt want to yet. he wanted you to come on your fingers but fuck — he wanted to fill you up.
he holds off his on orgasm as he twitches in your mouth before he pulls out and you whine at the loss. he looks down at you, smiling softly as your eyes are glazed over with tears, spit dribbling down the sides of your lips. you looked debauched as fuck beneath him, needy as your fingers continued working themselves inside of your cunt. you were whining as you looked at him, rocking your hips on your fingers.
he grabs your elbow and instinctively you remove your fingers from your cunt, following him as he pulls you to your feet and turns you around bending you over the cut stump of the large oak tree. the cool wood presses into your skin and wet fabric of your sundress, and you feel bucky lift your sundress up and over your hips. your cunt exposed to the cool air, sun shining thought he foliage as you see it almost setting at the horizon. you have been out here for a while.
his hand presses into your back softly, firmly holding you there as his hips dig into your ass, and you can feel his cock inbetween your thighs, spit and per-cum smearing on your skin.
“daddy..” your voice croaks, being one of the first things you have said in the last almost two hours. he hums in response, kicking your legs open wider to let him fit between you. his left hand holds your hip in place as his right hand comes to rub against the globe of your ass, before letting out a spank.
you moan, your cunt clenching as he spanks you again, gripping your ass after the third spank.
“what is it, bunny? tell daddy..” he spanks you again and you whimper, pushing more against him, wanting to slip the tip of his cock into your cunt. you look back behind you, over your shoulder and he looks at you. eyes hooded as he spreads your ass open with both hands, seeing your pussy lips spread at the same time.
“please.. …your cock..” you can’t really get many words out as his eyes move from your pleading face down to your exposed cunt. his cock bobs against your thigh, before he is taking his right hand and gripping himself, rubbing his tip over your wet hole.
“you want daddy’s cock, angel?” he coo’s, knowing the answer already as he teases your entrance — smearing his pre-cum and your slick together. you nod, trying to press your hips into him so he accidentally slips in, but his left hand kept you anchored. you huffed, biting your lip as you nod again.
“yes, please, i want your cock daddy, please…” you whine, begging underneath him as the tip of his cock pops into your cunt. you moan instantly, a shiver running over your skin at the slight stretch already. you relax a little as he rubs your ass again, watching your every move.
“good girl, saying please for what they want..”he praises you, rewarding you by pushing his cock deeper into you, easily. you moaned a bit louder, resting against the smooth surface of the tree and letting him fully push into you to the hilt. “could stay here forever, you know that? your cunt feels like fuckin’ heaven..” he grunts as he pulls out and pushes back in slowly, keeping the agonizingly slow pace for a little while, letting you adjust to his size. you whine, wanting more but he tsks.
“patience, sweetheart. you’ll get more of daddy,” he bends over the length of you, pressing some of his weight into you to keep you anchored. “i’ll make sure to pump you so deep of my cum you’ll be leaking the entire way back to the house.” his grunts in your ear make you moan softly, clenching his cock a t his words. his fingers dig into your hips in response, signals going to his head that this is exactly what you want.
and he would be damn sure to deliver it to you.
“relax,” he coaxes you and you listen, melting against the wood and focusing on the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of your cunt at a brutal pace, that same sound of skin slapping on skin rang in your mind, feeling his balls slap against your swollen clit with each thrust. you try to dig your nails in the wood but to no avail, you just gripped on the edge of the stump as best you could, letting him take you as he needed.
“good girl, takin’ my fat cock so fuckin’ well,” he slaps your ass again as you let out a moan of his name, the sting turning to more pleasure. you cant help it, yo need more of him, want more of him. you start pressing your hips against him to meet his thrusts, a soft grunt emitting from him.
“wanna fuck yourself on me, baby?” he muses and you whine, moving against him before he stills. you stop for a second before youre moving slowly against him, wondering if this was a trick.
“go on, you wanted it, didnt you?” he crosses his arms, pushing his hips deep into you making you moan out as you start to fuck yourself on his cock. he watches amused, how well youre taking him and letting him stretch around your cunt, dripping down your legs. you sounded so beautiful, using him like this
“atta girl,” he watches you before he gets tired of not touching you, leaning forward and hooking his large bicep around the front of your throat to put you in a choke hold. in turn — your back arched, your cunt opening up even more for his cock and you swore you could feel him in your guts. it felt like it was the deepest he had ever been. “this is even better, though.” he grunts into your ear and your one hand comes to hold onto his bicep, the palm of your other flattening on the stump.
instantly and without warning, his metal hand comes to the front of your body, trailing up the bodice part of your dress before finding the lace ribbon holding your dress together. he tugs, letting your tits spill before him and he goes to cup one, tweaking the nipple between his fingers.
“you feel so good, baby. so warm and wet wrapped around my cock… makes me wanna put a baby in ya.” he tugs your nipple making you moan in response, your body going pliant in his hold and letting him fuck you like a little doll. he feels your body submit under him, leaving him cooing in your ear.
“thats it, you’d want that, wouldnt you?” his metal fingers strum your clit slowly, his cock driving deep into you, making you moan softly. the sun was kissing the horizon as string lights above turned on from the use of solar power. you knew he had a lightening system in the woods, but because you had never gone in them — you never knew what it was.
twinkling lights reflected off small puddles, making the woods seem smaller and smaller as bucky fucked you over the stump. the two of you alone in the woods, your cunt taking his cock over and over again submitting to him.
“please..” you let out a choked whine, not really sure what you were begging for, just that your cunt was weeping on his dick as he fucked you, the tip of his cock kissing your sweet spot with each deep stroke. your fingers dig into his skin on his bicep, your teeth slightly sinking in as you feel a small but tight coil form in the pit of your stomach. you squeezed him again and this time he knew you were about to make a mess.
“hold it, babydoll.” his lips nipped your ear as his cock throbbed at the feeling of your canines sinking into his bicep. he made sure to keep the muscles just for something like this, having your bite mark engrained in his skin. he loved when you got like this — your touch needy and wild as you wanted more of him. you were already being crushed by half of his body weight, being split open on his cock. what else could you need?
you both knew the answer.
“daddy…” you whined his name, squeezing him again as his fingers continued to strum your clit slowly, teasingly. he wanted to come with you, wanted to reach that point together. he curses under his breath before he makes the split decision to pull out of you, suddenly missing the warmth of your cunt. you whine automatically, your cunt clenching at the loss of his dick, the pressure of his bicep loosening as he pulls away. your brain scrambles for more of him, and you were about to protect before hes turning you around just like he did in the kitchen and hoisting you up and onto the stump, your back against the wood.
he pauses for a second, watching as you lay there with your legs wide open, up on your elbows as you look at him from in between your legs. you look so fucking beautiful for him like this, spread bare just for him and dripping like fucking crazy. his eyes flit to your cunt — watching it pucker at the simple loss of his cock.
he twitched.
he tugs off his shirt, up and over his broad shoulders before lifting your hips up enough to pillow the shirt under them, letting your bum hang enough off over the edge of the tree without the bark digging into your skin.
he touches your spread legs, fingers dancing over your skin as he steps closer to you and in between your legs again, pushing his pants all the way to his ankle. his cock bobs, hitting your pussy with a heavy slap. there is a white ring around the base of his cock that he needed to see form again.
you look at him with a pleading look, your brows knitted together with want and need. you go to open your mouth to start whining, but is abruptly cut off as he pushes the tip of his cock back into you, before pushing to the hilt. he goes to grab your chin with his metal hand, making you look at him while you keep your legs spread wide, hands pressing your thighs apart as best as they can go.
he doesn’t need much room, just enough to lean over to take your lips in a heated kiss as he picks up the same brutal pace he just had in you a mere two seconds ago, swallowing your desperate moans. you feel your tits bounce with each deep and heavy stroke, his right hand finding home between your legs to your puffy clit. he rubs it in quick, tight circles, wanting you to come this time.
“you want it, sweetheart?” you nod, eyes glazed over at your lips depart and you have a dumbed out expression ghost over your features. his cock was splitting you open at this point and you couldn’t focus on anything except how it felt, and how the fuck he was looking at you with right now — eyes wild and mad.
his metal hand finds the back of your neck to keep you stable as his forehead presses against yours. “gonna come so fuckin’ deep in you baby… fuck… gonna have to fuck it back into you to make sure it sticks…” hes grunting nonsense a this point, your eyes slipping down to where your bodies meet and watch as his thick cock slides into you, how with each thrust you can clearly see the bulge in your tummy from him hitting inside you so deep.
he notices the bulge too, cursing under his breaths as he watches his own thrusts with you, his fingers playing your clit like an instrument he has known how to play all his life. he grunts with each stroke and you clench around him, whines and pleads leaving your lips nonsensically, not even sure what youre saying at this point either.
“your so fuckin’ tight..sucking me in…she wants it so bad, doesnt she? wants to be filled and stretched by my fat cock, huh?” he starts to grunt harder with each thrust, a smile ghosting his lips as he watches your body twitch under his touch. you cant help but let your legs fall to the sides, lax. your back arching up and off the wood in his hold as you feel yourself teetering the edge.
“beg.” he says and fuck the words have never left your lips so fucking fast.
“please, daddy please, fuck… i wanna come please, need you to fill me p, please…” youre babbling against his lips, licking them softly as you beg and whine, nipping the bottom lip. he cant hold himself anymore, the touches and the sounds you were making — how good you sounded pleading for him to fill you up…
he lets go of your neck and you fall against the wood softly, back arching as your tits move with each thrust. his fingers playing your clit so well as you slick between your thighs, dripping down your ass and making a mess all over his balls. he feels himself twitch at the feeling of the wet and sticky mess, his metal hand coming to loosely wrap around your throat, fingers pressing into your pulse points. immediately he hears your heart beat pick up, and a smirk falls across your face.
this is exactly what you wanted.
to be held under his arm like this, his fat cock drilling deep inside of your aching cunt, his moans edging you further and further. the hand was the cherry on top.
“dirty fuckin’ girl. come for me.” he locks eyes with you as he tenses up his fingers a bit more around your throat, enough to make your head feel fuzzy as you feel yourself squirt at the simple command of him telling you to cum. he groans at the sight of the squirting mess you were making all over his lower stomach and his cock, that white ring more prominent and slick with your cum.
“there you go, makin’ a mess on daddy’s cock like a good little bunny…” he praises you over and over as he feels his own balls tighten, hot sticky release filing your cunt up to the brim, spilling out and onto the forest floor. he curses, wanting it to stay all in, even if the was semi non realistic.
he takes his right hand from your clit, holding your waist as your body twitched, his thrusts slowly as he fucked you through your high and his own, making sure to keep all his cum inside you for a second. he leans down, releasing his grip around your throat to hold the side of your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t known had formed and fallen. he kisses the same spot he wiped it away, nuzzling his nose against your own.
his cock throbbed inside of you, your own cunt twitching around him. you were absolutely addicted to him, and even if he was still balls deep inside of you, you still wanted more of him. you needed more of him.
“i know, baby,” you dont realize a few more tears have fallen as he holds you, knowing you were dropping in subspace, he kisses your face softly as you come to bring your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.
“you were so good for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your cheek as he lets you hold him for a moment before hes kicking off his own pants and boxers, somewhere along the clovers and the leaves. he will find them later.
he goes to pick you up, keeping you snug and sat on his still hard cock. he knows he’d be leaking out of you, but that just means he can give you more. you hide your face into his neck as you let out a soft moan as you sit vertically on his cock, somehow cunt twitching.
“daddy..” it slips out as your eyes shut close, his hands under your thighs and holding you like that on his cock, ready to carry you home like this. he knew you weren’t far from the cottage at this location, so it would only take max ten minutes to get back home.
“shh, takin’ you back home, sweetheart. dont worry, you’ll stay on daddy’s cock, yeah? he’ll fill you all night long if thats what you want.”
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you? this fic is part of the bwat summer collab !
warnings .ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, vacation/backpacking au, romcom au but make it a thriller too, stalker!bucky, strangers to unethically sourced lovers, smut (dubcon, sex via coercion/manipulation, piv, dacryphilia, blowjob, cum eating, spit swallowing, mirror sex, pussy slapping, tummy bulge, recording sexual acts, implied panty stealing, creampie), stalking, creepy behaviour masked as romantic, bucky is a major loser he just hides it well, harassment (from a character that isn't bucky), descriptions of scars and an anxiety attack. the reader in this fic is pretty much dense and trusts a man too blindly. if you don't enjoy reading that, no worries, this fic just isn't for you. see you in the next one <3
ᯓ★ hyde's input. this entire fic is a joke that went too far. thank you to the amazing @barnesonly & @iamthatonefangirl for organising this collab ily both so dearly <3 brat dividers by @/barnesonly
disclaimer. instead of possessing a bionic arm in this au, bucky is a survivor of a burn injury along his left arm. i have tried to handle the subject as respectfully as possible, sincerest apologies if i did not succeed at that.
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TRAVEL&co kiosk, between gates 31/32 & gates 33/34.
An overwhelm of options can paralyse choice.
Bursting from the metal confines of the display stand, a rainbow of pamphlets cry out for your attention, each more desperate than the last to be picked off the shelf and purchased. Titles in bold, italics, underlined; every old trick in the book, intended to capture the eye, stands before you.
Top 20 Tourist Stops in East Asia.
DOs & DONTs of Hostel Living.
HIDDEN GEMS: a Guide to Rural Sight-Seeing.
Trust your gut, you can practically hear your mother’s voice in your head, guiding you to put your faith in something arbitrary. While her motherly advice is typically welcome, this time the thought leaves an acidic taste in your mouth that lingers, souring your expression and becoming the root of your furrowing brows.
Your gut has unfortunately been a source of misery as of late, leading you down the regretful path of trusting a man, putting all your patience and hope in his ability to change, eventually, for you. What a selfishly naive belief, to think you could change fate, scrub the mould off a man’s heart and bring him back to the land of the feeling. No affection that requires you to humiliate yourself is ever worth it, and god have you learn it the ugly way: tears dripping onto the carpet beneath your knees, chest heaving for breaths, and his lame-ass excuses, I’m just not ready for commitment, baby.
More the fool you for believing a man pushing thirty, incapable of holding down a job, and still riding the high of his days as the high school quarterback could ever face something as challenging as putting a label on the months of ‘messing around’ you both had been partaking in. Now here you stand, suitcase checked in and a one-way boarding pass in hand, frozen before the overwhelming display of travel books one of the airport’s many kiosks has to offer, and hellbent on placing as much distance as possible between you and that man.
A last minute decision, filling the neglected well of spontaneity in your life. Your parents had thought you mad, your friends had insisted on keeping you company. With both groups of protesting figures in your life, you put your foot down and demanded the solitude you craved. After all, you can’t exactly embark on a solo-trip around the planet with someone by your side — even if that someone is your mother or closest friend.
But maybe loneliness is not all it’s cut-out to be. You’d give up everything just about now to have someone to help pluck out the right pamphlet, something sure to serve you not just your first stop but for the entirety of your travels.
“You’re looking at stand like it owes you a debt.”
At first, you think you’re hearing things, brain so desperate for validation it’s taken to imagining company. Then something moves in your peripheral and you’re struck with a sight that feels like something the universe has sent directly to mock your battered and bruised heart: a man.
Not just any run-of-the-mill man, but a man made of blue eyes, sharp cheeks, and a smile so pearly-white you feel you’re staring into the mouth of a predator, inches away from sinking it’s canines into your delicate skin and devouring you whole… But no beast looks like this, enchanting and handsome in a manner that has you questioning where this stranger has been hiding from you all along — until, of course, you remember you’re in an airport and it’s likely this man is merely passing through your city, a temporary stop on his journey to who-knows-where.
Is it too late to change your flight?
“And now it seems the debt is mine,” the stranger lets out a chuckle at his words, wolfish smile stretching wider along his cheeks and making you painfully aware of the creases that mark the skin around his eyes — evidence of a life well-lived, the wrinkles of happiness. They only serve to make him all the more enticing to stare at, a deer caught in the glow of a very beautiful headlight. “Any chance I can pay it off with a little advice?”
Why has it taken you so long to realise the man is talking to you?
A scramble for breath, for words, for something that won’t deepen the embarrassment already scorching your cheeks, you muster a sophisticated, “Huh?”
… and instantly wish the linoleum flooring would spontaneously drop to reveal a sinkhole big enough to swallow you.
“Here, let’s go with,” the man drags out his word, bending at the waist as he leans forward, arm reaching down to pluck something from the stand. You barely have time to admire the way he fills out his trousers, jeans clad skin tight against the swell of his ass, before his spine has straightened and he’s waving a booklet in your face. “This sounds pretty useful, don’cha agree?”
The tiniest twang of an accent kisses your eardrum, scratching an itch you hadn’t even been aware of until now. You almost feign mishearing, just for a chance to hear the stranger repeat himself. But your eyes are drawn downwards, towards the title in his palm, and all hope of feigning ignorance flies out the door.
The Wise Traveller: navigating safety as a solo-travelling woman.
Hackles rise, an old reflex from the days you payed your gut any mind. Your mouth dries, and your eyes widen slightly, and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact this stranger is a man, mankind’s greatest predator.
“How do you know I’m travelling alone?” The question is a bite, one you deliver before sense can tell you better.
By the way the man’s smile falters, a minuscule tremble in the corners of his mouth, your hostility was unexpected. Nevertheless, the man makes no attempt to impose his presence on you, shoulders slouching in on themselves and dampening the height he holds over you.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” his words are sheepish, almost, a twinge of embarrassment painting a rosy streak over his cheeks. A hand winds its way up to the back of his neck, a self-soothing method you know far too well, fingers rubbing over skin. “You just… have the look. I’m really sorry miss, I didn’t mean to make you uncomforta-”
“It’s fine,” a mixture of shame and guilt has you cutting him off, eyes shooting back to the display and making a hasty decision to pick up the first guide they land on. “Thanks for the advice, but I’m all caught up on safety. This is what I was looking for.”
An Idiot’s Guide to Germany. It sits pretty in your hold, thin enough to read before the plane descends back onto solid ground, and completely useless to you.
But the man in front of you doesn’t need to know Germany is far from your destination.
So you scurry off, ready to put the embarrassing interaction in your rear-view mirror and re-vowing to yourself to put an end to interactions with men that make you want to claw out your skin — whether the fault be theirs or your own — and shoot off in search of the till. But something halts you on your way, turning on your ankle to face the beautiful stranger once more. He’s watching you with an endearment in his eye that makes your guts tangle in knots, sickly butterflies flying the nest and spreading through your body.
Men can be so unfairly pretty sometimes, especially when built like the model-esque figure before your eyes.
“Have a safe flight!” And with this final and only attempt at politeness, a last-ditch effort to salvage a conversation your own paranoia has already butchered, you shoot off to pay for a travel guide that will soon make a home for itself at the bottom of your bag, never to be kissed by the light of day again.
Paying for your unwanted good and stuffing it into your purse, your pursuit of escaping as swiftly as possible is hindered by the sudden tap of a finger on your shoulder, coaxing you to glance over your shoulder and find the same beautiful stranger, smile still plastered across his million-dollar face and sporting a plastic bag in his grasp, extended out to you and awaiting your acceptance.
“Please,” the blue-eyed man presses, plastic rustling in his grasp. “I’m sure you’re a smart girl, and that you’re more than capable of keeping yourself safe. But I have a little sister and- Well, it just wouldn’t sit right on my conscience to not do my part in keeping a woman safe.”
You accept his offering, fingers looping through the holes of the bag, because it feels cruel to deny him, to send him off with his tail tucked between his legs and his well intentions stomped all over the floor.
The man excuses himself, rushing off who knows where as you begin your own journey towards your assigned departure gate. Only as you settle in to the exhausted queue of antsy passengers, desperate to start their holidays or return to their families at last, do you take a peak into the plastic bag.
There it sits, just as you expect, The Wise Traveller.
Before you can think better of accidentally advertising to your fellow travellers your vulnerable state of solitude, the booklets is in your grasp and you’re flicking through the opening pages. Blue ink, smudged by the press of pages, catches your eye; an inscription from your handsome stranger.
There’s no such thing as being too careful.
Stay safe, be wise, & enjoy your trip.
- Bucky
Dragon Crest Mountain, Thailand.
The view from the top of the world is beautifully depressing.
Beautiful because the horizon stretches below you, curves and edges of green treetops and mountainous terrain. An infinite expanse of mother nature’s art painted shamelessly over the canvas of the Earth, unmarred by the hands of man nor the wheels of machines.
Depressing because, despite the view, your mind is elsewhere; enthralled by visions of tangled sheets, and bruising touches, and tear-filled tissues.
With the fellow hikers that surround you moved to silence by the ethereal view, no chattering mouths can muffle your ears from the buzz coming from your bag. A familiar pattern of three, buzz buzz buzz, you can easily picture the screen lighting up with his name, treacherously innocent for a man who masks the Devil behind his shy smile and his careful caresses.
You groan, louder than intended, and surrender with an apologetic smile towards the group of elderly women shooting daggers in your direction. Your frustration cannot be helped, really. It is utterly and entirely justifiable, given the texts staring back at you from the screen in your hand, freshly fished out your bag and clasped within your sweat-dampened grip.
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48 you'll never guess who i ran into today, honey.
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48your mother, she said your flight landed safely!
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:49 i'm glad but i can’t help wishing you were here. my bed isn’t the same without you.
Psychological warfare.
That is what this is, the manipulative moves of a man who knows all the right words to say at the worst of times. How can he speak of missing you, when he couldn’t even appreciate you when you were right in front of him, nothing short of begging him to need you as much as you needed him?
Still, your ex-situationship’s messages worm themselves into your mind, planting seeds of doubt into your dignity and sanity. Your thumb swipes up on the screen before you can think better of it, the lingering muscle memory of a lovesick fool who at last has felt the exhilarating rush of hearing from the man who makes your usually rock solid heart feel like it is made out of glass.
It wouldn’t hurt to reply, surely. It would be the polite thing to do. After all, you and him are friends. Good friends, with years of history outside of the sultry looks exchanged atop mattresses. And he just wants to know you’re okay, right? A perfectly human reaction to having the person you spend nearly every day beside suddenly up and leave, bags packed with a one-way ticket and a declaration that you are going to see what else the world has to offer, both the good and bad.
Just as you type the opening letters to a calculatedly casual reply, another message enters the chat, lighting a fire in your chest and flooding your mouth with the bitter taste of anger.
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:53 but it’s okay. take your time. i’d rather you work through your little hissy fit first.
Scoffing before you can help it, you hastily switch off the phone and shove it back into your bag, eyes rolling and mouth curling with a snarl as you mutter, “Rich coming from a man who cries every time his shitty team loses.”
The remedy to the ugly feelings swirling up a storm in your chest lays ahead, dragging your eyes back out to the view of the world at your feet, a vastness that manages to make yourself, and consequently your troubles, feel minuscule and unimportant. You can cry a thousand times about a man who will never change his ways nor mature beyond the mindset of a frat-boy, and the Sun will still do her job regardless of your pain: rising, falling, and blessing the lands with her warmth.
And so, ultimately, no matter the heartbreak locked behind your phone screen, you are truly a girl who is going to be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or in any recent days that follow. But at some point, as you jet from country to country, checking off box after box on your bucket list, and nourishing your well of experience, you will feel your phone buzz with a notification and the last thing on your mind will be the hopeful dread of it being from Tony.
Something flashes in the corner of your eye.
Startled, your shoulders jump as you turn, just in time to be blinded by the obnoxious flash of a camera, shutter snapping shut as the camera’s owner takes a picture. Sight still blurred by the blinding white light, you faintly make out the shape of a dark haired man, camera still raised at shoulder height.
“Oh, sorry,” you stumble over the apology, too busy trying to shuffle out of the lens’ way. “Let me just- I can move, so you can get the full-”
The cameraman chuckles and the sound runs right through you, a visceral reaction stirring within as you feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise and your palms grow sweaty. It’s like you know that laugh, the deep chortle that has an uptick in pitch at the end, itching at a particular spot in your ear.
“No, no, it’s fine- Don’t move!” The man, amidst his laughing, exclaims with a panic that manages to freeze your fleeing feet. Camera back to his face, he points it unmistakably at you and clicks capture, flash firing in your eyes again. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just- Wow.”
Doing your best to not show your confusion — though a part of you is painfully aware of the awe in the stranger’s tone, and the Tour Guide name tag dangling from his lanyard, and the curious American twang voice — you settle on a tightlipped smile, polite enough to gift a stranger yet not void of the utter confusion coursing through your veins.
“Sorry, gosh… You must think I’m some kind of creep,” the man continues his spew of apologies, shaking his head as he lowers the camera and let’s it drop, strap tightening around his neck and halting the device from crashing to the floor. “I normally ask before I, you know, take pictures of the tour guests. But the sunset was hitting you perfectly, and you looked so candidly peaceful, and I didn’t want to ruin the picture by making you… Aware. People get awkward when they know a camera is watching them.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s-” whatever words awaited at the end of your sentence are lost to space and time, as the cloudiness finally drifts, no longer obstructing your line of sight, and you find yourself face to face with eyes so blue, you would have to be an idiot to forget them. “Bucky!?”
Taking on the role of confused bystander, the blue-eyed man is now the one shooting you a tightlipped smile, a questioning gaze skimming over the length of you. You swear you can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, like he is actively trying to replay any memory that features your face.
When it hits him, it is a visible recollection, one that sends his mouth stretching into a full-blown smile and has you embarrassingly aware of how white his teeth are, canines glinting under the shine of a lowering sun.
“Hey, I remember you!” Connection established, he takes a step closer to you, lowering his voice in an attempt to not interfere with the quiet solace the rest of the hikers are seeking. The dampening of volume is not enough to deafen the excited recollection in his voice. “Kiosk Girl! Wow, this is- How was Germany?”
“What?” Mouth moving quicker than mind, you let your confusion rule over your sense before you are struck over the head with the rest of the scene that unfolded at the kiosk stand. The staring at pamphlets, the interruption of a handsome stranger, the offer of a survival guide. Your defensive denial, the awkward reach for a booklet all about a country you weren’t even travelling to, the gift of the survival guide, inscribed with the handsome stranger’s name. “Germany, right. Yeah, uh, it was great. Bit cold but-”
“Cold, in June? Strange,” Bucky, now even closer than moments before, is staring down at the camera, back in his hands and flicking through a series of photos. Photos of you, bated in hues of orange and purple, staring out to a blanket of greenery, sundress trapped in motion by the rustling of a warm breeze. “I always heard the weather was good there this time of year.”
Like a glass of cold water splashing over your face, the man’s words are enough to leave you shaken, the ice-cold embarrassment that soon melts into the shame of lying — and lying badly, of all things — to someone with a smile as earnest as his.
Too deep now to back out, you nod and commit to your deceit, praying you live long enough to someday forget this interaction ever happened, “Yeah, they- Well, the locals said it was a fluke. Global-warming, you know, changing the natural order of the world.”
If there is a higher being watching over your interactions, it is made of cruelty and spite, for only a creature made of all things not-nice would thrust you into a position where you embarrass yourself in front of a beautiful stranger not once, but twice — the same stranger, too. Incidents weeks apart, yet the burning sensation of bile biting at the back of your throat is just the same as the one you felt in the airport, rushing away to pay for the neglected German guide you had shamefully abandoned on the plane.
Bucky, the stranger who has unknowingly become the agent behind your most embarrassing moments in recent times, is none-the-wiser to your internal panic, nodding in acceptance of your explanation and shifting focus over to the camera in his hand.
“I’m sorry, again, for taking this without asking. I didn’t mean to scare you,” is it fair for a man to look so effortlessly good, one hand reaching up to push a set of overgrown brown curls from his forehead, hooking one particular long strand behind his ear? Rarely a fan of long locks on a man, there is something about the way he wears his head of hair, dishevelled yet, strangely, not a hair seems out of place, falling perfectly in a way that frames his sharp features. His voice fills your ears again, pulling focus down to his rosebud lips. “But, uh… If you don’t hate the pictures, I can pass them along to you.”
“If I don’t like them? Are you kidding?” Overcompensating for your frazzled nerves, your enthusiastic display as you glance down at the photograph burnt into the camera’s screen is hopefully enough to atone for your earlier sin of lying. “These are- Wow! I mean, are you a professional photographer? You should be photographing models, not working here as a tour guide-”
And now you are just overdoing it.
Because, truth be told, the picture is not even that good. You are barely in focus, the background is more pixelated than one would hope, and there is an intruding figure in the corner, the sandal-clad foot of a man who had been standing off to the side.
“You really think so?” Bucky drinks in your praise, cheeks glowing a rosy hue as he basks in your eager praise. Men really are so simple at their core, happy to believe they are overqualified in a skill they barely have at the slightest of celebration. “I was just messing with the lens, didn’t think I’d even do that good… Oh, but, actually-”
He pauses, hesitation on his face as he mulls over a thought.
You encourage him to speak his mind, eyebrows furrowing as you question him with your gaze.
“It’s just, I completely forgot, we’d have to exchange phone numbers if you’re wanting me to pass the photos on. Which I totally understand if you’re not comfortable with! I mean, I’m a man, and I’m a stranger, and-” Like he is aware of his own mouth racing off ahead of him, Bucky draws his tongue back in and tries to settle a little composure into himself, straightening his shoulder and clearing his throat. “Or we could meet somewhere in a few days, if you want a printed copy of it. Would Wednesday work for you?”
The shake of your head comes swiftly, shooting his offer down, “Sorry, I leave for Tokyo on Tuesday. But I don’t mind! Exchanging numbers, I mean.”
To the outside, you must sound like a pair of mumbling, stumbling fools. Sentences barely cohesive and rarely uninterrupted by a hum or a haw, thoughts actively unravelling as you both speak them into existence.
But a part of you can’t help feeling a certain wave of charm roll over you, an endearment that clutches at your heart and has you wondering how a man with a face like that could ever sound unsure of himself.
“Oh, in that case…” and Bucky has already taken to digging through his back-pocket, slipping a black phone into his grasp. You watch him press the power button, only to be met with the familiar sign of a dead battery: black screen, white charger symbol. “Shit, sorry. Do you mind if I type my number into your phone? Mine’s dead as a dodo right now.”
It would be rude to say no. And, really, what other choice do you have? Other than, of course, to suddenly change your mind and decide you don’t want the mediocre picture, but then that would require you to be rude. Besides, it’s not like you weren’t going to end up having his number anyway, what difference does it make if he types it in?
Your hands are scouring through your bag, searching for the familiar green of phone case well-past its sell-by date — with more bumps and scratches along its surface than a reckless teen’s first car — when you feel the violation of his stare wandering into the contents of your bag.
It doesn’t take long for you to both zero in on a familiar booklet, tucked neatly into an inner-pocket and seemingly sporting a few dog-ears.
“You kept it,” he notes, gaze still glued to The Wise Traveller, and the comment almost makes you hurl — because it’s like he knows you abandoned the other guide you purchased that day.
“Uh, yeah,” your reply comes a little more breathless than you would like, as you try not to think too hard about the engraving along the inside of the pages, the very place you had first learnt his name. “Figured you were right, back in the airport. Can’t be too careful these days.”
Then it hits you.
You’ve not even told this stranger- Bucky your name.
Here you are, a fool fumbling over words at the sight of his pretty face, freely handing over your phone for him to pluck into his own grasp and begin swiping over the screen, and you’ve yet to once offer him the appropriate politeness of sharing your name.
Only, as you finally give it up and introduce yourself, you’re met with a reply that from any man less attractive would have had you running for the hills: “Oh, I know!”
As though he can feel your wide eyes, watching him with a measured caution, Bucky is quick to fire into a chuckle and shake your phone in your direction, screen opened on your contacts and brandishing your name along the top.
“It says it right here. Cute name, by the way. Makes sense for a pretty girl like you,” thumbs swipe across your phone, numbers punched into a new contact. Meanwhile, Bucky continues to make small talk, with a smile on his face you have quickly decided comes far too easily to him — surely no one is that happy, all the time? You’re almost certain if you peel back the complex layers of reasoning behind his grin, you’d find customer service at the root of it all. “Is it any good?”
Too focused on studying his more-than-good looks, it takes you a moment and one too many slow blinks to realise he’s back on the topic of the safety guide, “Oh, uh, Yeah. It’s great. Very… safe, you know?”
Here you go again, lying for the sake avoiding the awkward conversation where you tell the very stranger — very kind stranger, mind you, who has extended you nothing but a show of good faith, a man so used to playing the role of big brother that he could not stop himself from instilling some level of safety into a lonesome woman — that you had not opened the book he had gifted you beyond that pages of his footnote. All those apparent dog-ears? Wrinkles in the book’s corners, a result of shoving the poor thing and crushing it amongst the other contents of your bag.
“Can’t be that good, surely,” guilt coats the back of your throat. You swallow it down and keep your focus on Bucky, who has finished inserting his contact details and now balances your phone between two fingers, awaiting your eventual acceptance of it back into your grasp. “Pretty sure you just broke rule number one.”
“I- What rule?”
Like a wind-up toy, Bucky clears his throat and recites with practised ease, “Never tell a stranger your travel plans.”
Your whole world goes still.
A heart that no longer beats. Lungs that no longer inflate. Hands that run cold with a nervous sweat.
Birds chirp in the distance, the noise louder than ever before. Voices, muffled as though you are submerged in water, swirl around you in an unidentifiable cluster — men, women, children; every one more monotone than the last.
It’s his laugh that pierces through the threatening haze of quiet, throaty and inviting, tickling at your own humour despite the fact you can’t seem to pinpoint what exactly is so funny about this situation.
Maybe this Bucky guy is just a little awkward, the type to fall back on laughter when he feels stifled by silence.
You don’t get the chance to investigate your sudden theory any further, for the duties of a tour guide seem to catch up to him at last. The flock of older women have swarmed him like vultures, each trying to get him to help them focus the binoculars that dangle from their necks. Before they can fully sweep him away, the handsome stranger offers you one last grin and some parting words.
“Have fun in Tokyo!”
Bondi Beach, Australia.
Like any true, modern day feminist, the last thing you enjoy doing is agreeing with a man… But Anakin Skywalker certainly made some good points against sand.
It is coarse, it is rough, it is irritating, and it does get everywhere.
Right now, it’s wedged between your hallux and index toe, irritating the skin with each step you take, grinding against the toe post of a sandal and driving the bothersome granules deeper into you. So, it’s safe to say you dive at the first sight of respite, just about throwing yourself into an empty bar stool.
Pearl Waves Beach Club is certainly a sight to behold.
A beacon of white, with floor to ceiling length windows that look out towards golden sun and aqua waters, and an overwhelming aura of wealth and excess that makes you feel less than adequate, wandering through the air-conned space clad in a burgundy two-piece bathing suit, a hastily tied shawl around your waist, and shoes that announce your every move with a harsh slap against marble flooring that echoes out into the tranquility of the beach club.
None of that matters now that you’re nestled in a seat, the lingering dampness from the ocean that still clings to your bikini bottoms now wetting the dark leather beneath it. The sticky residue of suncream has mixed with your sweat, creating an uncomfortable film atop your body, and salt has embedded itself into your scalp, doing its best into coercing you to scratch at and relieve the pinch in your skin. Despite all that, you feel nothing short of blessed, covered in the tell-tale stains of someone who has spent the better half of their day strewn upon a sandy beach and basking in the sun’s radiance, like if you lay there long enough, you will eventually evolve and gain the skill of photosynthesis.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Barely believing the vision unravelling before your very eyes, you blink twice before making a show out of rubbing your knuckles against closed eyelids. Sight readjusting to the brightness of the beach club, you find your eyes have far from deceived you: there, making his way up the length of the bar, with a dishtowel tossed over one shoulder and a pearly-white grin plastered along a clean-shaven face, is none other than your handsome stranger.
“Oh my-” Cutting yourself off before you can fully form the words, you gape at him in shock, pointer finger aimed at his direction as though you are accusing him of something — like the crime of running into you for a third time on your trip around the globe, or the more unforgivable sin of daring to look better with each run-in. Even now, the luscious locks you had admired back in Thailand chopped and traded in for a far shorter, more polished slick of dark hair, held in place by a lick of hair gel, he looks better than ever. There’s only one issue- “James?”
That is what sits engraved into his golden name tag, clipped to a black button up that sits stretched a little too tightly around his forearms.
Following your line of sight, chin near pressed to his sternum as he looks down at his chest, Bucky — or James, or whatever his name is — is flooded with a wave of red, embarrassment burning at the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“Afraid my name’s not actually as cool as something like Bucky,” his hands plant themselves on the bar, as the man positions himself directly across from you over the counter top.
Try as you might, you can’t resist the invisible magnet that draws your attention down to his arms, bare in a way they never have been before. While you want to follow the trail of veins that dance up the length of each forearm, you instead find yourself staring where politeness says you shouldn’t.
Because where you expect to find skin as golden as the one along his right arm, you find a story of pain instead. Splotches of pink paint the otherwise white skin with colour, with a shine that does not match the typical look of flesh. Where some spots appear unnaturally smooth, other flecks of tissue appear sunken in, visual marks of trauma along his left arm.
Catching yourself as you blatantly stare, regret making impact with your chest, you force yourself to meet those aqua eyes of his, watching you with the patience of someone who is beyond used to the rude — even if well intentioned— stares.
“I don’t know if cool is the right word for Bucky,” opting for diffusing with humour, you tease your handsome stranger. Though, really, maybe he is no longer a stranger. With how often fate seems to be driving you together, maybe it’s time you consider him an acquaintance. “Sounds like the stage name for one of those horses, you know? Make some noise, folks, for Bucky the Bucking Bronco!”
Mouth contradicts hand, as James struggles to contain his amusement, pouring out of him in melodies of laughter. All the while he grasps at something dramatic with his palm, colliding over where his heart sits beneath layers of cotton and flesh and bone, clutching as though you have freshly driven a dagger into him.
“Harsh! Call me a loser next time, why don’cha?” There it is again, that lilt of an accent, curving over the man’s words as he feigns offence. Palms up in defeat, Bucky shakes a chuckle out himself before pinning you under his intense stare, “Go on, tell old Loser McGee over here wha’cha want, before they kick you out for harassing an innocent bartender.”
A familiar overwhelm befalls you, leaving your stomach feeling like a led balloon as you fix your attention on the boards behind Bucky, where options upon options, upon options lay scribbled in chalk. Brands of liquor, strains of beer, every cocktail under the sun; they all sit compiled in a list so overflowing with choice, it paralyses you once again.
“I,” you drag out the sound, mouth paused and agape while you try to pick something, anything to drink… Before ultimately confessing, “Have no idea. There’s too much to choose from.”
“You’ve got a real problem making decisions, you know that?” You are almost taken aback by Bucky’s brash declaration. No matter how true it may be, you never expected the man made up of bashful smiles and shaky words to just come right out and say it like that, no tact in his choice of words that could soften the blow of reality. “Between here and that kiosk, I’m starting to worry about how you’ve been getting by without me on the rest of your trip.”
While you might have tuned your gut out nearly two months ago, she has a nasty habit of screaming her way back into the forefront of your mind. And right now, she’s screaming a tale of seduction, one where she is trying her best to convince your sharper senses that there is a flirtatious undertone behind the way Bucky cocks his head and tilts one side of his mouth up into a smirk, just waiting on your response to his teasing.
A bad habit that doesn’t die at all, apparently, you give in to the noise of your gut and try reach a place of equal footing, arms crossing over your chest and subtly squeezing your nylon clad breasts closer together, deepening the line of your cleavage.
“You don’t have to worry, James,” elbows kiss the cold of the bar counter as you shuffle closer and lean against it, ignoring the bolt of electric heat that shoots down your spine as you notice blue eyes lower from your face and fall right into your cross-armed trap. “The world’s full of handsome strangers eager to help a girl like me decide.”
“Is that so?” There’s a tick in his jaw, which you swear you witness him clench, only for him to distract you with the sight of his back muscles, straining as he turns and begins reaching for various colourful bottles you barely recognise. “Then let me be the one to decide for you today, hmm?”
An unmeasured amount of time pases with his back turned on you and your eyes attempting to peak over his shoulders, catching glimpses of how he chops at fruits, and measures liquids, and grabs at ice. Everything culminates in a grand finale of his hands grasping at two metal cups, one jammed into the other as he begins to shake, and shake, and shake.
Bucky is nothing short of peacocking, dazzling you with easy flips and twirls of the shaker, each toss more riskier than the last. Braced for breath, you half expect him to fail any moment now, make a fool of himself and send the contents of the cups spilling all down the front of him.
Surprisingly, this does not end up being the case.
Instead, you watch him turn with a smug, satisfied grin and lay a colourful concoction in front of you, decorated with a handful of fruit and a sprinkle of mint leaves.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t ask, just drink,” Bucky encourages you, two fingers pinched around the neck of the straw and guiding it to your waiting mouth. Just as you wrap your lips around the plastic, an angry yell breaks out from the opposite end of the bar, where you spot a red-faced, uniform-clad man glaring daggers at your handsome stranger- No, acquaintance's* direction. “Oh, shoot… I’ve gotta go, that’s my manager. Enjoy!”
Before disappointment at the sight of him racing off down the bar can solidify itself in your chest, you feel a rush of relief as you witness him come face-to-face with his manager — who you almost swear you witness rip Bucky’s name tag clean off his shirt — for the moment you take a sip of his cocktail, something in your stomach turns…
It might just be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever tasted.
Therme București, Romania.
“I have a new nickname for you,” your declaration is half-slurred, on account of your face being nose deep in the headrest of a massage table. “Buck-Of-All-Trades.”
A laugh you’ve grown too familiar with echoes over the zen playlist that has been filtering out of a speaker for the past thirty minutes. Incense burns in one corner, while a glass door that has long ago steamed up with the heat of the room sits on the opposite side. Melting into PVC leather, you are naked with nothing but a thin, pristine white towel to cover your most delicate areas. And, with knees that squeeze into your waist with every smooth roll of his hands along your oil-slicked back, is your handsome acquaintance.
Weeks and miles away from the events upon the Australian beach, you had walked into your much anticipated massage with one thing in mind, an apology given by a staff member after a forty minute wait: “The original masseuse you booked with has fallen sick, so we have matched you up with one of our newer experts. Thank you for your patience!”
Had you admittedly been a little frustrated? Well, yes!
Had that very same frustration evaporated the moment you watched Bucky step into the room, hair a little fluffier than before and sporting a five o’clock shadow? Well… Yes!
“Hmm, how so?” Like he is trying to torture you, there is a certain strain of exertion in James’ voice, a sound that pairs with the relaxing roll of his palms up the length of your back as perfectly as red wine goes with steak.
“Because,” half the word collapses into a breathy sigh as you feel the tips of his fingers press into a knot. One third of the way down your spine, burrowed beneath the point of your right shoulder blade, he sniffs it out like a police dog sent to find drugs. “Every time I see you, you have a new job.”
You leave out the part where this is the first one you’ve witnessed him be good at.
In a way, you’ve grown fond of that less-than-perfect photograph he captured of you on Dragon Crest. With a view so ethereal, it would be selfish to think anything as cheap and measly as a camera could dare capture it in all it’s glory.
And his cocktail, though far from drinkable, had certainly looked beautiful, brandished all over your Instagram story and paired with the perfect caption: Custom cocktail from a handsome bartender <3
Tony definitely had not reacted well.
You happily left his messages on read, his demands for your return abandoned to the void of your chat.
“That’s not a very nice nicknames though, doll,” a tut comes from behind you, and it takes just about every inch of will you own inside your body to not raise your head and glance back. The fear of not surviving the sight of Bucky, thick thighs spread and arm muscles rippling under his repeated touching along your naked back, is what really holds you in place. “Ain’t the rest of that sayin’ meant to imply I have no real skills? Master of none?”
With a dismissive wave of your hand and a relaxed shh, you sink deeper — if that is even possible — into the massage table, swallowing back a pleasured moan as his thumbs begin working at the knot.
“You men are all the same,” you mumble before you can think better of it, sighing as you close your eyes and visualise a montage of Tony and all his nagging words. “Can’t just take a damn compliment, always gotta turn it into an argument.”
“‘S that so?”
“Yes, that is so.”
Like he feels your breath hitch at a particular pressure, he reinforces it, thumb pressing right where you need him to, “You’re speaking from experience, I take it.”
A groan fires out of you, half because you are frustrated under the reminders of Tony that swirl around in your mind and half because there is an embarrassing rush of blood shooting straight for your core with every roll of his fingers, a slow pulse making itself known between your legs that practically begs you to grind down into the hardened leather. But you don’t, because you can’t.
Because that would be wrong.
Because that would violate Bucky’s trust and safety as a professional.
Because he would feel it the moment you even dare try, his own groin all but resting against your lower half.
“Too much experience,” you manage a response, finally. “My ex-boyfriend… Actually, I can’t even call him that. But anyway, he was the worst.”
“Oh yeah?” He passively replies with the very words you want to chant as his fingers skim and find another knot to undo, unknowingly undoing other parts of you too.
“Y-yeah,” you sigh, shoulders rolling back as you squirm and try to get comfortable, despite the slick forming between your thighs. “He used to argue with me, all the time. And he wasn’t afraid to get mean with it.”
“What a jerk.”
“Yeah, he is a jerk,” much like your body needed the physical therapy of steady hands loosening all your muscles, your mind is basking in the healing nature of finally trashing a man who had made you feel so inadequate, you had to run halfway across the earth just to escape your scorned heart. “Do you know-” a rhetorical question, for poor Bucky has absolutely no idea who you are talking about, “He couldn’t even drive 10 minutes to come pick me up once? My clutch broke and I had no way to get to work, and he complained when I asked him for a favour. He literally works down the street from me!”
“Jesus, darling,” he follows it up with a low whistle, just in time to cover up the faintest huff of a moan pushed from your mouth. “No wonder you’re so tense, dealin’ with boys like that.”
As good as the validation feels, to have a voice outside of your head paying testament to your woes and sympathising with your troubles, you are still plighted by the cruel torture of thinking too much about Tony at once. And, so, you cut the conversation short, drag it someplace else.
“What’s your story, then?”
Hands pause along your back, mapping over the skin like Bucky is searching for the next tweak to undo in your spine. Finding one quicker than you expect, he sinks his touch back into you and matches your question with his own, “Who says I have a story?”
“Oh, come on,” the effect the massage is having on you grows harder to suppress with each passing moment. “You don’t travel the world, working every job under the sun, and not have a story!”
Mask slipping a little too far, a moan crawls its way from out your chest. It is nothing dramatic, a simple hum of affirmation, a noise that says yes, keep going without you needing to part your lips.
“Okay, okay, I’ll give you my story,” Bucky is likely paying you some kindness, refusing to acknowledge the noise that just left you.
Never have you been more relieved to be in his presence. Then again, the more you think about it, his presence tends to be accompanied by relief: saving you from choosing at the kiosk, sparing you from the silence of the mountain, rescuing you from the threat of dehydration at the bar.
You catch the next hum before it can make too much noise, a subtle squeeze of your thighs relieving the burn between your thighs if only for a moment.
“I was a smart kid but I never really had any direction in life. No big burning passion, you know?” You nod into the headrest, then nearly laugh as you imagine what you must look like from his point of view right now. “So when my friend Steve showed up one day and told me he was enlisting in the military, it was like the universe handed me a task. I mean, when I say this kid was scrawny, I mean he looked one gust of wind away from being swept away to the land of Oz.”
Laughing is a mistake that only leads to a broken moan, his thumbs once again pressing just right.
“Stop that,” Bucky scolds softly, reinforcing the pressure behind his touch like he is trying to coax you into letting the noise fully form, let your pleasure perforate the calm room. “‘S just you, me, and the incense in here. I promise no one’s gonna judge you, so sing your little heart out. Let’s me know I’m doing a good job.”
Latch unlocked, permission granted; it’s embarrassing how quick you are to obey. Hypnotised by his words, you find your lips parting with permanence, throat relenting and becoming a vehicle for your pleasure, the zen playlist quickly becoming a backing track to your gentle moans.
“There we go. Isn’t that nice? Lettin’ loose, letting yourself feel good?” When had his hands reached so low, fingertips dancing along the hem of the white towel strewn along your lower back? “I quickly learned I liked the military. I was good at it. The routine, the demanding physicality, the yes, sir, yes and all the other stupid things they make you chant.”
It damn near gives you whiplash how easily James slips back into relaying his story to you, voice void of a previous layer of sultriness and now coated by something more careful, something practised. The monotony of a story told one too many times and perfected to hit all the right story beats to keep his listener engaged.
“But then there was an accident,” for the first time since he planted himself atop your back, the hitch in your breath is caused by something other than his tender touch. Memories of his left arm, scar tissues wrapped around him like vine, suddenly hits you. “I pissed some guys off, got one too many push ups handed to them by pointing out their misdemeanours to our superiors. I don’t remember how the prank was actually meant to play out but, next thing I know, I’m waking up to my bed sheets on fire and the feeling of death clawing up my arm. And that was that. A month in hospital, many more months in physical therapy. I quit the military, so did Steve.”
It feels selfish to moan right then, but Bucky only seems to light up at the sound, massaging deeper into the tissue of your back, relishing in your vocal praises.
“Then,” his pause is for dramatic effect. “I just sat and felt sorry for myself. For months. It was more excruciating than the pain, that boredom. It felt like I lost my life, even though I was still alive and fully intact, save for the scars left behind by the fire. And… I don’t know. There’s really only so long you can do that before you have to get up and go. Do something again. I just decided to do everything. Everywhere I want to go, I go. Every job I want to try, I apply. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I get rejected? I guarantee that’s less pain that what’s going on in my arm.”
Though your reasons are far smaller, far less visible, the scarring along your heart feels seen by Bucky’s words.
The massage finishes far sooner than you would like.
Bucky at last gets a chance to dismiss himself from you without some outside source dragging him away, giving you just enough time to suspect there’s hesitation in his voice, as he draws out his goodbye before exiting the massage room and leaving you to re-dress.
Bones turned to jelly, heart a little lighter too, you’re too blissed out to care that your underwear has gone missing, no longer stuffed neatly into the pocket of your trousers.
Nonno Gio’s Cooking Class, Italy.
You realise too little too late that you’ve fallen for a tourist trap.
Because Nonno Gio, who you expect to embody the essence of Italy, turns out to be a middle-aged American man who seemingly has watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos. A golden chunk of chain sits clasped around his bright red neck, and his accent is plucked right out of New Jersey.
It’s a little too hard to lament the loss of a few hundred euros, however, while watching your cooking partner whisk away at a selection of dry and wet ingredients… Particularly because the cooking partner in question is your handsome friend — yes, he has received an upgrade in titles — Bucky.
“We seriously need to stop meeting like this,” had been his version of a greeting, shoulders shaking and mouth laughing with disbelief as he watched you saunter up to the very cooking station he had been assigned. “It’s starting to get creepy.”
“Creepy?” You echoed, throwing an apron over your head, at last standing by his side. “If me stalking you all across the globe is creepy then, sure James, I’m creepy!”
Taking charge, Bucky leaves you to laugh at your own silly joke while his hands grasp at the strings of your apron. Pulling the fabric flush against your front, guarding the pretty pale yellow of your sundress from any dusting of flour or splashes of liquid, he threads the strings into a tight bow and punctuates the action by smoothing his hands over your hips, undoing a ruffle that has formed along your waist.
The entire class is a practice in patience, a way to prove to yourself just how good your ability to endure has become.
Because Bucky is an example of visual torture.
Floppy hair that falls over his eyes as he concentrates on chopping onions, a single tear slipping down his cheek. You take a deep breath and force your hands to focus on your own task, instead of brushing the locks from his face.
Muscles that ripple beneath the confines of a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and light cotton sitting loose around his bicep, just see-through enough to grant you the view how toned they are. He kneads at the pizza dough, meanwhile you need three stabilising breaths to calm your less than kitchen-friendly thoughts.
Sharp cheekbones, one side sporting the delicate swipe of flour staining his tanned skin, right where he foolishly wiped away an invisible bit of lint without fully washing his hands. You want to laugh at the sight, or to lick the pad of your thumb and swipe the powder away, but you are too busy reeling from those same flour-covered fingers grasping at your chin, tilting your eyes up to meet his blue ones, and smudging your own cheek with flour.
“There,” he mutters, cool as a cucumber and nowhere near as affected as you. “We’re matching, Now we look like a real team.”
It’s after you both ship off your pizza into the specialised oven, with Bucky insisting you both grasp at the peel and feed your wonky masterpiece, possessing a shape closer to a square than a circle, in together, that you finally feel yourself lose the ability to trap your tongue, mouth flying off to speak your thoughts before you can swallow the words back down.
“This might sound insane, so feel free to call me crazy,” is always a promising, stable way of starting a sentence. It is truly a miracle the handsome man entertains your wording with an endeared smile. “But I feel like there is a reason behind why we keep running into each other. Like… Like the universe is pushing me in your direction, you know? I mean, what are the chances?”
Silence.
The other members of the cooking class chatter around you both, but you don’t hear them, too focused on the fragile bubble that surrounds you and Bucky.
“You’re crazy,” straight to the point, monotone voice and deadpanned stare. It’s safe to say James does not give you the answer you were expecting… At least not immediately. But then the tension on the surface of his face cracks and he breaks out into an easy smile, something similar to relief swimming in the pools of his eyes. “But I’m glad you said it, ‘cause I’ve been thinking the same thing. For a while now.”
Despite the hazard lights flashing from within your gut, screaming warnings at you to not repeat previous mistakes, to not hand a man the ability to make a fool out of you, you take a leap of faith and pray this time you don’t wind up weeping with your knees pressed into the floor — there’s not even a carpet to soften the blow this time.
“I leave for France tomorrow,” this time, you share your plans knowing full well it is the number one rule in The Wise Traveller not to. You justify this violation of safety with the fact Bucky is no longer a stranger. He is your friend, right? “I’ll be in Bordeaux. You know, in case you’re struggling to pick where you’re going next. I wouldn’t mind the company.”
Thankfully, Bucky is better at cooking than he is at mixology, and when the pair of you tuck into your less-than-authentic Italian pizza, you’re suddenly thankful you fell for Nonno Gio’s tourist trap.
How else would you have (possibly, maybe) scored a friendly date in Bordeaux?
Super-Bass Club, Greece.
The nightclub’s name is far from an exaggeration: you can feel the bass infiltrating your heartbeat.
Or maybe it’s not the bass, but adrenaline; kicking in and raising your heart rate.
The straps of your heels dig painfully into the skin around your ankles, rubbing them raw and no doubt drawing blood to the blistered surface. Every hurried step forces you to tug down the hem of your dress, riding up under the force of your strides. Sweat stings at your eyes and bodies swarm all around you, swaying out of tune to a DJ who loves his job a little too much, despite the fact he can barely succeed at a simple cross-fade into the next track.
At the very least, you suppose, the DJ is playing the club classics, the records that never fail to get a crowd screaming out the lyrics at the top of their lungs. It’s his only saving grace.
Safety lays ahead, a beacon of light shinning from where the exit to the club sits, new bodies spilling into the venue while all you want to do is escape.
A hand around your wrist halts you, drags you back with a squeal before you can dive out the doors.
You don’t have to turn to know it’s him, the very same stranger who has been harassing you for the past half hour, unwilling to take the hint of your side-eyes and disapproving glares as he attempted, time and time again, to grind up against you on the dance floor. While at first you had tried to flee subtly, it quickly became obvious that rejection was not something the bull-headed man took well.
The moment your footsteps had sped up across the floor, he began pursuing after you.
And now he’s caught you, a wriggling fish trapped in the painful hook of his hand. He wastes no time, another set of fingers reaching to roughly grab at your face, tilt your face up to his, and-
A scuffle ensues, one that you seem to be trapped in the middle of; a tug of war where one hand is dragging you towards your pursuer and another two, more careful, are prying you backwards.
Two trumps one, without a doubt, but not without the aid of a third set of hands, this time clamping down around the assailant’s wrist in a painful grip and ripping the unwanted hand off of you, arm twisting unnaturally as your third defender pins the stranger’s hand behind his back. Through the shock of it all, you barely register the other four hands dropping their grasp from you, nor the pair of security that grapple with the man responsible for your shaky hands and jackhammer heart.
You manage to concentrate enough to notice him, however, relinquishing his hold of the stranger to his fellow bouncers and approaching you with the caution of a scared lamb, blue eyes wider than ever before as they frantically search over your body for signs of injury.
“Are you okay? Does anywhere hurt?” Bucky — like every time before — looks better than the last time you saw him. Beard fuller, hair softer, worried face a reflection for the swirling neon lights around you both. Dressed from head to toe in black, a splash of white sits across his chest in the bold shape of SECURITY. “See, doll? This is why you need to be more careful, hmm. Where’s that guide I bought you?”
Tuning out the condescension, filtering it through a part of your brain that registers his words as only the worried rambling of someone concerned about their friend, you take to answering his first questions instead.
“I’m fine,” your voice sounds miles away to you, lost in the crowd along with the rest of the drunken fools. The buzz of alcohol has long simmered away within you, nothing but a static flatline remaining that leaves you tasting bile and wanting your bed — not the bed in your hostel, your bed, back home, where the sheets still smell like Tony. “Just my wrist hurts.”
That is enough to kick Bucky into gear, and the next thing you know, you’re sat outside the club atop a plastic chair, ice pack pressed to your skin, a jacket wrapped around your shoulders, and Bucky crouching by your feet.
A soft crack rings out into the Grecian night as he twists the lid off a bottle of water, offering it up to your lips and gifting an approving nod as he watches your throat bob, swallowing down a few sips.
“Your taxi should be here in ten minutes,” Bucky keeps his voice to barely a whisper, afraid to startle you. If you weren’t still so shaken, or stewing in a frustration towards him you thought you had got over weeks ago, you would laugh and point out the still very audible thump of Greece’s shittiest DJ entertaining the masses back inside the club. “I’m sorry… About that man. He’s been- Dealt with. Banned for life, no doubt, that’s what usually happens with-”
“Why didn’t you come?” Your question seems to hurt him more than the pain in your wrist, eyebrows furrowing and gentle smile slipping into an almost pout. “I waited. I thought I would hear from you. But you never came, and I explored Bordeaux alone.”
Knees kissing the dirtied ground, Bucky leans closer and perches his hands on your naked thighs, inches from where your dress rests around your legs, “Did you want me to come?”
“I told you I would be there.”
“That’s not the same as asking me to go,” he kisses those pearly teeth with a hiss, adjusting his grip on your legs and glancing over his shoulder, like he’s waiting for a taxi to finally pull up to the club’s entrance. Is he that desperate to see you leave? “I know you’re used to snapping your fingers and getting what you want, but I’m not that easy. Gotta use your words, baby. I can’t read minds, can only do as much as you ask of me.”
Intoxicated by his cologne, by the alcohol in your veins, by the sudden waft of cigarette smoke blown your way from bystanders to the left, there is suddenly only one question on your mind for Bucky… What a shame you speak it out loud.
“Would you kiss me?”
No further questioning is needed.
Bucky moves lazily, hand reaching up to grasp at your cheek. A thumb swipes over the swell of it, before steady fingers press your head to tilt it down to give him easier access to your mouth, pushing up from the ground to take possession of you.
His lips are soft, pressing carefully against your own. Bucky lets you take the lead, moving at whatever pace you set. At first slow, tentative, memorising the shape of his mouth against yours. And then desperate, lips widening with each smack and tongues reaching to taste each other.
Car horns blare, strangers chatter, and the bass continues to thump obnoxiously under the command of the DJ, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is Bucky, kissing you with equal fervour, groaning into your mouth as you sigh against him. The taste of mint hits your tongue, remnants of gum he had long ago chewed.
Your own wandering hands ruin the fun, gliding down the stretch of his black top and hooking two fingers beneath his belt, dragging him closer as you mutter, “There’s a spare bed back at my hostel.”
Disappointed does not even begin to cover what you are feeling when Bucky pulls back, head shaking and hands grasping at your wrists, prying your touch from off of him. Before you can feel the shame of rejection, though, he’s pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and offering you an apology.
“I’m not the kind of guy who sleeps with a girl in your state, doll,” his hands take to tightening his jacket around your shoulders, a sudden gust of wind filling the night with a chill that runs right through you. You shiver for a whole other reason, however, when Bucky’s breath hits the shell of your ear as he mumbles into it, “Besides, I want you remembering every second of our first night together, not some drunken blur.”
Your taxi arrives quicker than you would like.
Bucky walks you over to it, holding the door open for you all the while he spills out directions in Greek to the driver. Only as he goes to slam the door shut do you remember the weight of his jacket around your shoulders, hand shooting out to pause the door.
“Wait! Here, your jacket,” you drunkenly exclaim, trying to unwind yourself from the warmth of him around you.
But Bucky is already shaking his head, hands insisting on tightening the fabric back around you, “Where are you going next, after Greece?”
You answer without hesitation, because Bucky is not a stranger.
He’s not even a friend.
He’s a man you almost just dragged to bed.
“Portugal.”
“Okay then. Give it back to me in Portugal,” with a slap of his hand atop the roof of the car, Bucky throws you one last grin before shutting the door on you, a single promise kissing your eardrums and setting your heart aflame the rest of the drive back to your hostel: “I’ll call you!”
Prisioneiro do Mar Hotel, Portugal
Bucky keeps his promise.
Calls you the next morning, arranges to meet with you in Portugal, wishes you a safe flight and even tells you that you looked beautiful the night before, even if deep-down you know you looked a mess after your run-in with the handsy stranger.
It is you who messes up this time.
“Bucky, I’m so, so sorry,” your apologies are almost as frantic as your hands, riffling through another suitcase and dumping piles upon piles of your clothing onto the hotel room floor.
The entire room is a mess, clothes strewn across just about every surface imaginable and every cupboard has been pried apart — even the safe lays with it’s door wide open, showing off your collection of jewellery to any wandering eyes.
How fortunate that the only other eyes in the room are Bucky’s, who stands by the foot of the bed and is trying his best to soothe your panic.
He’s not doing a very good job.
“I swear to you, I packed it. I remember packing it!” You, admittedly, are not the most sound of mind in this moment. A weight sits on your chest, heavy heart making every breath feel harder. Sweat gathers at the base of your neck, dampening the licks of hair at the back of your head. And, no matter how hard you try not to think about, memories of Tony are running on repeat in your mind. “God! I’m such a fucking idiot- I… How do you even lose a jacket?!”
Tearing through another bag, you’re none the wiser to Bucky as he inches closer to you, weaving his boot clad feet through empty spaces in the floor that don’t possess your clothing, unwilling to stain your pretty dresses with his footprint.
Your cheeks are overrun by tears in the blink of an eye. Angry, rotten little things that track rivers down your skin and drip all over the open bag you are kneeling over. Soft hands meet your shoulders, cradling them just as they begin to shake under the violent sobs that rack through your chest.
More than anything, you are embarrassed to be causing such a scene, especially when Bucky seems so unaffected by the loss of his jacket.
“Hey, hey,” his voice is practically a gentle coo, while his hands are dragging your body upright off the floor and forcing you to face him. “No need to cry, doll.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” this apology comes with a fresh wave of tears. At the very least you’re able to laugh, even if only a little, at your mess of a state, painfully aware that your understanding of his words does not pair well with the tears tracking down your cheeks. “I just- I can’t help it- Can’t stop them from falling. Think it’s some- Trauma response, or something.”
Breathing becomes a struggle as your chest pulls tight, lungs squeezing out every drop of air you attempt to feed them with. All the while, Bucky watches you with caring eyes, a pout nearly overcoming his pretty lips while he tries help you syncopate your breathing with his, hand pressing your own to his chest and forcing you to feel every strong inhale and easy exhale he makes.
“It’s just Tony. I remember it, this one time,” you speak in fragments, stretches of sentences huffed out with each breath, a little less shaky than the last under Bucky’s guidance. “I lost one of his shirts… Or he left it at someone else’s apartment, one of his other fuck buddies. Anyway, he didn’t react well. He was screaming at me, for hours, calling me useless, and stupid, and- God. Sorry, this just-”
“Stop apologising,” Bucky wipes away a tear before it can even fall, lets it stain his finger while he continues to soothe it over your cheek, big blue eyes commanding you to relax under their stare. Far away from Tony, he wants you to remember where you are: in a hotel room, in Portugal, with him. “Don’t have to worry, doll. ‘M not gonna yell at you.”
You thank him softly, let yourself lean forward and collapse into his arms, emotional exhaustion taking grip of your soul as your forehead meets his shoulder.
Bucky holds you like you are made of porcelain, hands barely daring to fully cup at your body as you press yourself against him.
When he hums, you feel it run right through you.
“‘Cause I know you’ll make it up to me, won’t you? I can trust you to make it right, can’t I?”
Nodding a little too frantically, nervous energy still coursing through your veins, you pull back just enough to look him in his darkening eyes, “Of course! There’s a mall not far from here, we can go and find a replacement for the jacket.”
But you’re not even finished talking when Bucky starts to shake his head, one hand flattening itself atop your shoulder and applying pressure. You’re already halfway to the floor when you realise the man is guiding you onto your knees, heartbeat beginning to pick up for a whole other reason than some stupid, misplaced jacket.
“That jacket was one of a kind, baby,” his statement confuses you. You could have sworn it carried a label from H&M on the inside. Or had you misread it, mistaken a luxury brand for something a little more familiar to you? “You don’t seriously think some small town mall’s gonna have anything worth apologising with, do you?” You shake your head without even realising, too busy watching the way his spare hand has fallen over his belt. “No, exactly. ‘S better you put your money where your mouth is instead, give me a proper apology.”
The entire act of his fingers undoing his belt, while the others slip from your shoulder and travel up to flatten themselves atop your scalp, bitten fingernails scrapping over the roots of your hair, it feels like the antithesis to everything you’ve ever enjoyed before.
With Tony, things were fast-paced yet fairly vanilla. He never wanted to draw out the experience, make his movements linger until you find yourself on the very precipice of needy, mouth watering at just the sight of a happy trail.
Which is exactly the state you’re in now, watching with anticipation as the man towering over you unthreads his belt and loosens the button of his jeans. The sound of a zip being undone fills the hotel room, reverberating off the walls of your skull and having a Pavlovian effect over you, thighs involuntarily squeezing in search of friction at the thought of what Bucky hides beneath his quickly-disappearing layers.
As it turns out, he’s hiding a lot. More than you expect.
You’re no expert in size, guesstimating that he’s definitely an inch or two over what most men possess. The tip of his cock is an angry red, crowned by a bead of pre-cum dripping from the slit and slipping over the curve of a mushroomed head. While you’ve never been a great aficionado of the male genitalia, something in you feels entranced, suddenly more than willing to sit here all day and just study the shape of Bucky.
Unfortunately, you are barely granted a few seconds to admire before the hand on your head is pulling you forward, closer, until you have no choice but to part your lips and make space for him.
“There we go,” Bucky, eyes more overblown by pupil than the pretty blue you have grown accustomed to, sighs out with guttural relief, head falling back as his hips give the smallest of juts forward into your mouth, feeding himself deeper. “God, don’t you just look gorgeous, huh? Pretty lips stretched round my cock, shit. Gonna need to relax your jaw.”
Caught under his spell, you’re left with no autonomy to stop yourself from obeying his every command, jaw falling lax and tongue flattening itself beneath the weight of his dick as he gives another roll of his hips, this one a little deeper and teasing at your gag reflex. This seems to delight the man, eyes lighting up momentarily as you choke on the beginning of a gag.
“Now, you want to make it up to me, don’t you?” Your attempt to nod just makes him laugh, biting back a groan as he feels your tongue drag over the underside of his length. “Then what I need you to for me is just sit there, keep your mouth open, and let me use your throat. Can you do that for me, doll?”
This time, you don’t try to nod. Instead, you hum affirmatively around his tip, relishing in the slight wave of power you feel as his eyes roll back and he instinctively thrusts into your mouth.
He starts with careful movements, barely-there rolls and ruts that press his cock a little heavier against your tongue with every one he makes. Tears still drying into your skin, it’s hard to tell if the slight salty tang invading your tongue is from you or him, precum mixing in with your excess of saliva.
The wetter your mouth grows under the invasion of him, your cunt rushes to match, slick turning your panties sticky and uncomfortable as you shift weight from one thigh to the other. A friction that Bucky cruelly cuts off, a disapproving tut coming moments before he nudges one foot between your legs and forces them apart, leaving nothing but the cool air of the hotel room to kiss your soaked underwear, a feeling so uncomfortable, it has you wishing you could peel them off.
“Uh-uh, no,” Bucky protests at the way your eyes squeeze shut, a pleasured pain shooting through your throat as he slowly begins to fuck deeper into your mouth. With deeper, faster is always soon to follow, until barely a moment or two seems to pass between the gargled sounds of his head hitting the back of your throat, forcing spit to slip past the corners of your lips and to drip down your chin, spilling all over the pretty colours of your blouse. “Want you watching me, doll. Want those pretty eyes on me when I fill this-ngh. This fucking tight throat.”
Bucky does as Bucky says, hot ropes of salty, thick cum spurting out to coat the back of your throat, tainting your mouth in a pearly whiteness that mixes with your spit, a messy string of fluids connecting your lips to his cock even as he pulls it free from your lips.
Before you can think too long, notice how he’s not even softened after spilling his seed all over your tongue, you’re busy being pulled back onto your feet and forced to welcome Bucky back into your mouth, this time his own tongue meeting yours. He hums in approval, swallowing back the flavour of himself all over your mouth, physical evidence of how easily he has claimed you as his.
So easily, you’ve barely even realised.
“Keep your mouth open,” Bucky mutters, thumb swiping over your lower lip and invading your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as you watch Bucky feed a string of his own spit onto your taste buds. Thumb retreating and pushing up against your chin, forcing your teeth to knock together, his instruction is simple, “Swallow.”
How you get from the messy floor to the messy bed, you’re not sure.
You’re even less sure how you wind up naked in the blink of an eye, panties tugged off by Bucky with an almost disapproving look, like the sight of them offended him.
Planted directly across from the bed stands a full length mirror, angled perfectly for you to watch as Bucky, his large frame engulfing you from behind, guides your thighs to part and puts your soaked cunt on display both of you to watch in the reflective glass, chest heaving so hard your breasts bounce with each breath.
Never have you felt so desperate, so warm, so in need of someone to put you out of your misery and give you the satisfaction of their touch. And Bucky seems to be aware of this, for he is torturing you, dragging lazy fingers down the stretch of your thighs and laughing in a way that is nothing short of mocking as a shiver runs through you and you squirm.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he’s talking more to himself than you, thumb ghosting over your clit and quickly evading as you attempt to grind down on the feeling. “Such a needy, desperate little thing. Perfect for me, aren’t you?”
You’re mid-nod when you’re forced into a pathetic yelp of, “Yes!” as Bucky’s palm slaps down against your cunt, nerve-tingling pain than soon melts into pleasure.
“When I ask, you answer, okay?” Three fingers rub at the raw skin of your cunt, two more slaps having preceded his warning. “Verbally, properly. You understand?”
You almost nod, until you think better of it, “Yes, Bucky.”
“Good girl,” his simple praise should not send your heart into arrest. But then maybe there is a lot about this situation that should not be playing out the way it is. “Now, eyes on the mirror, doll. Want you watch as I spread you open on my cock.”
Eyesight trained forward, you see the brief flash of his fingers lining his dick up against your wet hole, before he thrusts right in to the hilt and steals the air right out your lungs. One hand by your hips, the other wraps around the front to grasp at one of your tits, large hand staking claim over the entire swell of it and giving a teasing squeeze. It is hardly comfortable, pressing against the breast tissue, yet you find yourself enjoying it all the same, back arching into his touch.
Between your legs, visual sin is on display, a repeated back-and-forth motion of Bucky dragging his cock out of you a little further each time, light catching on the way your arousal clings to him in a wet sheen, before he buries himself back inside. At the base of your abdomen, right where your untrustworthy gut should sit, a shadow lingers beneath your skin, the faintest shape of him pushing up against your flesh.
“Look at us, doll,” ditching your breast, his hand grasps at your chin, stabilising your attention back on the mirror after you let yourself tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Do you like what you see? I’m everywhere, taking over you. Aww that’s it, cry all pretty for me again.”
Tears are slipping down your cheeks, overwhelm overcoming you at his words, his touch, his stare. Bucky really is everywhere, consuming you and grounding you all at once, a steady figure at your back that the universe sent you, no doubt an apology for whatever the hell Tony was.
“Bucky,” his name has never sounded so pathetic, falling from your lips in the shape of a whine, toes curling against his calves as he deepens the angle of his thrusts. Once again, the deeper it goes, the faster it grows, the soft echo of skin slapping against skin beginning to play out in the room.
“I know, baby, I know. We look so pretty, don’t we? Here,” you almost whine when one of his hands abandons you, but he silences you with the other diving between your legs, thumb effortlessly finding your clit and gifting it some much needed attention. “Take some pictures, doll. Told you I want our first time to be memorable, so go on and give us something to look back on.”
Your first thought isn’t that his phone is no longer black like you remember, this one red and sporting scratches along the back.
People change phones all the time, right?
Besides, who has time to notice silly details, when Bucky is back to touching you all over, both hands claiming parts of your skin?
Screen already unlocked, you try your best to steady your shaky thumb, guiding it up to the Recent Apps tab and attempting to press the camera icon… But Bucky just so happens to deliver a particularly spine-arching thrust, tip budging right against the spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and your thumb presses on a familiar purple square before you can stop it.
And then your heart stops.
Bucky stops too, physically coming to a halt as he registers what exactly you’re staring at on his phone screen, “Well, shit.”
There, on his screen, sit two profile icons hovering over the same spot on a Life360 map: your picture, and Bucky’s.
And, try as you might to convince yourself, you know you never granted him permission to your location, never even got a notification of him attempting to befriend you on the app.
Bile stings at your throat. Your stomach drops to your knees. And, much to your own disappointment, your cunt pulses around his stilled member, buried inside you.
“There, that’s the solo-traveller look you asked me about,” Bucky somehow seems unshaken by your discovery, chuckling with near satisfaction as he watches your eyes focus back on the mirror ahead of you, stare wide and mouth paralysed with… “Fear, like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“James, what the hell is-”
“Shh,” he hushes you with both his mouth and his hips, grinding the head of his cock against you. Despite the situation at hand, you cannot deny the way your body physically reacts to him, walls squeezing around his cock and a moan slipping through the cracks of your frowning lips. “Thought we weren’t going to yell at each other, doll.”
“That was before I found out you’ve been stalking me!”
“Stalking is a little harsh. Watching over you sounds nicer, don’t you think?” He asks, like the wording drastically changes the result of his actions. Both hands are on your hips now, tilting them as he continues earlier ministrations, a slow roll of his own that are meant to distract you from the gut-wrenching revelation. “You were so eager to hand over your phone in Thailand, remember? You were practically begging me to add you on Life360. Bet you just wanted that comfort of knowing someone responsible was watching over you, huh?”
Did you beg? Had you mentioned the app to him at any point?
Months past, so many things happening between then and now, you are struggling to remember. Maybe Bucky is telling a version of the truth you’ve simply forgotten.
“We both know how bad you are at asking for what you want, baby. Was it so wrong of me to help you?” Warmth pooling in your spine, you barely even register the way you begin to wind back against him, bodies moving in perfect, effortless harmony as he begins fucking you properly again. “Could see it, how badly you wanted me but you just wouldn’t dare ask. Was it so wrong of me to give us a little man-made fate?”
That word almost pulls you out his trance, memories of how vulnerable you had felt confessing it back to him Italy flooding back in. And all along it had just been him, not the universe, following in your footsteps and manipulating your encounters.
Like he can feel the shadow of doubt creeping back over you, Bucky reinforces his sweet talking, mouth momentarily latching onto your earlobe and delivering a gentle scrape of teeth that forces you to listen.
“I mean, think of everything I’ve done just to have you, doll. Think of how far I was willing to travel, just for the chance to see you,” the worst thing is, it’s working. You can feel your resolve slipping, will giving into him the closer you’re moved towards the crescendo of your orgasm. “Meanwhile, Tony couldn’t even drive 10 minutes down the street for you. Is that what you think you deserve, baby? Someone who puts no effort into being yours?”
You give a nod, or a shake, or a something of your head, teeth clamping down on your lower lip as finally the first waves of your orgasm roll over you. Thighs shaking, yet he holds you steady against him.
Could you be steady, with him? Is that something Bucky can bring you?
No more crying on carpeted flooring, no more questioning where you stand in someone’s life, no more waking up to find your late night companion already gone.
“When I ask, I expect answers.”
You swallow back the ball in your throat, force away the doubt and the fear and the panic, and give into the warmth of his hands.
The same hands that orchestrated your fate, placed you in one another’s path. Isn’t that what you had been waiting for all along, to be chosen by someone?
“No,” the moment the two letter word leaves you, you feel him spill into your womb, groaning loud and proud into your ear. “I think I deserve you, Bucky.”
Bodies move languidly, collapsing into one another atop the bed, clothing strewn all around you from your earlier worries.
Your head meets Bucky’s chest, where a heart beats rapidly beneath the confines of flesh and bone.
His left arm curls around your naked body, dragging you impossibly closer. You cringe ever so slightly as you feel his cum spill out onto your inner thigh, all the while Bucky’s hand soothes the top of your head, lulling you to let yourself relax into him and let your eyes slip shut, accepting the way he cages you in.
“You do, baby. Deserve all of me. And you can have that, if you let me have all of you.”
+ extra hyde!
· guys i'm being so fr, do not do anything the reader did in this fic. y'all are too precious to wind up being the subject of a netflix documentary.
· and before anyone comments that the reader has no self respect... well, yes! that is the plot. subject is very much aware <3
· no but why did any of my friends encourage me to write this silly fic??
Summary - Back home for the Fourth of July, the long-running flirtation between you and Bucky Barnes explodes. What starts as playful taunts and heated glances turns into a night of secret, desperate passion by the lake and dock.
Warnings - MDNI! Pure Smut, age gap, p in v, creampie, use of pet name (brat, cockslut, doll, baby) loads of teasing, dads friend, cheating, dirty talk, strong language, size kink, stomach bulge from size, nipple play, m recieving, f recieving, risky semi public sex, fingering
Writers notes - no proof read or word count, sorry for not posting in a while been on holiday this was a quick little one shot I wrote by the pool! It is a long one grab a snack☀️
New York in July smells like hot asphalt, cut grass, and salt from the Hudson. You’d driven down from Boston the night before, your small apartment and quiet classroom feeling miles away as you pulled into your parents’ driveway. The 4th of July meant backyard barbecues, too many burgers, and the whole neighborhood turning out for fireworks later.
And it also meant Bucky Barnes.
He’d been your dad’s friend for as long as you could remember—tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy, crooked smile and eyes that always seemed to hold a little too much attention when they landed on you. He was older, sure, but that never stopped the way your stomach flipped whenever he was near. He’d always been flirty, too—light, teasing comments, lingering glances, touches to your arm or shoulder that lasted just a beat too long. You’d never acted on it, never said a word, but you’d carried that quiet crush well into your late twenties, even after moving away to teach in Boston.
Tonight, the backyard was alive. Music hummed from speakers, laughter drifted over the fence, and everyone was well into their drinks. Bucky was there, his wife chatting with your mom near the grill, but every so often you’d catch him looking your way, and the heat would rise in your cheeks.
Later, when most people had drifted inside or wandered off to watch fireworks from the street, you stayed back. You pulled a folding chair close to the crackling fire pit, popped open a cold beer, and leaned back, letting the warmth seep into your skin.
Footsteps crunched on the grass behind you, and you didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.
“Look at you,” Bucky said, his voice low and rough around the edges, carrying that familiar teasing lilt. He dragged another chair over and settled in beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched. “All grown up and sitting here with a beer. You sure you’re old enough for that?”
You huffed a laugh, turning your head to meet his gaze. The firelight painted his face in gold and shadow, making his eyes look darker, sharper. Without thinking, you lifted your free hand and flicked your middle finger at him, slow and deliberate.
Bucky barked out a laugh, loud and warm, and leaned in closer, elbows resting on his knees. “There she is,” he murmured, his tone turning softer but sharper, the flirtation thick in every word. “Still such a little brat, aren’t you?”
A slow, knowing smirk tugged at your lips. You took a sip of your beer, eyes never leaving his. “Yeah,” you said, quiet enough only he could hear. “And you know you love it.”
For a second, the air between you felt heavier, thicker than the smoke rising from the fire. Bucky let out a low, gravelly groan, dropping his head into one hand for a moment like he was trying to collect himself. When he looked back up, his smile was gone—replaced by something deeper, hungrier, but still playful.
“Christ, you can’t say things like that when we’re alone,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. His knee pressed lightly against yours now, no space left between you. “You know exactly what you do to me, don’t you? Always have.”
Your pulse picked up, fast and light in your throat. “Maybe I do,” you teased, leaning in just a little further, letting your shoulder brush his. “And maybe I’ve been waiting years to hear you admit it.”
Bucky’s hand came up to rest lightly on your forearm, his skin warm and calloused. His thumb brushed once, slowly, back and forth. “You drive me crazy,” he said, half-amused, half-frustrated. “Always looking at me like that, saying things that make me forget every sensible thought I’ve got. Thought moving away would make this easier—but here you are, same as always, just more sure of yourself.”
“Good,” you murmured, smiling up at him through the glow of the flames. “Because I’m not going anywhere this time.”
Somewhere down the street, fireworks boomed, painting the sky red and blue and white, but neither of you looked up. For the moment, the rest of the world—your parents, his wife, the years between you, all the reasons this shouldn’t happen—felt far away. All that mattered was the fire, the beer, and the charged, flirty tension humming between you two, finally out in the open where it belonged.
Here’s the continuation, keeping that sharp, heated tease exactly as you wanted:
The fire popped and sent sparks curling upward, and as you shifted in your chair, your legs stretched out toward the warmth. You’d thrown on that tiny American flag bikini earlier, covered only by a thin, sheer white wrap that did more to show than hide—light enough that the glow of the flames filtered right through it.
Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly. His eyes dragged slow and deliberate from your bare feet, up your calves, over your knees, lingering on the soft skin of your thighs before drifting higher, like he couldn’t help himself. His jaw tightened just a little, and his breathing went a touch shallower.
“Eyes up here, Barnes,” you purred, dragging one ankle lightly up the side of his calf, slow and intentional. “Or are you just gonna stare all night?”
He huffed a rough, breathless laugh, finally lifting his eyes—but they were darker now, pupils blown wide. “Can you blame me?” His voice was thick, low enough only you could hear. “You show up looking like this, sitting here all soft and warm… hard not to look, doll.”
You shifted closer, your knee pressing fully against his now, and slid one hand up his forearm, fingers tracing the line of muscle beneath his shirt. “You’ve been looking for years,” you teased, leaning in so your shoulder brushed his and your breath fanned his neck. “Always acting like you’re so proper… but I see the way you watch me when you think no one’s paying attention.”
His hand came to rest on your thigh, his palm warm and heavy through the thin fabric of your wrap. He gave it a light, teasing squeeze, thumb brushing back and forth just high enough to make your pulse race. “Careful,” he warned, but there was no bite in it—only heat. “You keep touching me like that, and I’m not gonna be able to play nice anymore.”
You smirked, letting your fingers trail up to rest on his chest, right over his heart—fast, strong, and beating just as hard as yours. “Who said I want you to play nice?” You tilted your head, letting the firelight catch your smile. “You called me a brat earlier… so treat me like one.”
A low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest, and his grip on your thigh tightened just a fraction. He leaned in until his lips were almost brushing your ear, his voice rough and wrecked. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me. Wearing that little thing, wrapping yourself around me like you belong here… you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” you whispered, sliding your other hand up to tangle lightly in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a little closer. “And maybe I’m finally done pretending I don’t want it too.”
His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, burning bright. “You’re playing with fire, sugar.”
“Good,” you breathed, grinning against his jaw. “I like the heat.”
The firelight danced between you, and when you shifted your gaze lower, you couldn’t miss it—firm, obvious, straining hard against the thin fabric of his swim shorts. Your teeth sank gently into your lower lip, eyes darkening as you stared, and you felt his breath catch when he noticed where you were looking.
“Like what you see, doll?” he murmured, voice rough and thick, already knowing the answer.
You leaned in closer, one hand resting light and innocent on his thigh, just inches away. Your voice dropped to a smoky whisper, no hesitation now.
“You have no idea,” you purred, eyes flicking back up to meet his. “I could get right down on my knees right here… take you into my mouth nice and slow, make you forget every single thing but how good it feels. Wouldn’t take long before you were begging for it.”
Bucky’s head fell back slightly, a sharp, shaky exhale leaving his chest, his jaw tight. “Jesus—don’t say things like that,” he groaned, though his hips tilted just a little toward your hand, giving himself away completely.
You let out a loud, dramatic sigh, dragging your fingers slowly, lightly, back and forth just over the thick outline pressing against the fabric—light enough to tease, not quite enough to give him real pressure.
“Ah, but if only…” you whispered, smiling wickedly as you felt him twitch under your touch. “If only I could keep going. If only no one was inside, if only you weren’t trying so hard to be the good guy… but I can still feel how much you want it. Just this little brush of my hand and you’re already this hard for me.”
His hand shot up to cover yours, pressing your palm firmer against him for a split second before he forced himself to loosen his grip, knuckles white. His eyes were blown black, burning into yours.
“You’re a menace,” he growled, half-pleasure half-frustration. “Touching me like that, talking like that… you know exactly what you do to me. Keep it up and I won’t be able to stop myself from letting you do every single thing you just said.”
“Promise?” you teased, giving him one last slow, deliberate stroke before resting your hand there, warm and heavy, waiting to see just how far he’d let you go.
Your fingers still rest lightly over him, feeling every twitch and throb through the thin fabric, and he stares down at you like he’s half-crazed, eyes dark and wild.
“Look at you,” he hisses, voice rough and wrecked, hips rolling just slightly into your hand. “All sweet and soft but talking like that… you’re nothing but a little cockslut, aren’t you? Just waiting to get on your knees and take what you want.”
The name makes your breath catch, heat flooding straight through you, and you bite down harder on your lower lip, a wicked, hungry smile tugging at your mouth. Without breaking eye contact, you reach up and hook your fingers under the edge of your bikini top, pulling it slowly to the side until one hard, pebbled nipple pops free, glowing pale and pink in the firelight.
“Only for you,” you whisper, tilting your chest toward him, letting the warmth of the flames dance over your skin. “Only ever wanted yours.”
Bucky’s head falls back with a deep, guttural groan, his hands balling into fists at his sides for half a second before one shoots out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing roughly over the exposed tip. His whole body tenses, hips jerking forward involuntarily into your palm.
“Fuck—fuck, baby,” he mumbles, voice thick and strained, like he’s barely holding on. “You show me that, touch me like that, talk like that… you’re gonna make me come right here in my shorts. Just from your hand and that filthy mouth of yours.”
He looks back down at you, pupils blown wide, jaw tight, and grinds up just a little harder against your fingers, desperate even as he tries to keep quiet. “Is that what you want? Want me to make a mess just thinking about your mouth on me?”
You smirk, squeezing him gently through the fabric, and whisper right against his jaw: “I want you to do whatever you need to do. I’ll clean it up too… just say the word.”
His eyes dart fast over the yard—checking the house windows, the fence line, making sure no one’s wandered back out—before he leans in, hot and hungry, and closes his mouth straight over your exposed nipple.
He sucks hard, deep and greedy, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak, and you gasp, a sharp, throaty moan tearing out before you can muffle it. Your fingers tangle tight in his hair, pressing him closer, and his big hand clamps hard around your thigh, fingers digging in firm enough to leave marks.
“Fuck—fuck,” he groans against your skin, the vibration sending shivers all through you. He pulls back just enough to look up, lips glistening, eyes burning like embers. “If we sneak down to the lake right now… away from everyone… will you get on your knees and suck me nice and slow? Then let me slide just the tip inside that pretty little pussy, huh? Just the tip, I promise.”
You bite your lip so hard it almost stings, hips shifting restlessly against his hand, and give him that wicked, hungry smile. Leaning in so your lips brush his ear, you whisper loud enough for only him to hear:
“At this point? You can put more than the tip in… I’ll let you fill me up. Come deep inside me, Bucky. I want every drop.”
His whole body jolts like he’s been burned, a ragged, broken sound tearing from his throat. His grip on your thigh turns bruising, and he ruts his hips hard against your hand, his bulge throbbing so hard you can feel every pulse.
“Jesus Christ—you’re gonna be the death of me,” he hisses, already starting to haul himself up, yanking you with him. “C’mon then—lead the way. Before I lose all control and take you right here by the fire.”
You slip hand in hand through the trees, crunching over pine needles and damp earth until the glow from the house is just a faint flicker behind the foliage and the only sounds are crickets, lapping water, and your own fast breathing. The lake stretches out dark and calm in front of you, moonlight glinting off its surface.
You drop to your knees in the cool grass without hesitation, looking up at him through your lashes. Your fingers hook into the waistband of his swim shorts and drag them down slow, letting them pool around his ankles.
His cock springs free—hard, thick, throbbing, the tip flushed deep red and already glistening thick beads of pre-cum that trail down the side. You lick your lips, eyes locked on his, and wrap your hand around the base, feeling the heavy pulse under your palm.
While you hold him steady, you reach up and yank your bikini top completely aside, baring both breasts fully to the night air and his hungry gaze. Your nipples stand tight and hard, and you arch them toward him as you lean in.
You take just the swollen, leaking tip into your mouth first, swirling your tongue slow and wet around it, never breaking eye contact. Bucky’s head falls back, a sharp, shaking breath tearing out of him before he looks down again, jaw tight, eyes blazing.
“Fuck—just like that, baby…”
You sink down further, taking as much of his length as you can fit, throat stretching around him until you gag softly, eyes watering—but you don’t pull back far, just bob your head in a steady rhythm, using your fist to stroke the rest you can’t reach. Your free hand cups his heavy balls, squeezing gently, rolling them in your palm, and he bucks his hips forward, deepening the stroke.
“Shit—shit, you feel so good…” he groans, voice cracking, fingers tangling tight in your hair. He pulls you off with a sharp, shaky tug, his cock still throbbing and glistening with your saliva. His chest heaves, and he stares down at you like he’s half-mad with need.
“Enough—enough, baby,” he growls, rough and desperate. “I can’t take any more. I gotta be inside you right now. Need to feel that tight little pussy wrapped around me more than I need to breathe.”
He lowers you back onto the soft, cool grass, his hands already tugging your bikini bottoms aside without wasting a second. Before you can even catch your breath, he drops between your legs, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs wide open, and his mouth is on you—hot, hungry, and relentless. He licks long, firm strokes from your entrance all the way up to your clit, sucking hard and flicking his tongue just right, making your hips buck off the ground already.
Then he pulls back just enough to line himself up, the head of his cock pressing right against your wet, waiting heat. With one sharp, smooth thrust, he pushes all the way in—no slow stretch, just deep and full in one motion.
You gasp loud, your back arching off the earth, your legs instinctively trying to clamp shut around his waist from the sudden, overwhelming stretch—but his big hands grip your thighs and hold them wide, keeping you pinned open exactly how he wants you. You’re so tight around him, squeezing him like a fist, and he hisses, jaw tightening, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“Fuck—so tight… so goddamn tight,” he grunts, then starts moving. Hard. Fast. Deep strokes that hit every spot you didn’t even know you had.
Your hands fly up, clawing and grabbing at the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, your lips pressing messy, breathless praises against his neck and jaw. “Yes—yes, Bucky, feels so good… so big, so perfect… don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
He shifts, hooks one strong forearm under your knees, and lifts your legs higher, pushing them back toward your chest. The angle changes completely, and he slams even deeper—so deep you can feel him in your bones. You cry out, loud and broken, your nails dragging down his back through his shirt, and your whole body shakes as you come hard, again and again, wave after wave crashing over you.
The way you keep falling apart around him drives him wild. His hips snap harder, faster, sweat rolling down his temples, his voice rough and ragged in your ear. “That’s it—take it, you greedy little slut… taking every inch like you were made for it… so good for me, so fucking good…”
He presses one big palm flat against your lower stomach, right where he’s buried inside you, and you can feel it—see the faint, thick bulge pushing out under your skin from how deep and how big he is. The sight and the pressure send you tumbling over the edge once more, your vision blurring, your whole body tensing and shaking.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come,” he groans, his rhythm turning sharp and desperate. “Gonna fill you up, gonna give you every drop… take it, take it all…”
With one final, powerful thrust, he pushes as deep as he can go, and you feel him pulse and throb inside you, hot and endless, spilling deep where you begged him to. You almost scream his name, biting down hard on his shoulder to muffle the sound, your walls clamping down around him milking him for every last drop, both of you trembling and gasping, tangled together on the grass beside the quiet lake.
He pulls out slow, and both of you watch, breath caught, as thick, warm come starts to seep out of you, dripping down your inner thighs and onto the grass. He groans low, his thumb swiping gently over your swollen, slick folds just to push a little of it back inside, eyes dark and satisfied.
“Leave it,” he murmurs, his voice still rough and heavy. “Don’t clean it up. Let it stay there… feel me dripping out of you all night long.”
He reaches for your bikini bottoms, pulling them back into place carefully, adjusting the fabric so it covers you again—though it clings instantly, damp and sticky against your skin. Then he fixes his own shorts, runs a hand through his messy hair, and presses one last, hard kiss to your lips.
“I’ll go first,” he whispers. “Wait five minutes, then follow. Act normal.”
He slips back through the trees, moving quiet and sure, and you stay there for a moment, catching your breath, feeling the warm, sticky mess between your legs shift with every small move you make. You grab your half-empty beer from where you left it, smooth down your cover-up, and walk back toward the house at a slow, casual pace.
When you step back into the glow of the backyard, your sister looks over from where she’s sitting by the now-low fire, raising an eyebrow. “Where’d you disappear to? Thought you bailed on the whole night.”
You lift your beer to your lips, keeping your expression easy and unbothered. “Just went down to the dock—you know, my usual spot. Sat there with my toes dipped in the water, enjoying the quiet before the fireworks start.”
It’s a total lie, and you can feel it every second: the thick, sticky warmth clinging to your skin, your bikini bottoms sticking to you, every step reminding you exactly what you’d been doing and who had filled you up.
Across the yard, Bucky catches your eye for half a second. He’s leaning against the fence, talking to your dad, but there’s a faint, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—like he can feel it too, like he knows you’re walking around with his come still dripping inside you.
Across the circle, Bucky sits with his wife tucked close to his side. She leans in, laughing at something he says, and presses soft, lingering kisses to his jaw, his cheek, even briefly to his mouth. He smiles, his hand resting casually on her knee—but when his eyes flick up and meet yours over the flames, there’s no warmth in it for her. It’s dark, hungry, and knowing, like he’s counting every second until he can have you again.
The fire has burned down to soft, glowing embers now, casting long shadows across the yard. Everyone’s settled in—voices slower, laughter thicker, the air sweet with beer and burnt sugar from the fireworks earlier. You sink deep into a bean bag beside your sister, head buzzing pleasantly from the alcohol, your skin still humming and warm from what happened down by the lake. The faint, sticky drag between your legs reminds you of it with every shift, a secret only you and Bucky share.
You feel a hot twist low in your belly, and to hide the flush rising up your neck, you drop your head onto your sister’s shoulder with a dramatic, heavy sigh. Your dad chuckles from his lawn chair, shaking his head. “Look at the pair of you—already half-gone before the night’s even over.”
You lift one hand, waving it lazily. “Just feeling festive, that’s all.” Then you nudge your sister’s arm, voice low enough only she hears at first. “Hey… wanna sneak off for a cigarette? Just us two.”
She blinks, surprised but grinning, and nods right away—ready for another excuse to escape the adults for a bit. Before you can stand, your mom’s sharp voice cuts through the hum, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Since when do you smoke? You’ve never touched one in your life.”
You tilt your head, a slow, cheeky little wink playing across your face, and lift your beer bottle again like it’s proof. “Only when I’m drunk, Mom. Don’t worry—just one won’t kill me.”
You push yourself up, feeling the fabric of your bikini bottoms cling just a little tighter as you move, still holding all that warm evidence of what you’d done. As you turn toward the path, you glance back one last time—and catch Bucky’s gaze fixed hard on you, his jaw set, watching every step you take like he already knows exactly where this little detour is going to lead.
You lead your sister around the side of the house, away from the firelight, toward the darker stretch of trees where the path curves down toward the lake. You haven’t even pulled out a cigarette—never had any intention to—when a broad shadow steps out from behind a thick oak trunk, and your breath catches.
It’s Bucky. Leaning against the tree, arms crossed over his chest, one boot propped up on the root, that same dark, hungry look in his eyes like he’d counted every second until you got here.
Before you can say a word, your sister lets out a sharp little yelp and jumps back so hard she nearly trips over her own feet, hand flying to her chest. “Jesus Christ—Bucky! You scared the living daylights out of me! I didn’t even hear you move!”
He pushes off the tree, a faint, amused smirk tugging at his mouth, though his eyes never leave yours for long. “Easy there, kid. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just… stepped out for some fresh air myself.”
She’s still wide-eyed, heart visibly racing, and lets out a shaky laugh. “Fresh air? More like you’re a ghost sneaking around in the dark! I swear you make no sound at all.”
You stand there, trying to look casual even as you feel that familiar heat pooling low again, the sticky feeling between your legs a constant reminder of what just happened. You give your sister a small, reassuring smile, even as your pulse thrums in your ears.
“See?” you say lightly, though your voice is just a little thicker than usual. “Not a ghost. Just Bucky.”
Bucky nods at her, polite enough for now, but his gaze drifts back to you, heavy and loaded with everything you two can’t say out loud. “Go on back to the fire if you want,” he says to her, tone easy. “I’ll walk her up in a minute—make sure she doesn’t wander off too far in the dark.”
Your sister glances between the two of you, still flustered but too tipsy and unsuspecting to pick up on the tension humming so thick you could almost touch it. She nods quickly, still catching her breath. “Okay… fine. Just don’t take too long, yeah? Mom’ll start asking questions again.”
She turns and hurries back toward the yard, leaving you alone with him in the shadows. The second her footsteps fade, Bucky steps in close, crowding you against the tree, his hands settling firmly on your hips.
“Thought you’d never get away,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that low, rough purr only you can hear. “And you walking around with my come still inside you… driving me out of my mind all over again.”
The second your sister’s footsteps vanish, Bucky’s mouth crashes onto yours—hungry, demanding, tasting of beer and smoke and that same headless need from before. His hands roam fast, one sliding up under your sheer cover-up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your still-sensitive nipple, while the other grips your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him. You moan into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, arching into every touch, still so aware of the warm, sticky mess between your legs that shifts with every movement.
When you finally pull apart, both gasping for air, he leads you down the narrow path to the wooden dock that juts out over the dark water. You sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge, toes dipping into the cool lake. His arm rests casually along the back of the planks behind you, and his hand slides slowly, deliberately, up over your knee and higher, settling firmly on the top of your thigh—just under the hem of your cover-up, close enough that you can feel the heat of his palm seeping through the thin fabric. His thumb brushes small, slow circles, sending electric shocks straight through you, and you lean your shoulder heavier against his, letting your head tilt toward his neck.
“Keep still,” he whispers against your ear, voice rough and low. “Want to feel you squirm while we act like nothing’s wrong.”
You’re just about to whisper something filthy back when a voice calls out from the bank, light and cheerful.
“Found you two!”
It’s his wife.
In a split second, Bucky’s hand vanishes from your thigh like it was never there, dropping to rest innocently on his own knee. He shifts just enough to put a little space between you, though his shoulder stays pressed against yours, his thigh still brushing yours.
She walks out onto the dock, smiling, and glances down at your feet dangling in the water, then at Bucky’s relaxed posture. “You two look so peaceful out here,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Feet in the lake like a couple of kids escaping the party. Everything okay?”
“Just needed a break from all the noise,” Bucky says smoothly, his tone completely normal—no trace of the man who was kissing you senseless two minutes ago. “Water’s nice and cool.”
You force a soft, easy smile, though your pulse is hammering in your throat. “Exactly. Just enjoying the quiet before the fireworks start up again.”
She nods, still grinning, completely oblivious to the fact that her husband had his hand up your skirt only moments before, or that you’re still wearing the evidence of him between your legs. “Well, don’t stay out too long—we’re gonna light the big ones soon. Wouldn’t want you two to miss the show.”
As she turns to walk back, Bucky’s knee presses firmly against yours again, and his eyes flick sideways to you—dark, amused, and burning with the promise that as soon as she’s gone, his hands will be right back where they belong.
The second her footsteps fade back toward the house, Bucky’s hand is right back where it belongs—faster, bolder, no more pretending. He shifts closer, his body blocking yours from view of the shore, and slips his fingers straight under the edge of your bikini bottoms, warm and sure.
“Quiet now,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath hot against your skin. “Don’t make a sound… let me feel how wet you still are for me.”
You gasp softly, fingers curling around his wrist but not pulling him away—only holding on tighter as he finds your slick, swollen center instantly. He slides two fingers in deep, slow at first, then starts curling them just right, hitting that spot that makes your hips buck off the wood. The sticky warmth from earlier mixes fresh and new, and he groans low in your ear.
“Look at you… still dripping with my come and already taking more of my fingers like you were made for it,” he growls, pumping them in a steady, firm rhythm. “So tight, so greedy… love how you clench around me.”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, a soft, broken moan slipping past your lips as the tension builds fast. “Bucky… fuck… feels so good…”
“Shh… that’s it, baby,” he praises, his thumb pressing hard circles over your clit. “Come for me. Squirt all over my fingers, show me how much you love it.”
It hits you hard—waves of pleasure crashing over you, your legs shaking, your body arching as you release, warm and wet, spilling over his hand and down his wrist. You whimper, clutching his arm, every muscle tensing as you ride it out.
He groans, working you through every last spasm, then slowly pulls his fingers out—glistening, thick with the mix of both of you. Before you can even catch your breath, he brings them right up to your mouth, pressing them between your parted lips.
“Taste it,” he orders, voice rough and commanding. “Taste how good we are together. Swallow every drop.”
You open wide, swirling your tongue around his fingers, sucking them clean, tasting the salt and heat of what you’d shared. His eyes roll back for a second, a deep, throaty moan tearing from his chest.
“Christ… you filthy little slut,” he whispers, pulling his fingers out slowly, gliding them over your bottom lip. “Suck me so good, take my cock so good… you think this is just a one-time thing?”
He nips at your jaw, his hips pressing hard against your side so you can feel him already hard again. “At this point? I’m gonna start driving up to Boston every chance I get. Just to fuck you. Just to fill you up again and again, whenever and wherever I want. You gonna let me do that? Let me come all the way there just to use this tight little pussy?”
Your head falls back against the wooden slats, eyes glinting up at him through the dark, and you whisper it slow and sweet, deliberate enough to make his whole body tense:
“Yes, Mr. Barnes… you can use my tight little pussy any time you want.”
A low, guttural growl tears from his throat the second the name leaves your lips. His hand shoots up, wrapping firm but careful around your throat—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to make your pulse thunder loud under his palm. He pushes you flat back against the dock, one knee shoving your legs wide, and yanks his shorts down just enough to free his cock, already throbbing and hard again.
“Fuck—don’t call me that unless you mean it,” he hisses, lining himself up and pushing in in one sharp, deep stroke. You gasp, hands flying to grip his shoulders, and he clamps a hand over your mouth for half a second, eyes darting fast between the path back to the house and the tree line, checking every shadow.
“Quiet,” he warns, voice rough. “Gotta be quick… but I’m gonna take every inch I can.”
He fucks you fast and deep, sharp, quiet thrusts that rock the planks beneath you, his hips slamming into yours over and over. His gaze never stays in one place for long—scanning, searching, always alert—but his grip stays firm on your throat, feeling every swallow, every shaky breath you take. You feel him swell inside you, hot and thick, spilling again and again, filling you until you can feel it seeping out around his base, mixing with what was already there. You take every stroke, every pulse, your body clamping down like it was made to hold him, moaning soft and muffled into his palm.
When he finally stills, buried deep and throbbing, he keeps his hand wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw, eyes burning into yours.
“Say it,” he orders, voice low and heavy. “Say thank you.”
Your chest heaves, skin flushed and slick with sweat, and you whisper it without hesitation: “Thank you, Mr. Barnes… thank you for filling me up.”
He groans, releases your throat slowly, his fingers brushing lightly over the marks he left. He pulls out, tucks himself back into his shorts, and fixes your bikini bottoms just enough to cover you, his touch possessive and final.
“From now on,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a rough kiss to your swollen lips, “you’re mine. Whenever I want, wherever I want… Boston, here, anywhere. You’ll take it. Understood?”
You nod, breathless and burning, and he gives you one last dark, satisfied look before turning and walking back up the path—casual, like nothing happened, but every step carrying the weight of what just became real.
You stay there a moment longer, legs still shaking, feeling his warmth dripping out of you, knowing without a doubt: you belong to him now.
WHITE NIGHTS
husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader [3.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: your husband is hungry.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: bucky is down bad; pregnancy and postpartum stuff (they just had a baby); baby’s nickname is bean; fluff; smut; lactation kink; nipple play; coming untouched; pussy pronouns; breeding kink; fingering; mention of squirting.
A/N: this is not the breeding kink one-shot I was talking about in the poll, but this was already finished and unfortunately yesterday something happened and I’m not in a good place rn mentally. hope you’ll enjoy🥛sorry but it’s not really edited.
Bucky shivers as the usual warm weight pressed against his side is missing. He lethargically extends his arm to bring your plush body back to his, yet his fingers only meet wrinkly, tepid sheets. His eyes fly open, only to find your side empty.
It’s the middle of the night and your baby boy is sleeping soundly in the crib he assembled months ago, tucked close beside your bed. This allows Bucky to reach him the moment the faintest whimper slips from his lips—one of the many advantages of having enhanced senses. He can see the exhaustion pressing down on you, and still, you try to cram as many chores as possible into your schedule, nowadays reduced to feedings and diaper changes. But Bucky would do anything to make you feel like you’re keeping up.
These days your husband is always repeating the same thing: that he’ll handle the house, that you don’t need to push yourself like this. But you do anyway, unable to shake the guilt of leaving everything to him when he’s already the one waking in the night to take care of your son.
“I’m a super soldier, you pretty mama,” he promptly reminds you, his voice gentle against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Why would I leave this stuff to my beautiful wife when I don’t need that much rest in the first place?”
The ensuite is empty, which means you’re either in the kitchen pumping or the living room wide awake.
Bucky pushes himself up slowly, leaving the bedroom door open behind him—just in case. He could hear his son cry from miles away, but even the former Winter Soldier can’t quite shake the instinct to run to his son in case of potential danger.
The kitchen light catches his attention the moment he steps into the hallway, spilling across the floor in a warm glow. He follows it without thinking, but the sight that greets him makes him freeze on the doorway.
Bucky has always reserved particular attention to your chest since the first time you started fooling around while dating.
But this is different.
He never could have imagined that one day the mere sight of your nipples leaking milk would leave him stiff in his pants and drooling. That something as natural as your body providing for your child could feel so intimate. During your pregnancy, your breasts had grown fuller and heavier, often sore enough to make you whine in pain against his shoulder. More than once, you’d sighed in frustration at the milk that soaked through your bras, inconvenient and relentless.
And each time, Bucky had to suppress the instinct to clean you up. With his tongue.
He might be over a hundred years old, but he knows his way around the internet since the first time he grumpily announced he was going to look up what a creampie was, while you were in stitches on the couch. You still tried to warn him through your amusement, explaining that the internet is a treacherous place, one where everything should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.
The shame curling hot in his stomach is inevitable when he looks at your chest with his pants uncomfortably tight, but this fantasy only intensified with time, to the point where he feels like imploding at the slightest mention of you pumping.
Bucky gulps thickly, frowning in animosity at the two devices attached to your tits that peak out from your sports bra. He really wants to suckle on your nipples and feel your sweet milk bless his senses, however, despite all the years of dating and marriage, asking would probably feel like walking straight in front of a freight train running at full speed.
His tongue unconsciously licks his lips as you pour some of the freshly pumped milk in a baby bottle, before going through the motions of setting the devices back in place. The wearable breast pumps had been his idea, actually, after months spent buried in books, articles, and a concerning amount of online forums for new moms. He read everything he could get his hands on, determined to make things easier for you. Multiple people praised these over traditional ones for their gentler suction and better angles, so one day Bucky’d shown up with his laptop open to the website of a famous online store specialized in hands-free pumps, already halfway through his research and entirely ready to start measuring your breasts.
Your chest aches more often than not nowadays. You hadn’t expected to produce this much milk, or how constant it would feel. Not just during the day, but at night too, when you find yourself half-asleep at the kitchen counter, filling bottle after bottle while your body begs you to lie down.
Bucky knows everything got more sensitive and swollen for you since you got pregnant, so he often finds himself wondering if he could make you come just by stimulating your tits alone.
Shaking his head to calm himself down before entering the kitchen with a full hard-on, Bucky slowly approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He doesn’t miss the way your body automatically relaxes under his touch.
“Was wondering where my beautiful wife went.” He whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder to eye the battlefield of spilled milk and paper towels. “How are you feeling, lovely?”
“Tired.” You murmur around a yawn as your head falls back against his chest. “And aching.”
In this new position, his blue eyes can comfortably admire your cleavage. His stare on the plump skin of your chest spilling out from the tight sports bra is intense, though he clears his throat before his cock takes over his common sense and his teeth end up sinking in your tender flesh.
“Mmh… I can help, you know?” You glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed.
“No baby, you already do so much. Besides, these things are amazing! They do everything by themselves, I just have to empty them.” Bucky swallows, before gently turning you to face him.
“No, I meant—I want to help help you.” Your eyebrows raise, still not understanding.
“I want to taste it, doll.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your eyebrows shoot up stunned, before a small grin threatens to take over your lips.
“James Buchanan Barnes, you want to nurse on my breasts?” A pretty blush takes over the apples of his cheeks at your bluntness. Your husband has never looked so boyishly pretty before.
“Don’t say it like that.” His affronted voice wavers, pulling a chuckle out of you that makes your tits jiggle alluringly. His eyes promptly fall on them, before he flushes violently upon noticing you have caught him drooling red-handed.
“But that’s what you want, right Jamie?” You tilt your head teasingly, cradling his cheeks in your soft hands.
He nods expectantly, eyes sparkling despite the scorching embarrassment pooling into his belly.
“Okay, but let me remove these first.” His breath hitches at your nonchalant reaction.
Your husband’s chest heaves in anticipation as he waits for the electric pumps to finish, unable to stay put behind you like an overhyped puppy waiting for his treat. Bucky knows you are taking your time in storing the milk away on purpose—it’s not your fault he gets so adorable whenever he loses grip on the composure he is so proud of.
When you are done, you barely have time to turn around before his strong arms pick you up to place your butt on the counter, so he can be closer to your chest. He kisses you desperately, kneading your waist and thighs until you are left warm and moaning.
Eventually his lips end up tracing a trail of wet kisses down your throat, finally allowing his nose to gently graze the skin of your breasts. He helps you remove your bra with shaky hands, gasping when your torso is finally bare for him to toy with.
“Look at you.” His large hands encompass the swell of your tits, gently kneading the flesh to not hurt you. Your quiet whimper stops him instantly, looking up at you to catch any sign of discomfort. But he only receives a weak nod, your hands desperately gripping his biceps as his fingers reprise their exploring.
“They are so full, my love. I bet they hurt, right?” His eyes glass over, spellbound as the pads of his thumbs delicately circle both of your turgid nipples, drawing a few stray drops of milk. Bucky instantly brings the digits to his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut at the flavor blessing his taste buds.
“Fuck, you really are sweet everywhere, doll.” You shudder at his growled praise, your tired body extremely sensitive as his fingers keep stroking your nubs.
Your loud gasp is swallowed in the nick of time in fear of waking your son up, yet you stop yourself from flinching when Bucky’s lips finally engulf your right nipple. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface; you’ve always enjoyed the care and time he puts in worshipping your chest, but this time it feels completely different with the way his palms caress your tits, and his tongue patiently grazes your nipples with serenity written all over his features.
“Bucky—” You interrupt him as he starts sucking. It’s too soft, just like him, you think fondly. And it’s not that you don’t love it, but your milk will barely come out if he doesn’t get a little rougher.
“C’mon, honey, you can suck harder.” You encourage quietly, the only answer you get is him dazedly blinking up at you through his long, dark lashes.
His hand fondles the breast his lips aren’t occupying, while his vibranium arm wraps around your back to bring you impossibly closer. Fingertips dig into your supple skin as he obeys, his eyes rolling back at milk finally filling his mouth. The gentle licks soon transform into harsher suckles, and one of your hands goes straight to your mouth with a resounding smack to stop a loud whine from potentially reaching your neighbors.
Yes, it happened before. Too many times.
Bucky can smell your arousal, but his mind is clouded with his own pleasure to understand what’s happening around him.
He’s finally doing it, he’s drinking your milk directly from the source. This might potentially be the hottest thing you’ve ever done.
Well, apart from that time you fucked in one of the empty meeting rooms in his office.
Now that Bucky thinks about it, you probably conceived your baby boy that time. He remembers too clearly how aroused the both of you were. His body was on fire that day, he felt like a fucking animal in heat trapped in a cage after he was urgently called by his secretary as he was slowly thrusting his cock into your half-asleep body that morning. And you… well, it was actually your idea to have sex there.
You showed up at his workplace, calling him Congressman with that whiny voice of yours, and claimed you needed to have his cock inside you so bad as you both stood in front of his two secretaries hurriedly fixing his schedule around you, since it was a well-known fact that Bucky would abandon anything if his wife needed him.
Then you dragged him in one of the empty rooms by his tie, and God, he still shivers at the memory of how you rode him on that damn chair, only wearing that stupid little sundress he bought you on his last work trip, just because it looked cute. And fuck, now it was hanging loosely from your waist as you moaned loud enough for his whole staff to hear when he finally came inside you, stuffing you with his cum as you cried and trembled around him, his cock refusing to soften so Bucky picked you up and brought you to the conference table to roughly thrust inside you, making you squirt all over his pants—
Yeah... that’s a story for another time.
One of your hands cups the back of his head, slightly pulling at his hair as you lean forward with a whimper.
“Jesus Christ.” Your man groans through a mouthful of you.
“Yeah? Is it good?” You tease, giggling at the eager nod he gives you.
“So good, pretty girl.” He whines, pulling away from your nipple only to move onto the other.
His tongue plays with the hard peak, moaning when a quiet whine falls from your lips. The lewd, wet sounds of his licking and sucking prompt you to wrap your thighs around his hips and push against him, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to try and find a crumb of stimulation against his belly for your pussy. It’s so messy your arousal soaks through your thin shorts, now sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.
Despite Bucky being completely lost into his own bliss, he still finds the mental strength to tighten his hold around your waist to keep you still against the counter and enjoy his midnight snack peacefully.
Your nipples are tender by now, abused and wet by one very hungry super soldier. Your head falls back unconsciously, a little embarrassed at the fact that you are probably ready to come and your pussy has been touched a total of zero times.
His large palm languidly slides down your thigh, until it cups your pussy, the vibrations of his low moan further stimulating your nub as your slick coats his fingers through the fabric. You urge him on, grinding onto the heel of his hand.
Two fingers finally travel under the waistband, the rough pads working over your clit, firm but not too fast, just how you like it.
Pleasure burns hotter and hotter with each press of his fingers against your nub, until they find your entrance, delicately rubbing over your folds and collecting your wetness before he nudges them in. Your jaw slackens around a silent moan as they stretch you out so deliciously, curling and rubbing that sweet spot that always makes you gush so prettily around him.
Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, still suckling on your nipples as your hole hungrily swallows his fingers. He is borderline dizzy from how good he feels with his fingers in your pussy and your milk down his throat.
“Feels good, doll?” The words are nothing short of a murmur against your skin. “She’s so needy for me, hm? Doesn’t wanna let go.”
Your cheeks are on fire, and he receives only a quick nod as an answer. The touch his lips leave across your chest burn, causing your lips to prettily open around a silent moan.
“Jamie, just like that, fuck—” You sigh blissed out, flinching when his thumb slowly goes back to toying with your puffy clit. Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed the way your core would turn all swollen with arousal.
“Missed this so much, missed you, honey.” A needy whimper claws out of his throat. “Talk to me, tell me what you wanna do to me.”
“Fucking hell,” he takes a deep breath, pressing soft pecks over your breasts. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. Can’t stop thinking about it, how gorgeous you looked all full with my baby.” His eyes briefly close in a futile attempt to ward off the painful throbbing of his cock pushing against his sweatpants.
You clamp around him, shivering when his other hand squeezes your hips.
“‘S all I can think about. Day and night.” He rambles brokenly. “So perfect, my perfect wife with her perfect pussy and her perfect tits—” His words dissolve into a low groan, still softly massaging your walls, the stretch so good it makes your legs tremble around his hips.
“Jamie, more.” You mewl, your hips twitching up helplessly. “Wanna feel you inside, need you to come over and over until it takes again. Jamie, pretty please?”
Bucky grits his teeth.
You can’t stay stuff like that, not when it’s only been two months. Not when he’s been desperate to see you round with his baby once more. Not when you are leaking milk from your breasts while begging for his cock.
“Can’t, babygirl.” He pants. You make your displeasure known loudly with a little wail, clinging tightly onto his shoulders.
“Please, Jamie.” Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm builds steadily in your belly.
“I know doll, I know. ‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.”
Your body goes rigid for a second before turning pliant under his calloused hand abandoning your hips to properly take care of your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches, little squeaky moans slipping from your lips and muffled into his hair as you hug Bucky closer to your chest, sagging against him.
“Gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.” He slurs out dizzily. “Wanna keep this pussy full and give my pretty wife all the babies she wants.”
“Jamie! Close—‘m so close, don’ stop.” He desperately focuses on matching the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside with the ones rubbing your clit, savoring the eager twitches his cock gives at your pussy tightening.
Bucky then parts his lips, blindly mouthing at your skin until they finally latch onto your nipple once more, and start sucking like a wounded man seeing water after days spent under the scorching sun.
At the intense pressure around your sensitive nubs, the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. Your toes curl, and your orgasm finally hits you violently. You come with a gasp, the tension in your belly shattering all at once as your head falls back. Your chest pushes against his greedy mouth, flinching and panting as you find yourself stuck in a limbo of maddening pleasure with Bucky’s fingers still relentless on your pussy, even when small tears run down your cheeks.
And then, your husband grunts loudly, harshly exhaling against the fat of your chest.
“Fucking—shit.” His mouth leaves your nipple with a wet pop, and his head slowly lifts up, leaving your wet nubs exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. You shiver at the change of temperature, slumping against his shoulders as you feel your tits tingle with overstimulation.
He is gentle in removing his fingers from your puffy core, finally embracing you as you mourn the loss. His chin lazily rests on the top of your head for a bit, small kisses swarming your glistening forehead in hopes of easing the trembling of your limbs.
That’s when you see it. Opening your eyes with effort, you are directly met with the sight of a huge stain right on Bucky’s crotch, the grey fabric of his sweatpants darker in that exact place.
“Did you just come in your pants, baby?” You raise your head to look at him with a little grin.
Bucky’s already flushed cheeks flame up, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Instead, he buries his face in the valley between your tits, hugging you tight.
“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Was it good?”
“No need to be sorry.” You hum. “It was so hot, Jamie.” Sighing satisfied, your arms wrap around his neck to caress his hair.
“I’ll help you from now on.” He adds solemnly, looking straight into your eyes. “After you pump out the milk for Bean, I get the last bits.” You can’t help but burst out laughing before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Alright, alright. But baby, you are at work until late in the afternoon.”
“Don’t care.” He grunts, nuzzling your neck like a cat in need of cuddles. “I’ll do it at night.” Your eyes widen, immediately protesting.
“Bucky, no. You already take care of Bean when he wakes up throughout the night, then wake up early to go to work… I won’t wake you up just to—to drink my milk.” Your cheeks heat up at the absurdity of your statement.
Bucky huffs, coming out of his hiding place with an offended wrinkle between his brows.
“Doll,” he whines just like a kid trying to convince his mom to stay up later on a school day. His head falls back tiredly. “I’m a super soldier. The super soldier. I don’t need to rest.”
With a sigh you shake your head at his apparently innocent eyes, vaguely reminding you of Alpine when she’s trying to soften you up after pushing something off the table that probably ended up shattering on the floor.
“Please, please, please!” He attacks you with kisses, delicately holding your pliant body in his arms as his lips travel from your face to the slope of your neck, and then back up again.
Your attempts at keeping your laugh down are awful, but you can’t help it when your husband is being this adorable.
“Alright alright! Hey—okay stop, please stop! Stop!” Your lips press together to avoid releasing any loud noise that could potentially interrupt this rare, peaceful night.
Finally, Bucky relents, one hand cradling your cheek while the other massages your lower back with purpose.
“Promise?” His eyebrows raise expectantly and you just have to kiss him.
“Yeah yeah, promise, you hungry super soldier.”
“Good.” He mumbles against your mouth, following your lips for another kiss. “Now, let me properly take care of my wife.”
“What—Bucky!” You gasp as he picks you up, making his way towards the couch.
A devious grin blooms on his handsome face when you whimper at the way he deliberately moves your hips so your puffy folds brush against his imposing bulge with every step he takes.
“Tell me sweet girl, since I can’t fill you up yet, where do you want it? Face or tits?”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading!
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
pairing: silver fox!sheriff!bucky barnes x prissy city girl!reader | 4.6k words
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), car sex, rough sex, power imbalance, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, overstimulation, light choking, manhandling, dirty talk, brief mention of alcohol, semi-public setting
summary: you roll into a sleepy little town with more attitude than sense and make it your personal mission to get under sheriff james buchanan barnes’ skin. after one too many stunts, the silver fox lawman drags you into the back of his cruiser to “teach you a lesson” about consequences, control, and exactly what happens when you poke the bear until he snaps.
authors note: my oh my oh my! this fic is inspired by @artficlly spin the trope challenge! the concept of getting sheriff au AND THEN silver fox is incredible and i absolutely ate this up! i live for a hot older man in uniform to manhandle me and make me cry. i mean, what?
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You were pretty sure the whole town hated you.
Okay, maybe that was dramatic. The barista at the only coffee shop in a ten-mile radius had warmed up when you tipped big and complimented her eyeliner. The older lady at the post office had clucked at your city plates and told you to “drive like you’ve got some sense, honey,” but she’d smiled when she said it.
The only one who really seemed to hate you was the sheriff.
Sheriff James Buchanan Barnes.
You’d learned his full name from the little gold tag on his broad chest the first week you were in town. Learned the way the uniform sat on him, too—dark brown and tan stretching over thick biceps, the star on his chest catching the sun when he leaned in through your open car window.
“Five over the limit is still over,” he’d groused that first morning, voice as deep as the engine rumbling under your hands. “You’re not in the city anymore, sweetheart. We don’t have room for your bullshit out here.”
You should’ve been offended. You were, later. In the moment, you’d been too distracted by the gray threaded through his dark hair and beard, the way his eyes—winter blue, annoyingly perceptive—flicked down your bare legs where your sundress had ridden up on your thighs.
He’d let you off with a warning that day.
And the next.
And the one after that, when he caught you doing donuts out by the lake with music blaring, dust pluming into a hazy halo around your little car while a couple of bored teenagers hooted from a pickup bed.
“City girls,” he’d muttered, fists planted on his hips. “Always gotta put on a show.”
You’d smiled at him through your mascaraed lashes, twirling your keys around your finger. “Maybe I just like the attention, Sheriff.”
His jaw had clenched, eyes darkening in a way that made your stomach swoop and your thighs press together. He’d written you another warning then, slow and deliberate, like he was punishing himself just as much as he was reprimanding you.
The whole thing turned into a game after that.
How far could you push him?
Short skirts on Main Street. Loud music with the windows down. Late-night drives out to the overlook where everyone said the kids went to make out. You’d always be there, legs kicked up on the dash, cherry chapstick glossing your mouth while you sucked on a lollipop and pretended not to notice when his cruiser slowed as it passed.
He always noticed you.
And you loved it.
You knew exactly what you were doing the night it finally blew up in your face.
It was too hot for October, the kind of sticky, lingering heat that clung to your skin and made the air feel thick. The little bar at the edge of town was having a “college night,” as if there were more than twenty college-aged people within a fifty-mile radius. You’d let one of the girls from the coffee shop talk you into going.
“It’s something to do,” she said, shrugging. “And Sheriff Barnes always swings by to make sure we’re not getting too wild.”
That had sealed it.
You’d put on your shortest skirt and a tiny crop top that did nothing to hide the curve of your tits. You’d lined your eyes dark, glossed your lips, thrown on boots that clicked on the worn wooden floors of the bar.
You’d felt his gaze the second he walked in.
You were leaning against the pool table, laughing too loud at something some boy said, when the door opened and a fresh wave of cool air sliced through the humidity. The room went quiet for half a beat, the way it always did when he walked in. Respect. Wariness. Fear.
You just turned your head and smiled.
His gaze found you immediately. You watched his expression go from bored professionalism to a sharp, annoyed heat as he took in your outfit, the way the boy standing too close to you was clearly drunk off his ass.
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” you called, saccharine sweet, like you weren’t doing this all for him.
He narrowed his eyes, like he knew.
You managed, miraculously, to keep out of trouble inside the bar. You sipped one drink and nursed it for hours, just enough vodka to warm your veins but not enough to blur your edges. You laughed, you danced, you pretended you didn’t keep track of every shift and movement of the sheriff at the far end of the bar.
He left before you.
When you finally stumbled out into the parking lot—sweaty, exhilarated, annoyed at the way the night already felt like it was ending—the air hit you like a wall. Crickets sang in the long grass. Someone whooped from the far side of the lot. Your boots clicked on gravel as you headed for your car.
You saw the cruiser before you saw him.
It was parked at the edge of the lot, lights off, hulking and dark under the lamplit sky. You paused, chewing your lip. You could’ve just…gone home. Gotten in your car, driven your perfectly legal five miles under the speed limit, and gone back to your crappy little rental where you could take your makeup off and pretend you didn’t miss the thrill of his attention.
Instead, you veered toward the cruiser.
You weren’t doing anything wrong. Not yet.
You were twenty feet away when the driver’s side door opened.
Sheriff Barnes stepped out, all six-plus feet of him unfolding slow and deliberate. His hat was off, tossed onto the passenger seat, salt-and-pepper hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. The top button of his uniform shirt was undone, exposing a tempting sliver of tan, corded neck.
You smirked. “You stalking me now, Sheriff?”
His gaze dragged down your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin. The amusement that flickered there made your pulse trip.
“Get in the car.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
His jaw flexed. “Don’t make me repeat myself, sweetheart. Passenger side. Now.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. People were still milling about the parking lot, talking and laughing as they headed for their cars. No one was paying attention to you. Not yet.
“What, you gonna give me another warning?” you scoffed, even as your body moved of its own accord, taking a few slow steps closer. “I didn’t do anything.”
He reached for you when you were close enough, fingers wrapping around your upper arm in a grip that was firm but not painful. Up close, you could smell him—coffee, clean sweat, the faintest hint of cologne. Your heart hammered.
“You’ve done plenty,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear. “And I’ve let you off plenty. That ends tonight.”
Something in the way he said it made your stomach drop, a strange mix of nerves and sharp, electric anticipation. You swallowed.
“You gonna arrest me, Sheriff?” you asked, your voice coming out breathier than you intended.
His eyes darkened, thumb rubbing absently over the bare skin of your arm. “Get in the car,” he repeated, tone brooking no argument.
You got in the car.
He opened the back door—not the passenger side like you’d assumed—and gestured. Your pulse stuttered.
“You’re serious.”
“Very.” His gaze was implacable. “Inside. Hands where I can see ‘em.”
You could have said no. You could have made a scene, shouted about abuse of power, stomped back to your car and driven away from this sleepy little town and its infuriatingly hot sheriff.
Instead, you slid into the back seat of the cruiser, the vinyl cool against the backs of your thighs.
The door shut behind you with a definitive thunk.
You sat there, heart pounding, as he walked around the car. The partition loomed beside you, metal mesh between you and the front. It smelled faintly of leather and something darker, like sweat and cologne and other people’s nerves.
The opposite door opened. He slid in beside you instead of getting into the driver’s seat.
You stared. “Is…is that allowed?”
He didn’t answer. Just reached forward, flicked a switch on the dashboard that turned the in-car camera off, then leaned back, fixing you with a stare that you felt all the way in your core.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve been causin’ since you rolled into my town, baby girl?”
The pet name made heat flash through you, sharp and instant. You tried to play it off, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Pretty sure the wildest thing I’ve done is make some old ladies clutch their pearls at the grocery store,” you said. “I drive a little fast, big deal. You still haven’t actually written me a ticket, you know.”
His lip curled. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’?”
You lifted your chin. “Enlighten me.”
“You come in here with your short skirts and your loud music, flutterin’ your lashes at every idiot with a Y chromosome.” He leaned in, breath ghosting over your lips. “But every time you get yourself into trouble, who’s the one you’re really lookin’ at, huh?”
Your throat went dry.
“Careful, Sheriff,” you murmured. “Sounds like you’ve been paying an awful lot of attention.”
His hand moved faster than you could track, thick fingers clamping around your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek to force your eyes up to his.
“I’ve had to,” he ground out. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from gettin’ yourself killed out here.”
Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. The steel in his voice, the way his gaze raked over you like he was cataloging every inch—it should’ve made you bristle. Instead, heat coiled low in your belly.
“You could’ve just stayed home tonight,” he went on, voice tightening. “You could’ve worn something decent, left your ass in town where I could keep an eye on you. Instead you show up to the rowdiest bar in the county lookin’ like that and hangin’ off some drunk kid who couldn’t protect you from a stiff breeze.”
“I can protect myself,” you snapped, even as his fingers on your jaw had you pliant, your thighs pressing together.
He hummed, unconvinced. “Maybe. But you like makin’ me worry, don’t you?”
Your breath hitched. You tried to look away. His grip tightened, forcing your gaze back to his.
“We’re gonna have a problem if you don’t answer me when I talk to you.”
The sheer authority in his voice sent a wet rush between your thighs. You swallowed hard.
“Maybe I like the attention,” you whispered. “Sheriff.”
Something in his expression snapped.
He moved, fluid and fast. One second he was beside you, the next his hands were on you, dragging you across the vinyl until you were straddling his lap. You let out a startled little sound, hands flying up to brace on his shoulders, skirt riding up to your hips.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, big hands gripping your waist so tight you knew you’d have bruises. “You got no idea what you’re playin’ with, do you?”
“Why don’t you show me?” you shot back, because your mouth didn’t know how to quit even when your brain screamed at it to.
His eyes went dark, pupils swallowing the blue. “You want me to teach you a lesson, is that it?”
Your pulse stuttered. “Thought that’s why you dragged me into the back of your cop car.”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “You got a smart mouth for such a stupid little city girl.”
The insult shouldn’t have made you clench around nothing, but it did. Your fingernails dug into his uniform shirt.
“I’m not stupid.”
“Oh, baby.” He chuckled, and the sound was devastating. “You are when it comes to this.”
One of his hands left your waist, sliding down, fingers tracing the hem of your skirt before shoving it up, up, until it pooled around your hips. Cool air licked over your barely-there panties. His gaze dropped, jaw working when he saw the damp patch already darkening the fabric.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re soaked.”
Your cheeks burned. “That’s not—”
He cut you off with a rough squeeze of your thighs. “That for me?”
You wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him it was the heat, the dancing, anything but him. But his eyes were on you, pinning you in place, and the words that came out were a breathless, treacherous, “Yes.”
His nostrils flared. His thumb slid over the patch of wet cotton, pressing just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath.
“Say it again.”
“For you,” you whispered. “Been…been for you.”
The sharp exhale that left him sounded almost pained. His fingers pushed the damp fabric aside, finding your slick heat. You gasped, hips jolting.
“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Drippin’ down your thighs ‘cause the sheriff looked at you a little mean.”
“It’s not just—ah!” Your protest broke on a moan as his thick fingers stroked through your folds, teasing your clit with feather-light brushes that made your whole body shudder.
“Not just what, baby girl?” he asked, voice like sandpaper. “Not just ‘cause I scold you? Not just ‘cause I pull you over and make you sit there all pretty while I lecture you like a fuckin’ teenager?”
His words had you squirming, heat surging up your chest. You grabbed at his shoulders like a lifeline.
“You don’t lecture teenagers like this,” you managed, hips rocking helplessly into his hand.
He smirked, thumb finally circling your clit with real pressure that had your head dropping back.
“No,” he agreed. “Only you, apparently.”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, thick and invasive. You cried out, hands fisting in his shirt, forehead dropping to his shoulder.
“Fuck, Bucky—”
His free hand snapped up to the back of your neck, gripping hard.
“It’s Sheriff to you right now,” he growled in your ear. “You wanna scream my name, you do it when I’ve earned it.”
The way he curled his fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot, had you on the verge of screaming something.
“S-sheriff,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh my god, please—”
“Please what?” he demanded, pace relentless. The wet sounds of his fingers working in and out of you filled the small space, obscene. “Thought you liked bein’ a brat. Thought that was the whole fun of it, drivin’ me insane in front of the entire goddamn town.”
“I—” You broke off on a whimper when his thumb pressed harder on your clit, circles turning merciless. Your thighs shook.
“Cat got your tongue now?” he taunted. “All that attitude and look at you. Just a needy little mess on my lap.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, the pleasure overwhelming, sharp. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, breath coming in stuttered gasps.
“Sheriff,” you whimpered. “I’m—oh fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Already?” He sounded almost amused, fingers never slowing. “Barely touched you and you’re about to come all over my hand? Pathetic, baby. You really that starved for it?”
The degraded endearment came out on a groan. The mix of the two—baby, pathetic—made your vision go white around the edges.
“Please,” you sobbed, the tears finally spilling over, streaking down your cheeks. “Please, I can’t—”
His hand on your neck tightened, dragging your face up so he could see you.
“There she is,” he murmured, eyes fixed on your wet lashes. “There’s my pretty crybaby. Go on, then. Come for me.”
You fell apart.
Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train, tearing a hoarse cry from your throat. Your body bowed, thighs clamping around his hand as you shook, clenching hard around his fingers.
“That’s it,” he praised, voice rough. “Fuck, look at you. So good for me, baby girl. So fuckin’ good.”
He worked you through it, relentless, fingers still thrusting, thumb still circling. It was too much, everything too sensitive, and you tried to twist away.
“Too much,” you gasped. “Sheriff, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said calmly, like he wasn’t wrecking you. “‘Cause you wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted me to snap. Wanted to see what happened when the big bad sheriff stopped lettin’ you off with warnings.”
His hand between your legs didn’t stop. If anything, he picked up speed.
Your second orgasm ripped through you before you’d even fully come down from the first. The overstimulation had you sobbing outright now, tears soaking into his shirt where your face had pressed into his chest.
“That’s two,” he rasped in your ear. “You’re gonna give me another before I even think about lettin’ you off this lap.”
Your whole body trembled. You clung to him, nails surely leaving crescents in his skin, keening as the pleasure tipped over into something raw, almost painful.
“Bucky,” you choked, the name slipping out unbidden. “Bucky, please—”
He stilled.
For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally take pity on you. Then his jaw clenched, and he pulled his fingers out of you with a wet sound that had your empty cunt clenching around nothing.
“You really want it that bad, baby girl?” he asked quietly, voice like a storm. “You want my cock that much you’re cryin’ for it? Huh?”
You nodded frantically, tears still slipping down your cheeks. “Yes. Yes, please.”
He swore under his breath, low and filthy.
“Hands on the partition,” he ordered, tone snapping back to command. “Knees on the seat. Face down.”
Your body obeyed before your brain caught up. You scrambled off his lap, legs shaky, turning awkwardly on the cramped seat until your knees were sinking into the vinyl, palms braced on the cool metal mesh of the divider. Your skirt barely covered your ass, panties still pushed to the side, everything on display.
You heard his belt unbuckle, the hiss of his zipper. The rasp of him spitting into his hand, the wet slide of his palm over his cock. The image bloomed in your mind—big, thick, flushed—and your mouth watered.
He didn’t bother with preamble. One big hand wrapped around your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He pressed in slowly, the blunt head stretching you more and more and more until you cried out, forehead thumping against the partition.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, voice strained. “Jesus, you’re tight.”
You sucked in a shaking breath, every muscle tensing.
“You’re too—oh my god, you’re so big—”
He smacked your ass, sharp.
“Relax,” he ordered. “You can take it. You’re gonna take it.”
The roughness of his voice, the sting of his palm—it all blended into the molten heat building low in your belly again. You exhaled, forcing your body to loosen as best you could.
“Good girl,” he murmured as he sank in further, the praise like a balm and a brand all at once. “My good fuckin’ girl.”
The possessive made you clench around him, drawing a strangled sound from his chest. He bottomed out with a deep, guttural moan, his hips flush against your ass, his breath hot on the back of your neck.
“Feel that?” he rasped. “Feel how deep I am, baby?”
You did. God, you did. It felt like he was everywhere, like he was lodged somewhere between your ribs, stretching you to your limit. You whimpered, fingers curling around the mesh so tight your knuckles ached.
“Sheriff,” you panted. “Move. Please, just—”
His hand closed over the back of your neck again, pushing you down until your cheek was pressed to the cool metal.
“You don’t get to make demands,” he growled. “Not after how you’ve been runnin’ around my town.”
His hips pulled back, the sensation of him dragging out of you making your eyes roll back. Then he slammed back in, hard enough that you slid forward on the seat with a strangled cry.
“Fuck!”
“That’s how this works,” he went on, setting a brutal pace that had the cruiser rocking on its shocks. “You act out. I correct you. That clear enough for you, baby girl?”
You nodded frantically, anything to keep him fucking you like this. The sound of his hips slapping against your ass, the lewd squelch of your slick—if anybody walked by, they’d know exactly what was happening.
The thought only made you hotter.
“You like that,” he realized, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You like that someone could walk by and see you gettin’ railed by the sheriff like the little slut you are.”
A sob tore from your throat, half-shame, half-arousal. You didn’t bother denying it.
“Say it,” he demanded, thrusts unrelenting. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m—I’m—” The word stuck in your throat, but his hand tightened on your neck, squeezing just enough to send a dizzy thrill through you. “I’m your slut,” you gasped. “Your slutty little city girl, I—ah—”
He groaned, pace somehow increasing.
“Fuck, that’s right,” he hissed. “My mess, my problem, my baby girl with no fuckin’ sense.”
Your eyes flooded again, tears spilling over. The mix of degradation and ownership and that damned endearment broke something open in you. You sobbed, drool wetting your lips, noises spilling out uncontrolled as he drove into you again and again.
“That’s it,” he purred, hearing it. “Cry for me, baby. Let me see how sorry you are.”
You didn’t know how many times you came after that.
The first one hit quick and hard, your walls spasming around him, high-pitched cries tearing from your throat as your body shook. He fucked you through it, relentless, muttering filth into your ear.
“Such a good toy. Look at you, squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You were made for this cock, weren’t you?”
The second came on its heels, barely a respite between. Your muscles ached, thighs trembling uncontrollably, but he held you in place, big hand spread over your belly now, pressing down to feel himself inside you.
“Gonna fuck you stupid,” he grunted. “Gonna fuck all that attitude right outta you.”
By the third, you were screaming hoarsely, voice cracking. Tears streamed down your face, breath hitching in harsh sobs as your body shuddered around him, nerves frayed raw from the constant stimulation.
“Bucky,” you keened, not even bothering to correct yourself this time. “Can’t—can’t anymore, I can’t—”
He groaned, thrusts stuttering for a second as the sound of his name in your wrecked voice hit him.
“Yes, you can,” he insisted, voice ragged. “You’re doin’ so good, baby girl. Such a good girl for me, takin’ everything I give you.”
The praise slotted into the cracks the degradation had carved out, filling them with molten gold. You sobbed, nodding weakly, clinging to his words like a lifeline.
“That’s my girl,” he panted. “My perfect little fucktoy. Gonna fill you up, okay? You want that?”
You nodded frantically, babbling nonsense. “Yes, yes, please, oh god—”
He swore, a harsh, guttural sound. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, I’m—shit, baby, I’m—”
His thrusts turned erratic, sloppy, and then he buried himself to the hilt with a strangled groan, cock pulsing deep inside you as he came. The warmth flooded your already oversensitive core, tipping you into yet another shuddering orgasm that had you wailing into the partition.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your combined panting, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant chirp of crickets.
Then his weight slumped over you, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and uneven against your neck. His hand loosened on your nape, thumb stroking absently over damp skin.
“You alive?” he murmured after a moment, voice rough but…softer.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob.
“Debatable,” you croaked. “I think you broke me.”
He huffed, the sound warm against your ear. Carefully, he eased out of you. You winced at the loss, at the oversensitive ache. His hands were gentle as he tugged your panties back into place, smoothing your skirt down over your shaking thighs.
“Hey,” he said quietly when you stayed slumped against the partition, eyes squeezed shut. “Look at me, baby girl.”
You turned your head slowly. He looked just as wrecked as you felt—hair mussed, beard shadow darker, lips swollen, a sheen of sweat on his brow. There was something else in his eyes now, though, something concerned.
“You okay?” he asked. Not Sheriff Barnes now. Just Bucky. “You need water? Break? You tell me if I pushed you too far.”
The worry in his voice made your throat tighten for an entirely different reason. Fresh tears pricked, softer this time.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I…yeah. I’m okay.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. One big hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb wiping away the tear tracks.
“You sure?”
You nodded, leaning into his touch without thinking.
“Yeah,” you said, voice a little steadier. “Just…holy shit.”
He chuckled, the sound low and pleased.
“Language,” he chided automatically, and you snorted, swatting at his chest.
“Seriously? After what you just did to me?”
His mouth curved in a smug little smirk.
“Consider it part of your rehabilitation,” he said. “We’re workin’ on your drivin’ and your mouth.”
You rolled your eyes, but the affection laced through his teasing made your chest warm.
“So what now?” you asked, suddenly aware of the fact that you were still in the back of his cruiser, skirt askew, makeup smudged, hair a disaster. “You, uh…gonna arrest me for disturbing the peace?”
He snorted. “Sweetheart, if I was gonna arrest you, it’d be for attempted manslaughter. You been tryin’ to kill me with those little outfits since you got here.”
You grinned, triumphant despite your limp limbs. “Maybe I just liked the attention, Sheriff.”
He shook his head, thumb brushing one last time over your cheek before he drew back.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
The admission made your heart skip.
He cleared his throat, shifting back into his professional tone.
“I’m takin’ you home,” he said. “You can come pick up your car tomorrow. Sober.”
“I’m not drunk,” you protested, even as he opened the back door and held out a hand to help you out. Your legs nearly gave out when your boots hit the gravel. His hands shot to your waist, steadying you. “Okay, maybe my legs are drunk.”
He smiled, soft and smug all at once.
“That’s ‘cause you’ve got no damn stamina,” he said, steering you around to the passenger side. “We’ll have to work on that, too.”
You stopped short, tipping your head back to look up at him.
“We?”
His jaw worked. For a second, the sheriff, the man who’d kept you at arm’s length for weeks, looked almost…uncertain.
“Unless you’re plannin’ on causin’ trouble in someone else’s jurisdiction,” he said finally, shrugging one broad shoulder. “In which case, I guess I’ll have to write you a real ticket this time, just to remember you by.”
Your chest squeezed.
“I think I’ll stick around,” you said softly.
Something in his gaze went molten.
“Yeah,” he murmured, opening the door for you and helping you into the front seat this time. “I was hopin’ you’d say that, baby girl.”
As he rounded the hood and climbed into the driver’s seat, you watched his hands on the wheel, the familiar curve of his profile haloed by the dash lights. Your body ached in the best way, your cheeks were blotchy from crying, and your mascara was a mess.
You’d definitely caused trouble in this sleepy little town.
And if the way Sheriff Barnes’ hand found your thigh as he pulled out of the parking lot was any indication, the lessons were just getting started.
I miss my darling husband.
Nanamin headcanons I've been having for a while cuz I feel like he and Aleksander would get along
also Veil inspired bc I havent found a place to get the next volume and am now having serious withdrawals.
Nanami Kento who develops a silly little crush on you, his blind condo neighbor.
its the silliest thing ever really. you barely know each other aside from a passing hello and the few times he bring your packages up because of a delivery mishap.
Nanami Kento who religiously uses a specific brand of cologne, lotion and shampoo so you're able to recognize him by scent no matter the time of day.
Nanami Kento who tweaks his schedule to tailor every possible encounter so he steps out a minute before you. messing with his keys and the front door so you can hear when he's coming and going.
Nanami Kento who greets you every morning with the same low smoky voice, his steps measured and heavy in a way that he hopes you'd be able to pick out in a stampede of others. he mumbles the gentlest 'excuse me,' to your guide dog as well.
Nanami Kento who notices that you always hover a hand over the elevator pad and ghost it up and down till you've reach the ground floors button. he doesn't say anything of course, there's braille embossed on each button and you seem to purposefully avoid it.
its on a rare evening that he leaves work early, he decides to snap a quick picture of the elevator pad and do a bit of research. imagine his surprize when he finds the braille in the elevator is in english and not japanese.
Nanami Kento who composes an email to the HOA and landlord addressing the issue, formally requesting that the braille be corrected.
Nanami Kento who offers helping carry your groceries because even with good intention he hadn't thought the HOA and landlords would immediately jump to action and shut the elevator down for a week for some maintenance and repairs.
Nanami Kento who gets a little giddy the first time you step into the elevator with him, hand already poised to count your way to the ground floors button.
He watches entranced when you index finger ghosts the button, the way you freeze for a moment before gently thumbing up each and every one, wordlessly mouthing out the numbers. he considers this the highlight of his month because you're smiling, clearly happy.
its a little thing he intends to savor.
Nanami Kento who finally leaves his dead end finance job and gets roped back into being a sorcerer, leaving his polished schedule in disarray. it makes him a little grumpy cause he finally worked up the nerve to strike up a bit of conversation on your morning rides down to the lobby.
he comes home one evening somewhat achy and bruised, shoko did what she could and all he really needs is rest. Its such a simple thing; a sealed tupperware on his doormat. there's a cat shaped sticky note slapped on the side with sprawling hand writing. "I made extra, " the penmanship presses heavily and he's able to flip the note and see the little indentations you'd tried a few other words before settling on this.
'did you change work schedules? dont overwhelm yourself! :D'
'I tried a new recipe and-'
he's barely able to make it out but its there. and you know he's made it home from the partially muffled sound of his keys jangling as he makes his way in.
Nanami Kento who returns the favor by offering to drive you to work because its storming that the trains are bound to be full. He holds the door open as your guide dog hops into the back seat and waits until you've settled into the passenger seat before he starts the engine.
that's how he realizes that you're a professor, and bless you and your chatty habits because it makes the monday traffic fly by. it eventually becomes a part of his routine as well.
Nanami Kento who sits in on one of your lectures and tiny part of his soul leaves his body when your head turns to look in his general direction. and after your evening class has trickled out he asks and you admit its his cologne that gives him away.
Nanami Kento who deals with an annoying new condo resident one floor above you both, they've been making snide remarks about how you dont need to your 'pet' miku and makes sure to be extra loud when they talk over the phone that the condos in this specific area dont allow people to keep pets and strays whenever they catch you in the elevator.
kento takes it into his own hands and politely asks if the person themselves has any disability and immediately follows it up with stating that you and your service animal have been here longer. they stutter some excuses and wander back to the elevator in an attempt of fleeing.
Nanami Kento who you invite over for dinner one night and it completely slips your mind that he can see. he's already thirty minutes in eyes well adjusted to the dark, when you audibly gasp, "Oh my god, you can see-" you rush out, springing up from the kitchen table and reaching for the light switch. one thumb moving over braille as you turn on the living room and kitchen lights.
Nanami Kento who keeps a spare walking stick in his car just incase you both happen to take a detour. and one day when you press a spare house key into his broad palm, he rationalizes that its cause you could lose yours, so of course he'll hold onto these for you. he only ever comes around when you call for him.
Nanami Kento who takes you to his favorite bakery for what he says is the best sourdough bread in existence. and the bakery owner seems elated to see he's doing better. "He looked so gloomy before!" she chirps, packaging your orders with a bright smile, "I didnt think he'd ever come back."
Nanami Kento who you invite over every other evening for evening tea and a snack. he brings a few novels along, reading them through out loud with the occasional commentary.
you've got your head rested on your crossed arms, hunched forward in your lounge chair as he goes on a tangent about how one of the character in this book makes no sense, no offense to the author of course.
Nanami Kento who helps take miku to the vet for a possible ear infection. he's so attentive with the questions and the required grooming process and what else he may need to help with.
Nanami Kento who smells like smoky cedar and dark cherry. its the kind of woodsy scent that lingers around your kitchen whenever you have him over for dinner. you swear its woven into the fabric of your couch.
you find his voice to be pleasant to the ears. a low smoky cadence that stays monotonous regardless of what he has to say, but he speaks so gently with you, the slight breathiness in his words leave you fascinated with how he sees the world.
Nanami Kento who you realize, only wears a particular set of leather gloves in winter so you bait him into helping you get a pair of fuzzy mittens. 'Its impractical,' he reasons, 'how on earth are you going to write with those on'
its only later he realizes the mits are a few sizes too big for your hands. and he accepts them as a gift when you hand them over. he wears them on occasion. but not around gojo. Never around gojo.
Nanami Kento who realizes its not just a silly crush. he's falling in love.
double post cuz I made the Zayne one last night and I keep thinking abt nanami. im gonna bake something in honor of his memory. none of this was proof read. I have plans to make one for higuruma too. prepare.
May I pretty please request a short blurb of Bucky with a reader who has an abnormally high sex drive?
Bucky With a Girlfriend Who Has a High Sex Drive
WC 919 (yay I’m getting better at writing shorter fics!)
TW established relationship, super-soldier stamina, very very suggestive
Bucky thought he had a high sex drive.
He had enhanced stamina, enhanced recovery, enhanced everything, and for a while he assumed that meant he was a problem. He wanted you too much. There would be too many mornings where he woke up hard against your thigh, too many nights where kissing you once turned into him pinning you beneath him until the headboard creaked.
He had even warned you when you first started officially dating.
He did it like he was admitting to a terrible flaw instead of looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes and telling you he wanted you all the fucking time.
“I’m not exactly normal about… sex,” he’d said, thumb dragging over your wrist. “The serum changed things. Stamina. Appetite. Um… drive.”
Your mouth had twitched into a smile. “Appetite?”
His ears had gone pink, but he held your stare. “Yeah.”
You had looked him up and down, shameless enough to make his teeth clench.
“Hm,” you’d said. “We’ll see about that.”
Bucky had been so sure. He really thought the serum meant that he’d have to tone it down.
Then, after months of being friends with benefits, he learned what you were like when you were in a relationship.
You might have an even higher sex drive.
You’re not exactly louder about it. Sometimes you were sweet. Domestic and barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, humming into your coffee like you hadn’t dragged him in bed three times yesterday.
But then you’d look at him over the rim of your mug.
That look.
Bucky would recognise the mischief in your eyes low in his stomach before you even opened your mouth.
“Buck,” you’d say, soft and sweet.
And he’d groan like a man already defeated.
“Again?” he asked once, voice rough, half laughing into the crook of your neck while you climbed into his lap like the answer was obvious.
You blinked at him, looking at him with innocent eyes and bare thighs bracketing his hips. “Is that a no?”
His hands tightened on your waist so fast it gave him away.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, of course it’s not a no.”
You smiled, smug and pretty, and rocked down against him until his head tipped back against the couch.
Bucky had been tortured, frozen, shot at, thrown through walls.
Nothing humbled him like you wanting him.
You got him messy. Everyone thought Bucky Barnes was disciplined, but you got him undone.
You got his mouth open. You got his hair ruined. You got his metal hand gripping the couch hard enough to make the frame creak while his flesh hand slid between your legs and found you already soaked for him.
“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hummed, pleased, rolling your hips against him. “I thought you had enhanced stamina.”
His laugh came out broken. “I do.”
“Then keep up.”
His eyes went dark.
“Yeah?” he murmured, and the next second he had you under him, your back pressed into the cushions, his body heavy between your thighs. “That what you want?”
You reached down, wrapped your hand around him and watched his eyes nearly roll back.
Every time, that was your favourite part.
That ruined, hungry look when he pushed inside you and had to pause like he was praying for control he didn’t have. Not that you even wanted it.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You smiled against his mouth, moving around him just to feel the shudder move through his whole body.
“Still think the serum makes you special?”
Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.
Then he started moving.
Slow at first, because he was still your Bucky, because your pleasure was a mission he intended to complete with military precision. But then you hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and the sound he made was almost inhuman.
“You’re greedy,” he said, kissing your jaw, your throat, and the corner of your mouth.
“You love it.”
His hips snapped forward harder, and you gasped.
His mouth brushed your ear.
“Fuck,” he admitted, voice low. “I do.”
Boy did he love being wrong about your sex drive.
He loved that you wanted him past the point of reason. He loved that you could make a super soldier sweat, make his thighs shake, make him press his face into your neck and laugh breathlessly.
He loved dragging you into bed after dinner because he had looked at you too long. Loved waking up to your mouth on his throat and your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. Loved the mornings where he ended up late because you had tugged him back by the chain of his dog tags and whispered, “One more.”
One more was never one more. Bucky learned that quickly. Not that he would have it any other way.
And every single time, he pretended to complain. He’d groan your name, call you trouble, tell you that you were going to get him fired from the new avengers, as if they could ever afford to fire him.
Still, his hands would already be on your waist, his mouth already open against your skin.
He would already be hard again, heavy and flushed between your thighs, because the truth was embarrassingly simple:
Bucky thought he had a high sex drive. Then he met yours.
He realised, very quickly, that he had been outmatched.
—
Note : I’m supposed to post a John Walker kofi request today, but I'm still unhappy with it so I’m gonna look at it with fresh eyes. Probably going to post that Sunday/Monday now!
Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (p in v, fingering), light angst, fluff, humor, action, no use of y/n, semi-linear story telling, enemies to lovers
Summary: You've made a mistake. You've been reckless and fallen in love with Bucky. There's only one way to deal with this.
Make a list.
Author's Note: This is one of my favorites, I think. Thriving in the semi-linear story telling, feelings, and list making. Gotta love a good list. Enjoy!
Word Count: 11.9k
The pen in your hands feels more like a weapon. The last line of defense against the unthinkable.
The only thing holding your sanity, dignity, and life by a single thread, set to snap if you’re not careful.
Nobody will bother you in this coffee shop. Not even Bucky will look for you here. You’re in public. You’re somewhere obvious and simple, and that’s the whole point. Sam and Bucky will lose themselves down dark allies and in hidden corners of the city before they think to check an emotionally significant landmark in downtown Manhattan. They won’t believe you’d be that stupid, make it that easy for them. They’ll think that—because you’re dodging calls, because you were gone when Bucky woke up and you didn’t meet with Sam before lunch—you don’t want to be found.
And you don’t.
So they’re not going to find you.
There’s a lingering fear that a search team might be assembled, and the city may be barricaded in until you’re found, but you don’t think Sam will abuse his power like that.
Bucky might try to convince him to.
You’re about fifty percent sure Sam won’t cave.
It’s a bridge you’ll burn when you reach it. When they do—eventually—find you. When you—hopefully—have your answer, and you have to look Bucky in the eyes and keep finding a way to live with yourself.
If this goes as you hope, that will be quite easy. You’ll lie through your teeth and say you lost your phone—it’s right next to you, the SIM card removed and battery purposefully dead, but they never need to know that—and thought that Sam and Bucky would be able to find you if they needed you. They’ll look embarrassed and make a silent vow to each other that you’ll pretend not to see—swearing that they’ll never tell you how they almost called the coast guard in—and then everything will go back to normal.
If it goes the way you’re afraid of, that will be more complicated. You’re not entertaining that possibility with things like plans or strategies, because you simply won’t allow it to happen. This will work. You have the pen, the paper, and at least eight hours before Sam and Bucky grow a brain cell and figure out where you are.
Deep breath. The coffee in front of you is sweeter than you’d usually want it, almost sickly, but it can be a motivation. The coffee shop is crowded, and the tables are blue. You can smell the decorative roses on the windows. You can hear the music in your earbuds. The pen is heavy in your hands, but all that means is it’s real. And this is going to work.
List of Reasons to Hate Bucky-
You pause, and scratch out Bucky. It’s too intimate. You’re setting yourself up for failure.
List of Reasons to Hate James Barnes.
You have reason one locked and loaded. You’ve been rehearsing the whole list for a week—since the revelation that can’t be spoken of, because that will make it real—and you know half of your pre-planned reasons will drift into nothing as you go through the list, but at least you’ll have one.
It’s better than none of them.
You’re a little worried a hundred won’t do the job.
You have to try anyway.
1. He stares.
——————
You don’t know how you got here. Sitting across from Captain America, kicking your feet slightly and humming to yourself as he and his very angry looking sidekick glare at you.
It seems like a contest, trying to figure out who will break and speak first.
It won’t be you.
Captain America is out of his suit, and, logically, you know his wings won’t just spring out of his body. They’re mechanical, not biological. Part of you is still wondering—should you move suddenly and startle him—if he’ll squak and take off like a real bird.
He won’t, and you don’t think either of these men will find that as funny as you will. The Cap seems intently focused on trying to puff out his chest in his chair—like an odd sort of intimidation ritual or mating dance, done more on instinct than logic—and his sidekick is looking at you as if you’re the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen.
You’ve gotten that look before. It doesn’t shake you on his face any more than it does anyone else, but there is something… different. Most people will glare with that revolted look at what you’ve done, and for what expression, and it won’t sink deeper than your skin, because they don’t understand. They don’t know what the shadows and colder nights feel like, they don’t know how long you’ve been broken and alone, they don’t know that—whatever loathing for you has wormed its way into their heart—they don’t hate you. They hate what you’ve done, and they really don’t fucking understand.
This guy looks like he understands you perfectly, and it’s viler to him than anything in the world. Like he knows exactly who you are, like every marred and twisted organ is visible to his unwavering stare, and it’s the worst thing he’s even seen.
You’d laugh, if it didn’t cause an odd sting in your heart. Because you know who Bucky Barnes is. You know that any blood on your hands is mirrored on his, and if he really knows who you are, he’ll think better than to turn the violent glint behind his eyes into action.
Especially because you know he won’t hurt you. He can’t, but you don’t think he’ll even try. He’s cured. He’s free. He doesn’t hurt people anymore, and you’re technically a person.
You’re also starting to be incredibly certain that this is some sort of staring competition. There’s no other reason for the silence to be stretching on this pointlessly long. It’s a little amusing, how they seem to have started a game they’ll never win, but it doesn’t change what’s happening. You’re handcuffed to a chair in an unknown location, Captain America and the Ex-Winter Solider are trying to break you with only very angry expressions, and you could escape in a second but you’re bored, and you don’t care about winning, but you want them to lose.
And they do.
Because Captain America breaks first, and smile pulls at your lips that you don’t bother to hide.
“You know why you’re here?”
You shrug, keeping your voice bored and amused. “Should I?”
He blinks at that, looking over his shoulder at Barnes, and letting out a long breath as his companion just keeps glaring at you. “Buck-“
“Don’t say my name, dumbass-“
“She already knows who we are-“
“She hasn’t been in damn public for a decade, we don’t know what she knows-“
“Man, c’mon, Fisk has TVs.” Captain America rolls his eyes, and turns back to you. “You know who we are?”
“I don’t think so?” You look between them with your best, perfectly innocent and confused expression. “Should I?”
Barnes narrows his eyes, scanning over you with an unblinking fury that’s almost scary. Not quite, but almost.
“You know who we are.”
“I don’t think I do-“
Barnes scoffs. “Don’t lie-“
Captain America shakes his head, cutting Barnes off with a firm glare. “I dunno, man, you’re the one who said-“
“I know what I said, but- You’re really falling for that?” Barnes gestures to you with a scowl, and you give him a sweet smile in return. “She’s clearly lying, Sam-“
Sam rolls his eyes. “Who’s sayin’ names now, Bucky-“
You clear your throat, and they both look back to you with almost twin, venomous glowers.
“What.” Sam snaps, and you let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Do I have to stay tied to the chair while you two fight? Or can I go home?”
“Home?” Barnes gives you a pointed look. “You gonna head right back to Fisk, doll?”
You don’t answer, just shrugging and letting your smile widen, even as the thought of willingly running home to fucking Fisk makes bile rise in your throat.
Barnes holds your gaze with a glare. You don’t think you’ve seen him blink once. It might be the main thing keeping you in this chair.
You want to see what they have to say, and you’d really like to see if Barnes can blink, or if it will make his circuits fry and heart go into an arrest.
You get the former first, when Sam runs a hand over his face, leans forward in his chair, and mutters your name. Your real name.
He knows your name. That’s interesting.
“Look, we-“ He glances at Barnes—still glaring at you—and lets out a long breath. “We know who you are.”
“Oh?” You look between them will well-practiced, faux innocence. “Do you?”
“Fisk’s pet.” Barnes grunts, and Sam sighs again. He seems to do that a lot.
“I- Coulda phrased it better, but yeah. You’re his hit… woman.” Sam’s voice drops as he continues, watching you carefully. “Look, we got an opportunity for you. Help us bring down Fisk, you get a full par-“
“Okay.”
Sam frowns. “I wasn’t done-“
“I don’t care.” You shrug. “I’m in. Can you let me out now?”
“Uh-“
“That’s it?” Barnes cuts Sam off with a snap, his tone full of a disgust that’s a little dramatic. “You’re just- You’re gonna flip like that? No questions, no loyalty? Out of fuckin’ self-preservation?”
You snort, not bothering to sit up as you hold his gaze. “Of course it’s out of self-preservation. Would you rather I hold my moral high-ground and keep working for the evil crime lord? Would that be better for you? Cause I can flip back, you just need to say the word and I’ll go tell Fisk that Captain America tried to cut a deal with me-“
“Hey, no.” Sam holds up his hand, letting out a long, slow breath as he glares at Barnes. “C’mon, man, you know we get one shot at this, stop antagonizing her-“
“She’s antagonizing me.” Barnes mutters, and you scoff.
“You’re not the one cuffed to a chair, dipshit-“
“You-“ Barnes’ jaw clenches, and his hands curl at his side. Maybe he’ll punch you. That feels like it’ll help, somehow. “Sam, this cannot be our only option. She,” he gestures to you, and you wink at him. It doesn’t help. “Is not the only person in the whole damn city that works for Fisk. We’ll find another-“
“I’m the only person he trusts that will flip.” You hum. “Everyone else in his inner circle believes in the cause, or something. They love him, worship the ground he walks on. I’m the Stockholm puppy, they’ll never assume I flipped, and they’ll tell me whatever I ask because they don’t think I’d have this,” you give a vague wave of your hand in Sam and Bucky’s direction. “In me. I’m not just your only option. I’m your best option.”
There’s a long silence as they stare at you— incredibly uncuffed from the chair—and before Barnes can lunge at you with what might have been snarl, Sam stands up, shoves him away, and they exchange low, angry words.
You settle for examining your nails as you wait, and Barnes’ glare pushes right under skin and sticks to it. You don’t know how you know, but there’s a very certain feeling that for the rest of your life you’re going to feel a buzzing, electric heat under your skin that’s entirely made of James Barnes, glaring at you.
You really don’t think he can blink.
But you’ll have plenty of time to find out, because when they return it’s with the news that they’ve come to an agreement—more likely Barnes lost an argument, but you don’t really care—that you’re in.
Barnes won’t stop staring at you. And you could leave, if you wanted.
But you’re interested in seeing how this plays out. And Barnes may be rearranging every nerve point and organ in your body with only his attention, but that isn’t nearly as important as getting away from Fisk.
So you stare right back.
——————
Reason two is a little harder. You’d had it lined up as well, but it hurts to even think.
You have to. If you’re going to get through this, you have to write down all the reason, even if you’d punch anyone else square in the jaw for saying them.
Bucky doesn’t deserve this. You need to pretend he does.
For your own sanity, you need to pretend he does.
2. He can be an asshole.
You don’t make it three second before something rattles in your body, and you add-
But so can you.
——————
“You know,” Barnes drawls behind you, and it’s amazing how bad he can be at shutting up. This is supposed to be a stealth mission. He hasn’t stop talking to you since Sam put you two on a team and then fucked off to go fly around the warehouse. “The spider kid’s told us all about you, doll-“
“Parker?” You hum, and Barnes blinks.
There it is.
“How’d you- No-“
“I know Spider-man’s Peter Parker.” You give Barnes an overly sweet smile, and you’ve been their double agent for a month of back-alley meetings and careful exchanges in noisy rooms, but it hasn’t seemed to stop getting under his skin. “I’ve known for like, five years.”
Barnes shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe you. Like you just somehow guessed. “But Fisk doesn’t-“
“I didn’t tell Fisk.”
You turn back to the path ahead of you, and you can still feel Barnes’ glower.
“You think you’re fuckin’ smart, kid-“
“Yes, I do.” You throw him another smile over your shoulder, and his glare deepens. “What did Peter tell you about me?”
“That you’re kind of a bitch.” Barnes grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“He’s just still mad I gave him a concussion.” You mutter. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t mean to give him a fucking concussion-“
“I didn’t know how strong he’d be. It was new, I thought I’d just be breaking his nose-“
Barnes grabs your arm, yanking you back without warning and covering your mouth with a gloved hand, muffling your yelp.
“Be more careful.” He grunts in your ear. “Almost walked right into the open, you’ll get yourself shot.”
If you lean a little further back, your skin will touch his. Maybe he’d be stronger than Parker. Maybe you could hit hard enough to knock a new personality into him.
Because for the past week, Barnes has been a fucking dick. You understand not trusting you. It’s a reasonable conclusion to reach.
But he doesn’t listen. He shoots down all your intel and acts both like you’re a weak little child, and an atomic bomb set to go off any second. You’re neither. You want Fisk dead more than anyone, and you’re in complete control. If you weren’t, you would’ve killed him days ago, and never even fucking blinked.
It’s a testament to that control, that you shove yourself away from him without tapping into Parker’s strength. You could’ve sent him flying out the window, if you wanted. But you’re being diplomatic, and you’re trying to do the goddamn mission, so you don’t.
“Don’t grab me.” You snap, and Barnes scowls.
“I was helping you-“
“Did I ask you to?”
“No.” He narrows his eyes, taking a firm step forward until you’re almost nose to nose. “But if you die, Sam will yell at me. So be more damn careful.”
The staring contest lasts another minute before Sam’s voice crackles in both your ears, and you have to get back to work. By the time they’re fighting some of Fisk’s men—you’ve been, fucking stupidly, sidelined so as not to blow your cover—Barnes has called you incompetent in ten more ways. You’re too loud. Too smug for someone who’s not doing anything. You’re slowing them down, and he’s stuck babysitting you for your shitty intel—shitty intel that got them here, but he seems to be selectively ignoring that—and you’re too willing to kill people and run into fights with no powers.
He’s used that one a lot, after you’d convinced Fisk to give you a vacation and started to crash with Sam. Barnes has muttered countless times that he can’t believe you’re the woman everyone in New York is afraid of.
“Who says I have no powers,” you’d snapped after the third low comment, sprawled out on Sam’s couch and watching TV, and Barnes had rolled his eyes.
“Whenever you’re ready to prove you got some, doll, I’m ready.” He’d raised his brows in a silent challenge, holding your glare. “Until then, get off my couch.”
“It’s Sam’s couch. And I’m watching TV.”
“All you fucking do is watch TV, doll, can’t be good for you-“
“Aw,” you’d shot him another sickly-sweet smile. “The old man is worried about my screen time-“
“You’re hogging it.” He’d grunted, ignoring your teasing, and you’d flipped him off.
“Sam doesn’t have any good books, and I’m not allowed to have a phone. What the fuck else am I supposed to do?”
You’d won the argument. Barnes had circled back to you being a waste of space—and you were, but he didn’t know that—and not actually having any powers, so in your eyes, that meant you won.
Because you do have powers. You’ve been saving it for a good moment. Just to prove your point, you’ll use them in a way that blows his stupid fucking mind, and really makes him feel like a dumbass.
That moment comes when one of Fisk’s men is aiming a gun right at his back, he’s turning a little too slow, and Sam is all the way on the other side of the room.
You’re on the ceiling.
You drop down with the dramatic, fancy landing you’ve been practicing since you got skin-to-skin contact with Parker, and punch the grunt backward into the wall.
There’s a sickening crack sound from the impact, and it rattles over your ribs and skull. You memorize his face, and add it to your tally. Your graveyard. Another piece of you that will never get to be whole or clean.
When you turn back to Barnes, he’s staring at you, a look of borderline amusing confusion on his face.
“You-“ He glances up to the ceiling, and shakes his head. “You just fucking killed that guy.”
Your teeth almost snap in your mouth, and you feel a little bit of bile in your throat.
“Obviously.” You mutter, flexing your fist as you let Parker’s powers go dormant once more. “And it saved your life. You’re welcome.”
Barnes narrows his eyes. “I didn’t say thank you-“
“You should work on that, then.” You snap, storming past him as Sam wraps up the last grunt. “It’s rude.”
——————
Your coffee is finally finished, but it’s more bitter than normal on your tongue.
You think you might just miss Bucky, and it’s having a physical effect on your body.
You need to keep going.
3. He’s bad at using his words.
——————
You jump out of your seat when the book slams down in front of you.
“What the fuck-“
“Go read.” Barnes grunts, dropping down at your side. “My turn with the TV.”
You gape at him, not bothering to hide the slight amusement in your voice. “Your turn- Are you fucking five-“
“No. Read.”
“I-“
“Read.”
You scowl, and whack him on the arm with the book. “Stop interrupting me, Barnes-“
“Stop calling me Barnes,” he snaps your name in a mocking tone, catching your book before it can land on his arm once more, shoving it fully into your hands. “Go read.”
“I-“ You swallow, watching him wearily, hugging the book to your chest without thought. “What?”
His jaw ticks slightly. “Read-“
“No, why don’t you want me to call you Barnes.”
He’s silent for a long second, staring at the black TV screen with an unreadable expression.
“You call Sam his name.” He finally mutters, something bitter in his voice. “And the spider kid Peter. We’re supposed to be a fucking team. Use my name.”
You narrow your eyes. “You never thanked me for saving your life. Teammates thank each other.”
“That’s your thanks, genius.” He taps the book, still not fully looking at you. “Read it.”
He won that conversation. You don’t have a good response to that, so Bucky won. The asshole.
He buys you five more books in the next two weeks. One for every successful mission. And when you end up with a large gash on your leg, he half shoves you down onto the couch and kneels at your feet, patching it up without a word.
You don’t like the silence. It’s too heavy around your throat.
Only half a second later—like he can hear the stutter in your every breath—Bucky breaks it.
“You didn’t need to jump in front of me.”
“You were going to get shot, dummy.” You snap, crossing your arms and leaning back on the couch. “I did you a favor. Say thank you.”
He doesn’t. He won’t. But you know you’ll get another new book tomorrow, and that’s enough.
“Didn’t know you could get hurt.” He still won’t look up from your leg. “Thought I saw you get shot last week and walk it off.”
“I was ready for that.” You mutter, wincing as Bucky presses the rubbing alcohol to your leg. “This- fuck- I got caught off guard. Won’t happen again.”
He grunts, frowning at your leg. “You’re… selectively invulnerable.”
“If I chose right, yeah.”
That gets him to look at you. There’s the usual confusion clouding his eyes, along with… something else. Something deeper and vaster than the ocean, that’s almost jarring to see. Not frightening. Just different. Strange.
“What the fuck are you?”
His tone isn’t hateful. There’s a strange kind of light in it. Like awe.
Not awe.
But like it.
“I’m-“ You swallow, and you haven’t ever really explained it. Once Fisk made you, you just were. Once he figured out what you could do, it was all you did. Nobody asked. They never had to.
Bucky bows his head again, glaring at your leg as he speaks. “You don’t gotta tell me-“
“Shut up. I’m a mimic.”
He looks back up with raised brows, and you take a deep breath before you continue.
“Fisk created me. Partnered with some crazy scientists, saved me out of a home, and made me into his little pet hero. I can mimic anyone’s DNA, if I touch them skin to skin. It’s just- I only use it on superheroes. Otherwise it’s not really useful.”
Bucky glances down at his gloved hands with a small frown, then back to you. “You stick to the ceiling a lot.”
You nod, and shrug. “I’ve touched Parker, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s how I know who he is. I beat him in a fight, unmasked him, and he was-“ You swallow, a knot tightening and grinding in your stomach, and Bucky finishes for you.
“Just a kid.”
“Just a kid.” You echo. “Couldn’t kill him. Never want to kill any of them. But there’s-“
“Not a choice.” He mutters, and the strange thing in his eyes seems clearer. “Bite down on this.”
You blink at him. “Wha-“
Bucky shoves the glove from his flesh hand into your mouth, and starts the first stitch.
The next day, there’s a phone and a book waiting for you in the kitchen.
——————
It takes too long to come up with the next reason. You get lost in thoughts of how you’ve read that same book a dozen times, and you’d caught Bucky reading your annotations with adorable concentration only a few weeks ago.
He always spends more time reading your thoughts than the actual story.
And it had hit you then, too. You can’t think about that, because it’s making this impossible. You can’t think about how Bucky had fallen asleep reading your annotations and looked adorable, or how the phone he gave you is the same one on the table next you right now. How the case on it is the one you bought as he hung over your shoulder, muttering how phone cases were stupid.
You’d made him show you his phone, after he’d said that. The screen had been cracked and shattered, and it had taken a month to get him to buy another.
That can be a list point. You’re back on your game.
You almost write stubborn, but you substitute it for something stronger at the last second.
4. He can be controlling
You stare at it for a long moment, because something is off. Bucky can be controlling. He can man-handle you and order you around, his voice low and smooth and the intensity in his eyes a little dizzying-
“Shit.” You mutter under your breath. You messed up again.
Because you’re right.
But, fuck, it turns you on.
——————
“You need to stop fucking doing this,” Bucky mutters your name, his metal arm holding you in place as he pressed another round of rubbing alcohol over your gut. “One day you’re not gonna get lucky.”
You wince, but give him a weak smile. “I got shot, Buck, I wouldn’t call that lucky-“
“You got shot.” He hisses, scowling up at you. “Because you were fucking reckless.”
“I saved you-“
“That is not your job, kid-“
“Then stop almost getting shot!”
“I-“ Bucky lets out a slow breath from between his teeth, shaking his head slowly. “No. That’s my job. You’re not even supposed to be in the field-“
“But I am.” You snap. “And I’m not just going to let you get hurt-“
“You’re not letting me do anything.” He mutters, setting down the bottle as he moves back to the medkit. “You’re done in the field.”
You gape at him, the words too slow to sink it. Bucky said them too casually. He said them like they were his call to make.
“What the fuck are you talking about-“
“You’re not going out there again.” He grunts. His metal hand is still on your leg. “We’re almost done anyway. You’re best for intel.”
“Int-“ You cut yourself off with a scoff, glaring down at him. “You are not my boss, James-“
“No. I’m not.” His jaw ticks slightly. He still won’t meet your eyes. “But if I see you in the field again, I’m handcuffing you to your bed.”
He says that so easily, and a heat you have to ignore pools in your stomach.
“What the fuck are you talking about.” You hiss, leaning down to try and drag his attention fully to your glare. “I am not going to just sit at home-“
“Yeah.” He grunts, still not looking up. “You are.”
“I told you, you are not in charge of me-“
He snorts. “If I was in charge of you, doll, you’d be on full fucking lockdown.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean-“
“Don’t worry about it-“
“James Barnes. Fucking look at me.”
He tenses, and drag his eyes to yours as if the action pains him. “What.”
“I am going to keep working.” You hiss. “Because it’s my job. And if you’ve got a problem with that-“
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously I have a fucking problem with it. And I’m deadly serious,” he grunts your name, holding your gaze. “You try and go on another mission, you’re getting cuffed.”
“We’re so fucking close, you asshole, you don’t get to bench me now-“
“That exactly why I’m benching you-“
“Because we’re close? What, you worried I’m gonna flee the moment we wrap this up?”
If you were furious with Bucky, you’d be worried he was going to break his jaw. “No.”
“So it’s not because you don’t trust me?” You sneer, and he shoots you of a look practical shock.
“Of course I fucking trust you-“
“Then why Bucky?! You can’t just fucking bench me and not tell me why! This is my fight too, and if you think fucking handcuffs are going hold me-“
“I won’t cuff you if you listen-“
“I won’t listen if you don’t speak fucking clearly-“
“It’s- fuck- It’s because Fisk is going to know it’s you soon!” He roars, and you freeze. You’ve heard him yell before, but not like this. There’s something hot behind it. Something almost pained. “You know what he’ll do when he’s figures out where you went off to?! What you’ve been doing, that you’ve been working with Me and Sam?!”
“I-“
“I’m not gonna be the one they’re aiming at anymore, doll. And they’re gonna be shooting to kill. And what if I’m not fast enough?!” he squeezes your leg, his lips curling as his eyes dart down to the wound ripping open your stomach. “What if they’re shooting you, and you’re not ready, and I’m too fucking slow?!”
“Bucky-“
“I’ll fucking lose you.” He hisses, and you’re not even sure he knows what he’s saying. “I’m not fucking losing you. I only just goddamn got you, and you are not allowed to bail on me because you’re reckless and stupid.”
He finishes with a long, ragged breath, and you blink at him. Your skin is hot, mouth dry, and it’s as if you’ve been wandering in the desert for a million years.
You haven’t been, though.
But nobody’s ever looked at you like that before. With that fervorish awe, and unyielding fury like a tidal wave. Your hands feel clean. For the first time—maybe in years, maybe in your life—you don’t feel any small amounts of blood or grime under your fingernails. It’s that ocean, you think. The one trapped inside of Bucky, that’s slowly been flooding your senses over the past few months. A tide rising with every traded joke and shared book, every mission where he’d trusted you more and more, every story you’d told each other about the heavier, tainted parts of your shadows.
You move to touch his face without thinking, and his skin is soft. The stubble of his beard is almost grounding—a small, rough reminder that he’s changed since you met him, even if the only obvious part of that is the length of his beard—and he’s looking at you like he’s afraid. Parted lips and blown out eyes as his hand catches your against his face, holding it there as he stares at you with that same fucking awe.
“I’m not losing you.” He repeats the word like they’re a prayer. An oath. “I’m not fucking losing you.”
——————
You need to take a ten-minute break.
He hadn’t kissed you then. Fucking Sam had interrupted, because you’d been closer to the end than you thought you were.
Fisk had fallen the next week. He’d never know it was you until he was sitting in a cell, and you spoke to him through the bars.
That had been a… long and confusing day. Bucky had been waiting the entire time. He’d almost killed you the moment you walked out of the cell.
6. He’s bad at reading situations
——————
Your eyes sting.
You don’t know why you’d cried. Fisk had made your life hell. He’d ruined it, and you’d won, and you’d still cried for him.
“You were like a daughter to me,” he’d hummed your name, nothing but sheer fucking disappointment in his eyes. Like you’d failed him. Like he was more hurt for you than angred at your betrayal. “You know, I always loved you for exactly what you were. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You’d only swallowed, any sharp words dying in your throat as Fisk continued.
“Do you think the Winter Soldier will like the reminder? Of who he was before?” Fisk had shaken his head, and sighed as if he’d been mourning you. You’d almost thrown up on the tile floors. “No, not as you are. And you don’t change, my girl. You’re not meant for… soft things. You could’ve ruled the world and now… You’ll be nothing. Alone.”
You’d found the words to cut back, somehow, but you don’t remember them. You only remember the knot in your stomach and bile in your throat.
You hope you’d held the tears until you were hunched over the toilet. You’d only just managed the vomit.
And you hadn’t reacted, when Bucky had come up behind you. You want to think it was because you were off your game.
It was probably just because it was Bucky.
He’d held your hair from your face. He’d rubbed your back with the metal hand, and it had eased your breathing too fast. And when you’d finally sat up, he’d pulled you into his chest like you were something delicate.
Fisk’s words are too loud in your head. Your voice, when you finally speak, is too soft.
“This is the women’s room, Buck.” You mumble, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”
“’S fine.” He shrugs, the movement shifting you slightly against him, settling you more comfortably in his hold. “You’re here. This is where I’ll be until someone moves me.”
You hum, pressing your face to his shoulder, as if you can’t fucking help it. “Miss me that much?”
He grunts, and you could swear you feel him nod. “Needed to talk to you.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause, and when you lean back, he’s staring again.
You think he’s going to rip you apart. At least then, maybe, he’ll keep some of you in his pocket. A little bit, to always be held like this.
“Bucky-“
“Go on a date with me.”
——————
Number seven is easy. Number seven flows right off of six, because you’d said yes like you were only breathing—even as all the air in the world became too thin, and you almost passed out from the branding focus of Bucky’s gaze—and Bucky had grinned like he’d never seen the sun before, and now it was shining just for him.
It had been cute.
Too many parts of Bucky could be cute.
7. He can be unbelievably sweet at the worst possible times.
——————
You’re going to strangle him.
The date was perfect. Horribly perfect. Impossibly perfect. Fairy tale, romance movie, only-exists for valentine’s day propaganda perfect.
Bucky bought you flowers. A big bouquet of yellow roses, because he knows how much you both hate red. You went to a fancy restaurant, and walked in the park for five hours just holding hands like idiots, until he was spinning you around and swaying you in his arms, and you were giggling.
You don’t giggle. You didn’t even know you could make that sound.
But Bucky had guided you through a romantic, smooth dance—his body warm around yours, nothing to see you in the dark but his bright eyes and the slowly clouding night sky—and you’d giggled. He’d smelled like pine aftershave, a deep, slightly spicy cologne, and something earthier that was just Bucky, and you’d giggled.
You’d been vulnerable. In public, in the dark, in the open. But Bucky had been there, and there had been a secure feeling over your skin like the sky could split open with fire and hail, and you’d be alright. Bucky was there, so you’d always be alright.
And you’d giggled.
It was dangerous. It was dangerous when he’d kissed your cheek after handing you the flowers, standing in your doorway as if you didn’t fucking live together. It was dangerous when he held your car door open, and when he helped you into the seat at the restaurant. When he took your hand like touching you was the most natural thing in the world, and started to dance as if that had been what he’d been planning to do the whole time.
Given the small smirk on his lips when the first giggle had escaped you, it might have been.
But the most dangerous thing had been when it had started to rain, and he’d picked you up. Hauled you into his arms without a grunt and run you into an all-night coffee shop, keeping his body folded over yours as if you’d melt into a puddle if he didn’t shield you from the world.
You’d found a little table, ordered some drinks, and lost track of time.
He was so handsome, with messy, wet hair and eyes bluer than the rain could ever hope to be. He was warmer than the heater of the coffee shop.
You knew he’d taste better than the small scone he’d bought you, too.
And then again, like he could read your fucking mind, he’d shaken his head.
“We’re not doing that tonight,” he’d drawled your name, grinning at you from across the table, and you’d blinked at him.
“I-“
“We will.” He’d shrugged. “Trust me on that, I’ve- Shit- We will. But not tonight.”
You blinked at him, shaking your head slowly. “Bucky-“
“We’re not fucking, doll.”
And now you were here. About to kill him.
“I never said we were-“
“Didn’t have to.” He shoots you a wink, bumping your knee with his under the table. “Saw it all over your face, baby.”
“You-“ You swallow, and he can’t fucking do that. It’s not fair. He can’t say no sex tonight and then wink and call you baby. That’s not fair. “I- Why?”
Your words are almost a whine, and Bucky’s grin widens. It’s too adorable, too gleeful and affectionate, and his knuckles are brushing against your hand and he smells so good-
“I want that to be its own thing. This is our first date. We’re doing number two because this was fun and we,” he gestures between your bodies, watching you carefully. “Work. Not cause I fuck you until you can’t walk.”
He finishes with a shrug, and even though he’s still grinning—he knows exactly what those last words did you to, the asshole—there’s something firmer in his voice that tells you he’s being serious.
That’s annoying. And sweet. So fucking sweet.
So you let it go.
“Aw.” You give him a teasing smile, pressing your thighs together to relieve just a little bit of your need from his attention. “You think we work?”
“Yeah. I do.” He’s staring at you again. You might have started something you can’t finish. “Do you?”
You swallow, and lying feels pointless. You’re trapped. He’s handsome and amazing and he’s not going to fuck you, but he promised he would later, and you’re trapped.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and you don’t know when you started holding his hand again. You don’t really care to let go. “I do.”
——————
This isn’t working anymore.
All you can think about is how that might have been the moment. The one where something sparked and grew and razed through your body, reshaping your organs and tissue to all mold a little better for Bucky. He’d said I do like it was the easiest thing in the world. Less of an answer to a question and more of a statement.
There had been a finality to it. Like that was all he’d ever have to know again. You were all he’d ever have to know.
He’d made promises and kept them. You’d remained warm every time it had stormed, and through the following winter, and it was because that had been the moment and this strategy isn’t fucking working.
Bucky had told you later, and now that later is all you can think about. Bucky is all you can think about, and every single thing you cast to mar the picture of him in your head just makes it stronger. Makes every memory sharper, every thought of Bucky in your head more beautiful.
8. He’s perfect. It’s impossible.
——————
You don’t know exactly how you got here. There were flowers involved, and a dark theatre, and Bucky had whispered something low in your ear that made you gape at him in the dark, and then he’d kept his hand on your thigh the rest of the night, and the whole world had become unbearable hot.
It’s only a haze now. A big, warm haze that’s cooled by one metal hand on your hip as you burn and burn and burn, and Bucky hasn’t even done anything yet. But he’s been teasing you. Keeping you pinned cruelly under his body for what feels like hours, kissing and sucking over your neck and slotting his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against him and pull at his hair until you were whining for more, you need more-
“Think you can take more, baby?” He murmurs against your lips, and you don’t know if he’s doing the anticipating thing again, or just teasing you a little more. “You even know what you want?”
He uses your responding moan to push his tongue down your throat, kissing you heavy and long and deep.
And Bucky’s kissed you before. A lot. There had been one, world-making kiss that had grown into an addiction, becoming kisses in the corner of every room and against the wall of every hallway, into the cushions of the couch until Sam groaned and walked away—promising to never come over for movie night again—and right up to every edge, but never further.
Bucky seems to be under the impression that he needs to be a gentleman. That there needs to be a right moment to stop pulling away with heavy, shallow breaths, swollen lips, and flushed faces. That he needs written permission to go further.
You’d given him that permission this morning. You’d slid him a small paper over the counter, and when he’d read it, he’d raised his brows at you in amusement.
“This says fuck me.”
“Yep.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you’d taken a large bite of your banana.
It had been a warfare strategy. It had seemed to work then—his eyes had darkened, nostrils flaring and fist closing around the paper as he stared at you—but you know it’s worked now.
Because this kiss is different. It’s another, newer tidal wave that’s all thirst. Desire.
Need.
Bucky’s holding himself by a tether. You can feel it when you bite his lower lip, he groans down your throat, and his hips jerk forward.
“You’re- Shit-“ Bucky grunts as you suck a small, dark mark on his jaw. “You gotta be sure, doll, I can’t-“
“I’m sure.” You whisper, leaning back to hold his gaze. He looks almost nervous, and it makes your brow furrow slightly. “Buck, are you-“
He crashes his mouth back down to yours, his metal hand playing with the hem of your skirt.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.” He mutters, pulling back to scan over you once more. “I’m- If we’re doing this, I’ve gotta be- I need to-“
“I know.”
He blinks at you. “You do? How- Sam.”
You giggle slightly at Bucky’s violent glower—you’ve been doing that a frightening amount lately—and raise a hand to trace over his jaw.
He shakes his head, still watching you with that caution. “I- It doesn’t have to be, doll, I know that your past isn’t all sunshine and daises and bein’ in control either-“
“I- I’ve had to do most everything for myself. For survival.” You whisper, tracing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ve never had- I trust you. And with what Sam mentioned-“
“Gonna fuckin’ kill him-“
“I don’t think it’s as dramatic as you think.” You finish, ignoring Bucky’s muttered threat.
His jaw ticks slightly, his words suddenly so low you can barely hear them. “If it’s too much, you gotta tell me-“
“I can take it.”
Bucky sighs your name, and you shove his chest. Not hard. Enough to move him. Jolt him. Make him look at you with wide, shocked eyes.
“You-“
“I can take it, Buck.” You grin at him, raising your brows pointedly. “I’ve got you.”
His eyes widen as he understands—you’ve got him, his strength and durability mirrored in your body—and there’s a slight shift in the air. It’s hot. Everything is suddenly so hot under Bucky’s attention, expect for the cold, metal hand, trailing under your skirt and cupping you over right over your aching pussy.
“Fuck, you’re wet, doll.” The awe has creeped from Bucky’s eyes to his voice. You can only grind against his fingers teasing over your slit, and moan when a metal thumb starts to rub firm, rough circles over your clit. “And no panties on? All fuckin’ night, just waitin’ for me?”
“Yes,” you moan, our hips jolting when he pinches your clit lightly, a high whine leaving your throat. “Bucky-“
“That’s my name.” He mutters, resting those two fingers right against your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours. “If you’re already so wet, I wonder what’ll happen when I do this?”
With that last word, Bucky slams the metal fingers into your cunt, and starts to finger fuck you like it’s a mission. It’s so fast. Metal whirring in your ear as the pace becomes impossible and mind-numbing, hitting you so fucking deep, almost massaging and taunting at the sensitive spot, and it’s only just started but you’re already going to explode-
“Bucky-“ You moan out his name, trying to somehow meet every thrust of his fingers with your hips, but only managing to grind your clit against his wrist and sending your brain into a dizzying blur of pleasure. “God, I- Close, Bucky, so close-“
“Hold it.” He grunts, not letting up pace, and you almost whimper at the idea. “Need you to hold it for me, baby, can you do that?”
You can’t.
You nod anyway, because Bucky’s still here, still holding you and touching you and looking at you, so you have to try. For Bucky, you need to try.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and you clench around him with a squeak. “Oh, you like that? Like me talkin’, tellin’ you how good your doing-“
“Oh- Fuck-“ You gasp, your back arching off the bed as he somehow hits deeper. “Please, I- God-“
He hums, dropping his weight slightly to keep you pinned to the bed. “Say my name, doll.”
“Buck-“
“No.” His voice is slightly softer, and he leans down to hover his lips right over yours. “Other one.”
“I-“ You take shallow breathes, each one rounded with another moan as you search Bucky’s face for the answer, and his fingers never slow their movements. “Please-“
“C’mon, baby, you’ve got it-“
“James!” You half scream it, writhing under him in desperation for release, and start to repeat it like a prayer as his eyes shine in approval, and his cock twitches against your thigh. “James- James please, I- I need it- Need you-“
He swallows your words with another deep kiss, squeezing your hip with his free hand as he mutters against your lips.
“There you go, babydoll.” He smirks at your whimper, his eyes trained on yours as you give him another, pleading look and whisper of his name. “Cum for me.”
The sound that leaves you is undignified, needy and loud and made of slurred curses and shouts of James. But you can see the stars, and feel them bursting through your body, and it’s all just good.
When you come down, Bucky’s brushing your hair from your eyes, looking down at you with that same wide awe everywhere over his handsome features.
“Was that good?”
You hum, still panting heavily, and he raises his brows.
“More?”
You nod a little stupidly, and Bucky’s grin splits his face.
“Already so fucked out you can’t speak? Haven’t even pulled out my cock yet-“
You moan into his mouth at just the word. “Bucky, please-“
“Please what?” He pulls back entirely, and chuckles when you slam your hand into his chest with a glare.
“Hey-“
“You gotta tell me what you want, babydoll, and I’ll get it for you. But,” he raises his brows, catching your hand when you try to shove him once more and pinning it over your head. “I’m not a mind reader. Tell me.”
You think that’s a lie. You think he can read your mind, and he’s just being mean.
But God, it’s so fucking hot. His shirt is gone—you don’t know when that happened, but you’re not complaining—and he’s looking at you like you’re art, laid out for him to see and touch and have, so you’ll play along. If it will make him finally fuck you, you’ll do whatever he asks.
“I want your cock.” You whisper, holding his gaze. “Want you to fuck me, and I’m clean and on the pill, so I want you to cum inside of me, then leave it there. Wanna feel you tomorrow, James, please.”,
Bucky’s throat bobs slightly, his voice becomes barely a growl.
“Jesus Christ.”
He seems to be done talking after that.
Your hand stay pinned over your head as he rips off your shirt, then his own boxers. There’s a half-grumble of buying you another bra tomorrow, but it’s all you get before he’s ripping that off as well.
When he lines himself up at your entrance, he pauses, giving you one last chance to shove him away.
You tangle your hand in his hair and shove his lips to yours without hesitation, moaning his name into his mouth, and it’s enough.
Bucky slams himself into you with one thrust, diving his mouth to suck and lick at your nipples as you gasp, adjusting to the feeling of him inside of you.
It’s perfect. Big and thick and full, you feel so full, and you’re going to fly out of your skin if he keeps flicking his tongue over your nipple like, throbbing inside of you but not moving-
He can definitely read your mind. Before you can even moan a plea, Bucky starts to drill into you without warning, and any noise turn into more of those loud, desperate pleas.
It rough. Bed creaking and skin slapping, and he keeps tossing you around like no angle is deep enough, flipping you over to fuck you from behind so his balls are slapping against your clit and he’s kissing up your spine, before he’s hauling you up to his chest, wrapping his arm around your stomach to hold you still as he drills up into your cunt, and biting and marking along your throat and jaw. You throw your head back on his shoulder, and he captures your lips in a long, searing kiss, rolling a nipple between his fingers.
Then you’re back on your stomach, with his weight completely covering you and his grunts right in your ear, sending shivers up your spine.
He pauses only for a second there, thrusts slowing as he grabs at your hips, and before you can ask him if he’s okay, if it’s too much or—worse—not enough, you’re moving again.
Bucky rolls over, tossing you up onto his lap so you’re grinding down onto his cock, and this is it. You can see it in his hooded, satisfied expression as he watches you bounce above you, his flesh hand wrapping around your throat the metal moves to your clit, rubbing small, furious circles as he groans your name.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, your every word choked as he pounds up into your fluttering, aching pussy. “I- James-“
He grunts, pressing harder as his dick hits that deep, sensitive spot inside of you. “Come on, babydoll, gotta gimme one more-“
This orgasm washes over you like a wave. Deep, easy pleasure that makes everything glow, lingering in your body long after Bucky gives one last, jagged thrust up into your pussy, cumming with a roar of your name.
You both stare at each other for a long second as Bucky releases your throat, his fingers tracing over the marks left by his grip with a furrowed brow, and you smile at him.
His release is dripping down your thighs as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips.
It’s somehow not enough, and still more than you could ever ask for.
And your smile is a little cock drunk and there’s light bubble up your throat, but you don’t care.
So you giggle. Airy and blissful as Bucky rolls your bodies over so he’s on top once more, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
He rises over you on his forearm, raising his brows as you smile up at him. “Somethin’ funny?”
You nod, your giggles almost pathetic. You don’t really mind. “Told you I could take it.”
He sighs, but the grin on his face matches yours.
Wide. Stupid.
Happy.
“Yeah.” Bucky mutters, tracing slow fingers only your cheekbone, and the awe seems to be a permanent addition to his voice. “You did.”
——————
When you get back to your table with ice water, people are staring at you. Whispering.
It’s not in your head. You know the difference between paranoia and caution, and this is the latter.
You scan over for an easy target, and land on a skittish looking man with large arms and a gym bag. When you stop at his table, he looks like he’s going to pass out.
“What’s your name.” You keep your voice cool and even, and he swallows.
“Mike.”
“Awesome. Can I please have your phone, Mike?”
He nods, unlocks it before passing it to your hands, and you give him a sweet smile before you scan over his screen, and let out a long sigh.
Sam abused his power. You’ve been declared a missing enhanced. The city hasn’t been barricaded, but everyone in New York knows to be looking for you, and expect Captain America upon response.
You pass Mike his phone back with another grimacing smile, and stalk back to your table and notebook.
9. He can be really fucking dramatic.
——————
You don’t know how Bucky puts up with you. He’s clean. Neat. Does all his dishes and folds his laundry, vacuums the floors and straightens every picture when he fucks you a little too hard against the wall.
You’re… not.
Taking care of yourself has never been important. Never been allowed. Fisk had men who cleaned up after you, because your priority was walk around and be feared. Be the untouchable princess.
Untouchable princesses don’t clean up. Once, at the beginning, you’d tried to help the crew after a particularly messy job.
Fisk had been furious. You’d gotten blood on his favorite toy.
You’d stopped trying to clean up after that,
But Bucky never gets angry about it. He’ll wipe your face when you get sauce on your cheek, change your sheets—even though you haven’t slept in your own bed for months—every week, and do your laundry, all while never asking for anything in return.
This is another night where you don’t understand him. He made your favorite food, even though he had the long day. He’s not meeting your eyes again, but you’ve learned that he only does that when he cares. When there are things inside of him he can’t work out how to say, so he’ll keep his gaze averted like he’s trying to shield himself from being seen.
He isn’t aware he does that. You only know because you know him. Because he sits across from you like this every night, and wakes up next to you every single morning, and presses his brow to yours—keeping his eyes closed, but his hands on your face delicate—every single day. He’s with you all the time, even when he’s across the city, so you know him and you-
“Move in with me.”
You blink at him in the low light of your shitty dining room. It’s all plastic table and fold-out chairs, because neither of you are good at having nice things and keeping them.
He might be the nicest thing you’ve ever had.
You don’t understand what the fuck he’s talking about.
“What?”
“I- We should move in.” He pokes his plate, frowning at it like he can will it to understand, and explain to you properly. “Together. You and me.”
“Buck, we already live together-“
“In a shit apartment Sam found us.” He grumbles. “In two separate bedrooms. With plastic furniture and a dead plant.”
You sigh. “I told you I’m not good at plants when you got it. I wanted a cat, but-“
“Our lease doesn’t allow it.” Bucky shoots you a pointed look, leaning further over the table. “If we moved in together, I’d get you that cat. I’d get you whatever you wanted.”
“Bucky-“
“Fresh start.” He grunts your name, and you swallow. This is a little stronger than the awe gaze. This is borderline hope, and it’s so rare on his handsome face, and he has you folding for him in a second, but he keeps going anyway. “You and me. We’ll get a nicer couch without any blood on it, and eat off plates that aren’t paper, and- We can get the cat, or two cats- fuck, twenty cats-“
A small smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “Twenty is a lot, darling-“
“Then one. One is good.” He has the solemn, focused gaze and tone he uses when he’s planning a mission. He’d stood up and crossed his arms. This is serious. “No more plants. I can- Sam will help me build all he furniture, I’ll get you a desktop, and I can have the smaller one, cause you always get annoyed when I break it-“
“It’s called a laptop.” You offer, keeping your voice softer than you’ve ever been capable of with anyone else. “And I don’t get annoyed-“
“Yes, you do. ’S fine, I deserve it-“
“No, you don’t-“
“That’s not the point, doll-“
“It’s important to me.” You snap, and that gets him to stop. “You’re important to me, and I don’t get annoyed. It’s not your fault your bags are always getting smashed-“
He scowls. “I’m the one who smashes them.”
“Because other people are fucking idiots, and you’re good at your job. You don’t deserve me being annoyed, and I’m not, because you’re-“ You swallow, words you don’t fully understand yet getting caught on the edge of your tongue. “You’re important to me, Buck. You’re a good man. You deserve good things.”
He blinks at you, and the hope is almost a tangible, touchable thing on his face. “Move in with me.”
“You already asked me that-“
“Please.” He mutters, and suddenly he’s on his knees before you, his arms around your waist as he stares up at you. “Wherever you want. It’ll be ours, and I’ll keep it clean if you make it beautiful.”
“Bucky-“
“You- fuck-“ He drops his brow to your lap, and you’re trying to tell him yes, but he seems to be trapped in his own head. All you can do is run your fingers through his hair and let him ride it out. “You make everything so beautiful, you just- You- Please. I’ll never ask ya’ for anything again. Move in with me.”
“Okay.”
He blinks up at you with wide eyes. “I- That’s it? Just like that?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him, and it’s hurting your cheeks, but it’s the best pain you’ve ever felt. “You gonna let me up now?”
He nods slowly, but pauses before he stands, and throws you over his shoulder without warning.
“Bucky-“
“C’mon,” He start to move towards his bedroom, ignoring your squirming. “You’re- Got plans for you, babydoll.”
“We have all night, you dramatic asshole-“
“You love it.” He mutters with a squeeze of your thigh, and you have to stop pounding on his back to moan. “And if it were up to me, we’d never stop doin’ this. Never gonna waste one fucking second with you. Ever.”
——————
He’ll be here soon. Someone will have had the balls to report where you were, Bucky will burst through the doors, and you’ll have to know that this didn’t work. That you probably drove him insane and beat your heart to sinew, only to come out of this knowing that you failed.
You have your answer, and it’s the one that’s terrifying. The floor could open into a trench, and the sky could catch fire, but that would be easier.
This is new. This is dangerous and frightening and new, and there’s nothing you can do about it, because you failed. There are no paths forward that you know how to follow, no corners of the world you can hide where you wouldn’t find yourself crawling back to Bucky.
And he’d meet you halfway, because he’d be looking for you, and then he’d pull you into his arms you’d be safe.
Safe and cared for and clean, and awfully, greatly in love.
10. You love him, and that’s not fair.
——————
He sleeps peacefully now. At your side, on the memory foam mattress you made him pick out, wrapped around you like he’s trying to pull you into his body. The sheets are tangled and smell a little like sweat and cum, but nobody seems to mind. Even Alpine has settled at the foot of the bed, on Bucky’s side, because she likes him better.
Of course she likes him better. You picked her because she has the exact same blue eyes as he does, and you feed her, but she likes him more because he’s Bucky.
And this suits him, far more than you think it could ever suit you.
Because this is what he would’ve been. If Bucky had never fallen off that train, he’d have simply been this.
Happy.
Peaceful in the soft, golden-white light of the morning, holding a perfect, faceless woman. She’d clean up after him, and make him food that didn’t taste like ash. He’d never have the nightmares that still sometimes rock him now, but he’d have worse nights—he’d still been a solider, still fought a war—and she’d only give him comfort. Never demand it in return, nights later when she woke up screaming.
And she’d have less opinions, and never make him worried because she kept getting shot, and she’d giggle all the time. Not just when he pried it out of her with dancing and fucking.
She would’ve been easy. She wouldn’t have made him read with her, and she would’ve let him get twenty cats.
You hate her more than anything.
But it would’ve been what Bucky deserves. Has always deserved.
The exact same one you don’t.
You never would’ve been here. Fisk found you in the dirt, and you hadn’t been a lovely, blooming beam of sunlight before he turned you into a weapon. Bucky had earned all his sneers and snarks and scowls.
You’re just like this.
And you somehow have him, in a way you can’t lose. Won’t lose. You’d do anything for Bucky, you’d kill and maim and scratch and scream and rip yourself to fucking pieces just for him, before stitching yourself back together with your heartstrings, because they’d still be beating in a sound like his name, because you-
No.
Oh no.
That can’t be right. You don’t- you’ve never had that. That’s too good.
You don’t deserve that.
You’ll break it.
——————
You wait outside for him. Bouncing on your feet as people shoot you odd looks in passing. You expect sirens. Being turned over and checked from every angle, because this had been a really stupid thing to do when you were you. A problem. An asset until you flipped. An enemy so easily, and an insufferable ally to have.
Bucky still puts up with you. But you think he knows you’d never flip on him. He trusts that the same instinct that made you run from Fisk is the one that will always send you back to him.
It’s been nine hours, and you miss him like you’re drowning. Like you can see the sun, right above the surface, but you can’t remember how to go up.
You can only drift, and wait for blaring red lights that will carry you home.
They never come. And when you feel a tap on your shoulder you don’t flinch, because you know that tap anywhere. The pressure and shape of the finger, the exact placement near the cartilage, always leaving a slight brand of his touch.
“What’re you doing, baby.” Bucky mutters, and you let out a long breath, turning to give him a weak smile.
He’s staring again.
You love it when he does that.
“Hi,” You whisper, and he drops his brow to yours for a long second, right before pulling you right into his chest without a second of hesitation.
You’d thought he’d be angrier. You’re a little sick of being wrong.
“Why-“ He takes a heavy breath, squeezing you a little tighter. “You wouldn’t pick up the phone.”
“I turned it off.” You mumble. You don’t think you can stand to lie to him like this. You’ve already done enough. “I- Can we go inside, please?”
Bucky leans back with a tight frown, scanning over you once more. “Did something-“
“I’m okay.” You duck your head back into his chest, and you understand why he never meets your eyes in moments like this. It’s far easier. “I promise. I just, this will be easier if we sit down, please.”
You can feel him tense against your body, but he guides you inside regardless. Right back to the table you’d been at before, even if he doesn’t know that.
People might be staring.
You don’t really care. You don’t have the energy for it. Everything has to go into this. Into telling him before it’s too late, and you either lose him or, worse, he stays. He keeps tolerating you, not knowing that you’d grow a forest on the moon if he asked—just to hide somewhere safe and quiet, together—and turn the sun into something portable for his back pocket, just so he’d never have to fear ice again.
Bucky says your name slowly, glancing around the shop. “Is this where we had our first-“
“Yeah.” You fumble with your bag, your hands already shaking slightly, and Bucky notices.
Of course he does.
Perfect fucking asshole.
“Are you sure you’re okay, cause I can make Sam call 911 again-“
“Don’t make Sam call 911.” The paper is crumpled, and ripped at the corners. It will have to do. “I’m okay. I- I’m going to be okay.”
That last one is mostly for yourself—no matter how fast Bucky leaves, no matter how much your heart screams, you’ll be okay—but he still hears it, and his frown deepens.
He grunts your name, leaning forward in his seat, and you shake your head.
“Just- take this.“ You slide the paper across the table, watching sleek, black fingers rest on the edge, but not tug it further. “Please.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, but he listens. You look up just in time to see him scanning over your words, and the lump in your throat might choke you.
At least it will be over quicker.
“What is-“ He cuts himself off, and you can’t look away. It’s worse than a car crash. It’s a missile, hurdled straight for your head as you’re rooted in place, bracing for the impact but knowing it will tear you apart all the same.
You know the moment he reaches the last point. His eyes widen, and flick up to you in disbelief.
He reads it three more times before he sets down the paper, and maybe the lump in your throat is your heart. Maybe it’s trying to beat out of your body and run in the gutters, before it can be broken and shattered and-
“You-“ Bucky places the paper flat on the table, and points to that like. “Is that- You mean it?”
You nod weakly, still starting at his finger on the paper—it might be one of the last part of him you get to see, and you’re trying to memorize it—and Bucky clears his throat.
“Can you look at me?”
It takes a second. Ragged, slow breaths and Bucky’s knee, bumping yours under the table.
But you do.
And he’s still so beautiful.
You can see the awe in his eyes. It shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t- not now-
“I love you, too.” He says, and it’s more powerful than the missile. It’s an atomic bomb. “You’re- It’s the only thing I’ve really known, since I got back. You’re the only thing I’ve known-“
The world is starting to sting and blur. Your heart is trying to claw out of your throat. “Bucky-“
He shakes his head, pushing on. “Listen to me, doll, for once in your damn life. I love you. No one but me talking, telling no one but you, I love you. I have been to fucking hell and back, I’d do it all again, every damn time, if there was even a chance it would get me here.”
“That’s- That doesn’t make any sense-“
“Course it does.” He shrugs. “I’m not the me that loves you if I don’t fall off that train and end up in the future.”
“It’s not the future-“
“It’s the future to me-“
“James, we are not having this argument again. It’s not-“
“Is to me.”
There’s that rare, small grin he saves only for you. This is cruel.
“You- I’m not worth hell.” You whisper, and you’re holding his hand. You don’t know when that happened. You’re not strong enough to pull away.
“Yeah, you are.”
“Bucky, I’m being-“
“I know you’re being serious, doll. So am I. And I know I’m,” he taps the paper, giving you a pointed look. “Bad at using my words-“
You swallow. “I’m sorry, I-“
"You’re not wrong.” He mutters, still all but trapping his gaze on yours. “But I got words for this, baby. I love you. Hell and back.”
“Bucky, you don’t-“
“What, love you?” He raises his brows. “You somehow miss that part of my shitty ass speech-“
“It wasn’t shitty-“
“Kinda shitty. Didn’t seem to get through to you.”
“I-“
“Just- Listen.” He leans forward, still holding your gaze. “Would you do it again?”
“Do-“
“Would you walk through your hell, Fisk and the scientist, Parker and that asshole with the horns that made you blind for a week, Sam and me and all the court trials, if you thought we’d end up back here, at this horrible fucking coffee shop, one more time?”
“Yes.”
It’s not a question. You’d do everything, every time, the exact same way, if it meant you’d maybe get Bucky one more time.
And that’s mirrored on his face. Smug, quiet satisfaction as he grins at you, and shrugs.
“There it is.”
You return his smile because it’s easy. You keep holding his hand because he’s not letting go, so you’ll never even bother to try.
You echo his words because he’s right. Maybe the only right thing in the whole universe, right across the table, touching you, and all yours.
“There it is.”
End Note: Love throwing in a bunch of tiny easter eggs for purely my own entertainment. Also love throwing a little plot relevant smut in there, as a treat.
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