summary › two years in, you and bucky are still learning that love isn’t about grand moments—it’s about pizza at midnight, bridge confessions, and a cat named alpine who somehow makes everything feel like home
pairing › bf!bucky x female reader
content warnings › college/university au (post gradutation), established relationship, soft bucky barnes, domestic fluff, slice of life, life after college, emotional angst/comfort, mild anxiety, quarter life crisis (reader and bucky are guessed/mentioned to be in mid-late twenties), alpine the cat, not beta read we die like men.
word count › 2.2k
the junieverse › you all along - this fic was too sweet i couldnt not come back to it. fun fact the poem that i wrote for the first one has three other versions that didnt make the cut, it had been so long since i had written any that i (like bucky) was sitting for hours wondering how the hell to make anything rhyme with 'things'
There are evenings where your life feels so small it scares you.
Not bad, it's never been bad. Just small in the way routines become invisible after a while, like you’ve repeated the same motions so many times they stop feeling like choices and start feeling like gravity.
Wake up.
Coffee.
Work.
Dinner.
Sleep.
Repeat until the days blur soft around the edges.
The apartment carries those routines now. They’ve soaked into the walls alongside the smell of old books and takeout containers and the lavender detergent Bucky insists smells “like rich people trying to relax.”
You can tell what kind of day it’s been by the position of his shoes near the door. Tonight they’re kicked halfway across the floor, messy and careless, which means he came home distracted. Probably stuck on a line he couldn’t finish.
You glance toward the couch where Bucky is sprawled out beneath the yellow glow of the standing lamp, notebook balanced against his knee, pen tapping absently against his mouth. His hair’s longer now than when you first met him. Softer too. It curls slightly at the ends after showers and falls into his eyes when he reads.
You love him so much sometimes it feels inconvenient.
The realization still catches you off guard even after two years.
You used to count your life in semesters. In deadlines. In surviving until the next thing. Now you count it in quieter ways. How many poems Bucky leaves on the fridge before work, how often he reaches for your hand without looking, how every version of home somehow became him.
You finish wiping down the kitchen counter and glance toward him again.
“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re brooding.”
He gasps softly, offended. “Wow.”
You snort.
The local paper started publishing his poetry six months ago. Every Thursday there’s a tiny column tucked near the back pages beneath community events and weather forecasts.
Byline:
James Buchanan Barnes.
Poet.
You still keep the first clipping folded in your wallet. He acted embarrassed when you cried over it. But you think some part of him needed proof that his words deserved to take up space in the world.
The same way you still need proof sometimes too.
Your customer service job pays rent. Barely. Your dream job still sits just out of reach somewhere beyond applications and interviews and “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”
Some days you feel okay about it, other days it feels like standing still while everyone else keeps moving.
Tonight is one of those nights.
You settle onto the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, curling your legs beneath yourself. Bucky glances over immediately, reading you too easily.
“What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“That one.”
You roll your eyes. “Helpful.”
He studies you for another second before setting the notebook aside completely, and that gets your attention.
“You abandoned the poem?”
“Yeah.”
“That serious?”
“Very.”
You narrow your eyes immediately when he suddenly pushes himself off the couch.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Bucky—”
“Get your shoes on.”
You stare at him. “It’s eight o’clock.”
“Exactly.”
“That means pajamas.”
“That means adventure.”
“You sound like a children’s television host.”
He points toward the bedroom. “Shoes.”
You squint harder. “This feels illegal somehow.”
His mouth twitches.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says softly. “You’ve had that look all week.”
“What look?”
“The one where you disappear into your own head.”
Your chest tightens a little at that.
Being known is still terrifying sometimes, even now. Especially now, because Bucky notices everything. The way your voice changes when rejection emails hit harder than you let on, the way you start apologizing more when you’re feeling uncertain about yourself, the way silence gets heavier around you when you think you’re failing at becoming who you wanted to be.
He notices and worse—or better, he stays. No matter what, no matter how quiet or cold you get. He stays.
You groan dramatically and shove yourself upright. “If I end up murdered, I want it on record that I knew this was a bad idea.”
Bucky grins instantly, bright and boyish.
“That’s the spirit.”
The city at night feels softer than it does during the day. Less demanding.
Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement while music hums low through Bucky’s truck speakers. The windows are cracked just enough for cool air to slip through. You rest your elbow against the door and watch people pass in blurred fragments. A couple arguing outside a laundromat, someone smoking beneath a flickering neon sign, a teenager skateboarding recklessly down the sidewalk.
Entire lives brushing past yours for half a second at a time.
“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you ask.
“Nope.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“You already agreed.”
“You manipulated me emotionally.”
“I used my charm.”
You glance at him flatly. “Those are not the same thing.”
“They can be.”
You laugh despite yourself, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew the sound had been missing lately.
He pulls into the parking lot of your favorite pizza place twenty minutes later and you blink at the glowing sign.
“Oh.”
“Told you I had a plan.”
“You brought me here because I looked sad?”
“You looked existential.”
“That’s worse.”
The tiny restaurant is almost empty this late. Same red booths, same sticky tables, same old jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked properly in years. You and Bucky have been coming here since college back when splitting one pizza felt financially reckless, when loving each other still felt fragile enough to hold carefully.
Now the owner barely asks what you want before shouting your usual order toward the kitchen.
“Y’know,” Bucky says as you slide into the booth, “I think Tony thinks we’re married.”
You nearly choke on your drink. “What?”
“He called you my wife last week.”
“And did you correct him?”
Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the menu he already knows by heart making warmth bloom low in your chest. Dangerous warmth, the kind that makes your brain start building futures out of tiny moments.
You watch him for a second too long.
God.
You still remember what it felt like before this, before certainty. Before waking up beside him became normal. There are nights you still think about those letters, about lonely summer afternoons and folded paper softened by rereading. How strange it is that your whole life can change because someone once wrote, I’m glad there’s someone to do it with.
The pizza arrives steaming and you steal pepperonis off Bucky’s slice while he pretends not to notice.Outside afterward, he buys two cheap beers from the corner store despite your very serious reminder that technically neither of you should be drinking them on a public bridge.
“Live a little,” he says solemnly.
“You sound eighty years old.”
“I’m a poet now. It’s part of the job.”
The bridge overlooks the river cutting through the city. You sit side by side on the railing platform with your feet dangling over the edge, shoulders pressed together beneath the cold night air as cars hum below. The water moves black and silver beneath the lights and for a while neither of you speaks.
You sip your beer slowly as Bucky watches the skyline and somewhere in the quiet, your heartbeat settles back into itself.
“I thought graduating would fix everything,” you admit eventually.
He turns his head slightly.
“I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
You pull your sleeves over your hands.
“I just thought… once we got here, things would feel bigger somehow. More important.” You laugh softly at yourself. “Instead I answer customer complaints about expired coupons.”
“You know what I did today?”
“What?”
“I spent forty minutes trying to rhyme something with ‘mercy.’”
Your mouth twitches.
“Did you figure it out?”
“Nope.”
You lean against him more fully.
“I just feel stuck,” you whisper finally.
The words leave your chest with surprising heaviness.
Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he reaches over and laces your fingers together.
“You remember that first summer?”
You smile faintly. “Obviously.”
“You used to write me these huge paragraphs apologizing for not knowing what you wanted yet.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks. “I was dramatic.”
“You were scared.”
That lands softly in your heart, Bucky rubs his thumb slowly over your knuckles.
“You always think your life has to become something huge immediately or it doesn’t count.” He glances over at you. “But baby… we’re in our twenties”
You groan. “Don’t say the number out loud. It's cursed.”
He laughs quietly.
“You’re allowed to still be figuring things out.”
“I know.”
“No,” he says gently. “I don’t think you do.”
The wind shifts colder around you.
You think about your younger self sometimes. That girl measuring her worth through grades and achievements and survival and how she would not recognize this version of you.
Not because you changed into someone extraordinary but because you finally became someone soft enough to rest.
Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder.
“You always know exactly what to say, huh.”
“That’s why they pay me the medium bucks.”
You snort so loudly a couple walking past glances over and Bucky looks deeply pleased with himself.
The drive home feels lighter.
You’re halfway through telling him about an especially ridiculous customer interaction when he suddenly reaches over.
“Cover your eyes.”
You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”
“C’mon.”
“You’re driving.”
“I know where we are.”
“That’s statistically how most accidents happen.”
“Baby.”
You narrow your eyes suspiciously then sigh dramatically and cover them anyway.
“If I die, Rebecca gets my books.”
“She already steals your books.”
“Exactly. She’ll know what to do.”
Bucky laughs under his breath.
You hear the truck turn twice, then stop.
The engine cuts.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Don’t open them yet.”
“This is how horror movies start.”
He opens your door before you can complain further and takes your hand. The night air smells different here, cleaner somehow.
You let him guide you carefully forward.
“One sec,” he murmurs.
There’s a door opening, voices, a warm air wrapping around you then Bucky's voice.
“Okay. Open.”
You uncover your eyes and blink.
Animal shelter.
Your brain takes a full second to catch up.
“…Bucky.”
He suddenly looks nervous, actually nervous. Hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets while fluorescent light spills across his face kind of nervous.
“You said the apartment felt too quiet sometimes,” he says quickly. “And I know we talked about maybe getting one eventually and I just thought maybe eventually could be now and—”
“Bucky.”
He stops rambling instantly and your eyes drift past him toward the room behind the front desk.
Cats.
Sleeping in curled shapes beneath blankets, tiny paws pressed against glass while one orange kitten attacks absolutely nothing.
Your chest physically aches.
“You brought me to adopt a cat?”
His shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe.”
Emotion hits you strangely, warm and a little achey. Because suddenly you understand.
This whole night. The pizza place, the bridge, the drive. None of it was really about cheering you up. It was Bucky reminding you that your life is happening right now, not someday when everything finally becomes impressive enough.
Now.
In pizza booths and shared beers and tiny apartments and in shelter cats and late-night drives and poems tucked into newspaper corners.
You look back at him.
“You’re ridiculous.”
His expression softens carefully. “Yeah?”
You step forward and kiss him before he can say anything else, he melts into it instantly. When you pull away, his forehead drops against yours.
“Is that a yes?”
“You knew it was a yes.”
Inside, the shelter is warm and sleepy. A volunteer leads you through rows of cats while Bucky listens with impossible seriousness to every backstory.
Then—
You see her.
A fluffy white cat sprawled dramatically across the top perch of a cat tree.
One green eye cracked open lazily as you approach.
The tag reads:
ALPINE — 2 YEARS OLD.
“She looks judgmental,” you whisper.
Bucky immediately falls in love.
“I think she’s perfect.”
Alpine stretches slowly before stepping directly into Bucky’s waiting arms like she’s already decided.
You stare.
“Oh, so she chose immediately.”
Bucky looks unbearably smug as Alpine presses her face into his chest.
“You jealous?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
The adoption paperwork takes almost an hour. By the time you finally carry Alpine into the apartment wrapped in a borrowed shelter blanket, it’s nearly midnight. She immediately jumps onto the couch like he owns the place.
“You fit in disturbingly fast,” you tell her.
Bucky kneels beside the coffee table setting out food bowls with ridiculous concentration and your chest aches again. That same warm ache. You watch him for a long moment in the soft lamp light, his rolled sleeves, the tenderness built into every movement.
This ordinary beautiful life.
You think maybe happiness was never supposed to arrive loudly. Maybe it was always meant to collect slowly in small places until one day you look around and realize you’re surrounded by it.
Bucky glances up and catches you staring.
“What?”
You shake your head softly.
“Nothing.”
But he knows you too well for that as he stands and walks toward you slowly.
“What is it?”
You look past him briefly. At Alpine already asleep upside down on the couch, your cramped apartment, the poems taped to the fridge. At the man who once loved you through ink before he ever touched your hand.
Then back at him.
“I think,” you say quietly, “this might actually be the life I wanted.”
Something shifts in his face and softens, like those words reached somewhere sacred.
He cups your jaw gently.
“Yeah, baby?”
You nod.
And when he kisses you this time, it feels like the best love letter.
FRAGMENTS OF A LONELY TIDE [masterlist]
dockworker!bucky barnes x mermaid!reader
— ⟢ SUMMARY: a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues you—a stranded, wounded mermaid—with every intention of sending you back to the sea once you’ve healed. until the idea of losing you becomes something he can no longer bear.
— ⟢ GENERAL WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; bucky’s in his 40s; grumpy!bucky (starts off rude and cold); protective!bucky; sunshine!reader; injuries & blood; angst; loneliness; temporary feelings denial; mutual pining; heavy yearning; domestic fluff; smut. each part has its own specific warnings.
A/N: this was originally supposed to be a one-shot part of a collection inspired by that picture of seb up there, but the plot got a little out of hand. and honestly? I don’t feel like cutting scenes just to fit tumblr’s ridiculous 1000-block limit. so here we are! hope you’ll enjoy 🌊
the art of devotion masterlist
⤷ PARTS
༄.° PART 1
༄.° PART 2
༄.° PART 3
important notes: this series will have its own dedicated taglist! that being said, I’ll also be tagging my general bucky barnes taglist, so if you’d like to be notified about all of my bucky-related fics rather than just this series, that option is available too. if you are interested, please read this post here first!
FRAGMENTS OF A LONELY TIDE (1)
dockworker!bucky barnes x mermaid!reader [8k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues you—a stranded, wounded mermaid—with every intention of sending you back to the sea once you’ve healed. until the idea of losing you becomes something he can no longer bear.
— ⟢ CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ story MDNI; bucky’s in his 40s; grumpy!bucky (starts off rude and cold); mention of divorce; mention of deceased family members; reader is mentioned to have hair; descriptions of injuries & blood.
A/N: even if my exam went well (🥳) these nights my anxiety is through the roof, meaning I’m doing anything except sleeping lol. so I decided to be productive and finish this. I guess it’s also an alternative to gods, gore, & groping—I know many people don’t like monsterfucking.
btw I’m so excited I’m actually shaking as I’m writing this 🥹 these two are already my favorite!! fun fact: I had h2o: just add water ambient instrumentals on repeat while writing this 😭
hope you’ll enjoy 🌊
next part | series masterlist
Northwick sits at the edge of a stretch of coastline so remote that most maps barely seem interested in acknowledging its existence.
There is a road leading to it—a narrow ribbon of asphalt that winds its way through miles upon miles of dense pine forest and jagged cliffs, before finally surrendering to the sea. But the journey is long enough that very few people ever find themselves here by accident. Nobody even passes through on their way somewhere else, because the road ends here, at a cluster of weather-beaten buildings pressed between water and rocks. It feels like nature has been slowly reclaiming the town for years.
Most of the time, the sea and the sky blend into a single sheet of dull grey.
Drizzle visits often enough that the residents rarely bother carrying umbrellas anymore, choosing instead to endure the weather with the sort of weary resignation that comes from decades of losing the same battle over and over again.
The wind is worse. It never seems to stop entirely, always carrying with it the scent of salt, seaweed, and old wood. It comes shrieking off the water at all hours, rattling shutters and slamming loose signs against walls.
The sea itself is no friendlier. Dark, cold, and perpetually restless, it spends its days throwing itself against the cliffs with a violence that makes outsiders wonder why anyone had chosen to build a town there in the first place.
The truth is that nobody living here remembers a different life.
Certainly not James Bucky Barnes.
He has spent every single year of his existence within sight of that sea. He was born in the small hospital overlooking the harbor, attended the local school, worked the docks since he was old enough to lift a crate without embarrassing himself, and eventually inherited the modest house that had belonged to his grandparents before him.
His entire life can be traced through these streets: every corner carries a memory, every building has a story attached to it—although most of them aren’t particularly interesting.
His parents are gone now. His grandparents too. An assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins disappeared over the years until the Barnes family, which was one of the memorable families in town, had gradually been reduced to a single man living alone at the end of a quiet street.
He has a sister, but after a long series of arguments that neither of them seemed willing to lose, she eventually left for New York and they simply stopped trying to bridge the distance.
There was a period of time, many years ago, when he imagined things might turn out differently.
He married young enough to believe that marriage itself would somehow change him and introduce a desire for things he had never wanted before. Instead, it had simply highlighted the differences that had always existed between himself and his wife.
She wanted cities, opportunities, children, experiences and possibilities that stretched beyond the horizon.
Bucky looked around at the life he already possessed and failed to understand what was missing.
The divorce was not dramatic. There was nothing to hate, no one to blame, only the slow realization that they were standing on opposite sides of a road that kept fracturing each passing year.
When she finally left, loading her belongings into a rented truck before driving away from Northwick without a second glance, Bucky watched her disappear around the bend at the end of the road and accepted, with surprising clarity, that he would probably never see her again.
He was right.
More than fifteen years have passed since then.
No letters. No phone calls. No messages.
For all he knows she might have built the exact life she had always dreamed about.
The thought doesn’t bother him, and not because he is heartless; he has simply made peace with the fact that some people are meant for larger lives than his.
And Bucky chose this life.
He chose the quiet predictability of his routine.
Every morning begins with the same shrill of the same alarm clock, and every night ends at the same hour in the same bed.
Some people would call the repetition depressing, lonely... Bucky calls it peaceful.
Bucky reaches the harbor when engines start coughing to life and the first ropes are being dragged across wet wood.
He adjusts his gloves as he walks, fingers closing briefly in a fist around the worn fabric before releasing again, more out of habit than anything. His boots strike the planks in a steady rhythm that never changes, no matter how many years pass.
“Well,” a raspy voice calls from his left, tinted with exaggerated surprise. “If it isn’t the ghost of punctuality himself being five minutes late.”
Bucky doesn’t slow down, but exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that barely registers as acknowledgment.
Pietro appears beside him a moment later anyway, just like every morning, matching his pace with the effortless ease of someone who has never once respected personal space in his life. He has been working the docks for a few years now—one of the youngest of the group—and possesses the deeply unfortunate personality trait of wanting to talk to other people.
Specifically people who wish to be left alone.
“I was beginning to think you’d finally retired.” He continues, glancing at Bucky with a grin that suggests this is already the most interesting thing that would happen all day.
The older man lifts a crate without breaking stride, shifting it onto his shoulder as though it weighs nothing, then sets it down exactly where it needs to go.
“I’m forty-five.”
Pietro hums thoughtfully, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Exactly.”
Bucky throws him a glance and the blond young man does nothing to hide his smugness.
Workers move between warehouses carrying clipboards and coffee cups as forklifts rumble across the rain-darkened planks. There isn’t a particularly pleasant smell—a mix of diesel fumes and fish—but after nearly three decades of working here, he barely notices it anymore.
As a matter of fact, the harbor itself has changed very little since Bucky was a child. New boats occasionally arrive. Old boats occasionally disappear. Businesses open, fail, and reopen beneath different names. Yet somehow the place always remains fundamentally the same, preserved beneath layers of salt and stubbornness.
A few meters ahead, Sam and Drax are arguing over a misprinted shipping label, their voices rising just enough to cut through the wind. The moment Drax notices Bucky walking by, he immediately straightens, catching Sam’s attention with a light tap to his chest.
“Morning, Barnes.” He grins.
Bucky gives a single nod without looking at them properly, already scanning the area for whatever needs fixing or lifting before anyone else can complain about it.
The gesture, minimal as it is, detonates something entirely disproportionate in the group behind him.
There is a beat of silence, the kind that always comes just before trouble.
“Did he just—”
“Oh shit.”
“He acknowledged us.”
“Barton, write this down. We need witnesses.”
“Already got three.”
“You think he’s feeling alright?”
“I don’t know. Somebody check his temperature.”
Bucky closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, half a dozen colleagues are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.
Pietro walks right into his line of sight, turning to stare at him with open disbelief.
“Barnes,” he starts slowly, as if addressing a skittish animal. “Was that... social interaction?”
Bucky shoots him a flat look.
“Have you never seen a nod?”
The dock erupts at once. Brock, who is standing near the edge of the dock, drops a coil of rope in theatrical shock.
“He talks!”
“He’s evolving.” Clint crosses his arms to his chest, nodding sagely.
Pietro clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back a step.
“I can’t believe I lived to see this day.” He sniffles, wiping away a fake tear.
Bucky resumes walking, expression unchanged, though his grip on the next crate tightens slightly as he lifts it.
“Don’t start, Maximoff.” He mutters.
But Pietro jogs ahead of him now, walking backward just to keep eye contact, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“Seriously, you feeling okay, Barnes? You need water? A nap? Emotional support?”
“I’m fine.” He sighs.
“That’s the most words I’ve heard out of you in a week. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how language works.”
Bucky stops to set the crate down harder than necessary, the impact echoing loudly through the wood beneath it, before staring blankly at the younger man.
Pietro raises both hands in surrender, though his grin never falters.
“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone.”
But he doesn’t actually leave. He just sort of… shifts his weight.
Bucky exhales through his nose and decides to ignore him completely, moving to the side where a length of rope has been left half-coiled from earlier work. He starts redoing it properly, hands working in tight, repetitive motions that give him something solid to focus on.
“So...” The younger man draws out. “How’s your love life?”
Bucky considers walking directly into the sea.
See, the problem with living somewhere this small is that people become comfortable... far too comfortable. After decades of seeing the same faces every day, the boundaries that exist in normal society begin to erode, and privacy becomes communal property as everyone feels entitled to everyone else’s business.
Especially his.
“Dead.”
That answer, as always, triggers a round of snickers among his colleagues.
Pietro claps him on the shoulder. “You’re so funny, man.”
Bucky follows the movement of his hand with frightening calm, causing Pietro to immediately snatch it back, before he clears his throat awkwardly.
“I wasn’t being funny.” Bucky retorts as he picks up the rope, the movement sharper this time as his patience thins in a way that’s entirely visible to anyone who knows him well enough.
Unfortunately, his colleagues couldn’t give two fucks about it.
“You know,” the younger man quips, leaning casually against a stack of supplies as if he has completely forgotten why he is here in the first place. “My aunt’s still single.”
Bucky stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns his head, just enough to stare at him right in the eye.
“No.”
“Hey, c’mon now, you didn’t even ask her name!”
“I don’t need to.” He resumes walking.
Pietro is already at his heels. “She’s nice.”
He rolls his eyes to the sky. “I don’t care.”
“She makes excellent soup.”
“I can cook.”
He once again jogs ahead to face Bucky. “She’s rich.” He lifts his eyebrows knowingly.
“I’m leaving.” Bucky announces deadpan.
“What—” Pietro’s eyes widen. “You just got here!”
“I can still leave.” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly.
The threat carries absolutely no weight, everyone knows it. Including Bucky, yet a chorus of protests promptly rises.
“You can’t quit.”
“We need you to scare the seagulls away.”
“Who’s gonna stop Maximoff from talking our ears off?”
“Hey!”
He shakes his head.
Some days he wonders if he’s the only serious person in town. Probably not, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to prove.
“Tell you what,” Pietro continues, clearly encouraged by his own stupidity. “If you won’t date my aunt, what about Ms. Hargrove?”
Bucky looks mildly horrified.
“No, no, hear him out.” Drax promptly intervenes, approaching the two of them.
“She’s only seventy-two!” Pietro continues.
“Seventy-four.” Brock corrects as he passes by.
“Still young at heart.”
“She’s been asking about you for years, Barnes.” Clint snickers, a cup of coffee already in hand.
“Everybody’s been asking about him for years.” Sam adds with a poorly concealed grin.
That, unfortunately, is true.
People ask constantly, because Bucky has become something of a local mystery. A man who lives alone on the top of a cliff, works alone, spends his evenings alone. Who has not been seen on a date in over two decades...
“She bakes.” Drax starts counting on his fingers.
“Oh, God.” Bucky mutters, tipping his head back tiredly.
“Excellent pies.” The other man continues solemnly. “She owns a house. She has all her teeth—”
“Most of them.” Sam interjects.
“Most of her teeth,” Drax agrees. “She grows her own vegetables. She volunteers at the church. She has strong opinions about parking regulations.”
“And she killed a raccoon with a shovel once.” Pietro adds with his stupid big grin.
Drax lights up. “See? She’s strong, a protector.”
“Leave him alone.” A new cocky voice appears.
Oh, great. Mr. Congeniality #2 has finally graced them with his presence.
“I bet he’s secretly married with some pretty businesswoman.”
“Shut up Storm, Barnes’ a ladies’ man.”
“Maybe he’s a spy.” Drax suddenly gasps, and he and Clint point at each other, clearly agreeing. “That’s why he always disappears after work! He might be working for the KGB.”
Johnny cringes. “The KGB hasn’t existed for thirty years, you idiot.”
Sam snorts. “Also, a spy who spends every day lifting crates and yelling at the weather? Really?”
“You don’t know if that’s a cover and he just pretends to work.”
“I know for sure he doesn’t pretend since you lazy asses are too busy gossiping like old ladies instead of doing your job like Barnes.” A deep voice interjects firmly and the group springs into action at once.
Sam bends down to inspect a crate as Pietro grabs a random clipboard from a nearby table, him and Johnny furrowing their brows at it with the intense concentration of someone attempting to decipher ancient scripture. Clint picks up a perfectly coiled length of rope and begins rearranging it for no apparent reason, while Drax plants both hands on a pallet jack and starts pushing it confidently in a direction that serves absolutely no purpose.
Fury shakes his head from the door of his office shack, choosing to ignore their quiet sniggers.
This is why, more than anything else, Bucky prefers the sea.
The sea minds its own damn business.
The longer Bucky works at the harbor, the more the routine stops feeling like something he follows and more like something that follows him instead.
It’s present in the way he ties his boots each morning, always in the same order, the laces pulled tight with a consistency he never consciously thinks about anymore. In the way he checks the weather without really needing to. In the route he takes to go grocery shopping, because some paths avoid certain corners and certain people who like to talk too much and ask questions that linger longer than he likes.
He thinks of these choices as efficiency. Or, if he is being honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be, as a way to preserve his peace.
Quiet people are often misunderstood. Others assume silence means absence, sadness, but Bucky has never felt better. He simply prefers to keep things where they belong: work stays at the harbor, the rest of his life within his house.
Memory, on the other hand, stays locked away in compartments he doesn’t open unless absolutely necessary.
Even grief has been assigned its proper space.
His parents belong to a drawer he doesn’t open often. His failed marriage to one he avoids entirely.
Eventually, even absence weaves itself into his routine.
And so Bucky goes to work every morning and comes home at the same time every evening. He fixes things that are broken and ignores those that are not worth fixing. He reads whenever he feels like it, though there is rarely anything new that piques his interest. He eats without much thought and sleeps enough to recover from exhaustion.
It’s not a life that demands attention, that’s precisely why it suits him.
His colleagues, though, treat it like something flexible that could be interrupted for conversation, for laughter, for questions that have no real purpose other than the enjoyment of seeing him grumble.
Bucky tolerates it all, but there are limits. They are not clearly defined, but simply translate into an internal threshold he recognizes immediately when it’s crossed.
A delay in starting the day. A change in the order of tasks. A request that requires him to be somewhere other than where he intended to be.
These are the kind of things that irritate him more than he ever expresses, because they are unnecessary.
And the world, in his opinion, is already full of many unnecessary things.
On that particular Thursday morning, nothing suggests it would be any different from the thousands that have come before it, because disturbances don’t announce themselves.
They don’t arrive with warnings or changes in weather that could be meaningfully interpreted as signs. They don’t break the rhythm of the town or alter the predictable movement of the harbor. If anything, they present themselves as almost insultingly ordinary, as though the world took care to disguise them beneath the same grey sky and the same restless water so that they wouldn’t be noticed until it’s already too late to ignore them.
Bucky wakes before the town has properly decided to exist for the day. He drinks his coffee in silence, standing by the window of his kitchen while the sky outside slowly shifts to a dull white. Watching the harbor lights flicker off one by one as the workers begin to arrive gives him a strange sense of tranquility.
He drives the same route through the narrow streets, passing the same abandoned buildings that have yet to be fully repaired.
At the docks, crates still need moving, boats still need unloading, and machines still need maintenance that nobody ever seems particularly grateful for until they stop working entirely. Pietro still talks too much, appearing beside him at inconvenient moments with questions that are more invitations to participate in conversations Bucky has no intention of joining. The others still laugh at his lack of participation, and he answers in the same way: briefly, reluctantly. Only when necessary.
When the end of the shift finally starts approaching, the harbor gradually empties around him as engines fall silent one by one. Warehouse doors roll shut at last and workers drift toward parking lots and side streets in loose groups, already discussing dinner plans, family obligations, and whatever local gossip has managed to survive the day.
Bucky avoids all three, which is how he finds himself at the far end of the outer dock, finishing one last inspection before heading home.
The outer moorings are more exposed to the weather than the rest, and by evening the wind has picked up enough to sting against his face whenever he turns toward the open sea. That’s why this is the kind of task nobody particularly enjoys.
Still, the lines need checking.
A damaged mooring left unattended can become a costly problem overnight, and Bucky has always preferred spending an extra ten minutes solving an issue now rather than dealing with the consequences later.
This section of the dock is also quieter, far enough from the warehouses that most voices blur together beneath the constant rush of the waves, and that gives him some sort of reprieve from his colleagues’ ability to turn any moment of silence into a forced conversation. It’s one of the few places where he can work without someone deciding that his apparent lack of enthusiasm is an invitation to fix it.
Bucky tightens the last line, testing the tension with a practiced pull before slowly standing back to his full height. The movement draws a familiar sting through his thighs, one he barely notices anymore.
Almost done.
A few more minutes and he can go back to his silent house and worn books.
His gaze drifts absently toward the water as he reaches for the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, and his entire body stills.
At first he sees only a shape, a disruption in the surface several yards beyond the dock, where the harbor opens toward deeper sea. Something moves beneath the waves, slow enough that it might be debris caught in the current or a trick of fading light reflecting on the water.
He watches it for a moment, but eventually lowers his eyes back to the clipboard and continues writing.
It’s only when the shape surfaces again, closer this time, and holds its position in a way that no floating object should have been capable of, that the rhythm of his day finally stutters.
The shape rises and falls with the movement of the water, appearing and disappearing between swells. But it doesn’t tumble the way driftwood would have, nor bobs with the lightness of abandoned equipment.
Bucky cautiously rests one hand against the railing and continues staring with a deep wrinkle between his brows despite himself.
The shape drifts closer.
A swell lifts it.
For a brief moment, something iridescent emerges before disappearing again.
His eyes narrow.
Then, a human arm.
The realization doesn’t alarm him immediately. The possibility of people ending up in the water presents itself before anything more unusual could. A fisherman might have fallen overboard, or the current has carried a body farther than expected.
Neither explanation is pleasant, but both are infinitely reasonable.
Another wave rolls through the harbor, and it stirs the figure more harshly.
Strands of hair spread across the water. A shoulder becomes visible, then the outline of a head. The closer it drifts, the more certain Bucky becomes that he’s looking at a person, and although the sight should have inspired urgency, there is something oddly unsettling about the way the body moves—some small inconsistency his mind can’t quite identify but refuses to ignore.
It’s only when the water shifts again that Bucky swears he feels his heart stop for a moment.
The lower half of the body should have surfaced with the rest. Instead, the same iridescent thing flashes again beneath the water.
For a moment he thinks it might be a trick of the light—the evenings are dark here, and the sea tends to distort everything with its uneven inconsistency. He has spent enough years staring at moving water to know how easily the eye could be fooled. Yet when the figure rises again, there is enough distance behind him from the rest of the harbor and enough light across the liquid surface for Bucky to be confronted with an unjustifiable fact.
Because the upper half of the figure is human.
The lower half is not.
A tail emerges only briefly before slipping under water once more, but the glimpse still allows him to recognize scales that catch what remains of the afternoon light. He sees the shape of it and understands that whatever is floating toward the dock doesn’t belong to any category of living thing he has ever encountered.
“Hey, Barnes—”
The sound breaks through the unnatural quiet so abruptly that Bucky turns far more sharply than he intends to, the movement quick enough to make Sam take a step back.
“Whoa man,” he flinches, lifting his hands. “You okay?”
Under normal circumstances, Bucky would have answered immediately—perhaps with a grunt—and both of them would have gone on with their evenings without giving the exchange another thought. Instead, he finds himself standing there in silence, too aware of Sam’s growing confusion.
Of the fact that something half human and half fish is floating right behind him.
Now, Bucky has spent his entire life in Northwick. He understands how information moves through places like this, how a single unusual detail could travel from one end of the town to the other before sunset and somehow become common knowledge by breakfast. People talk. Most of the time it amounts to nothing more than harmless chats about neighbors, relatives, weather forecasts that end up being wrong, and private arguments that are treated like celebrity gossip.
Something like this, however, would not remain gossip for very long.
It would take one person looking in the right direction.
One person deciding to tell somebody else.
One person making a phone call.
The thought settles like a boulder in his stomach as he imagines the chain reaction unfolding beyond anyone’s ability to control it.
The harbor would fill with annoying strangers first, because people have always been drawn toward things they don’t understand, particularly when there is a possibility of witnessing something extraordinary with their own eyes. Then would come the reporters, eager to turn a forgotten coastal town into a headline. Scientists would inevitably follow, along with researchers, government agencies, and every other institution that believes to have the right to dissect, catalogue, study, explain, and ultimately claim the unknown.
The town would become famous, either as a tourist destination overrun with Airbnbs and souvenir shops selling mermaid-shaped keychains and t-shirts with the town’s name printed across the chest, or as a heavily restricted government zone surrounded by fences and security checkpoints.
For years, one of the things Bucky has appreciated most about living here is the simple fact that nobody cares about it.
People drive past it. Forget it exists. The isolation that others complain about has always suited him perfectly because it allows him to live at his own pace, untouched by the constant noise of the outside world. Bucky has no desire to watch that disappear because of whatever thing happened to be floating toward shore today.
Nor does he particularly enjoy imagining what role he might end up playing in the disaster.
The man who found it.
The man who saw it first.
The man everyone would inevitably want to speak to.
Questions, interviews, strangers knocking on his door, people expecting him to repeat the story over and over again to squeeze the news until the very last dollar.
The more he thinks about it, the more his anger grows.
All because of a creature he would have been perfectly content going his entire life without seeing.
Sam is still watching him, and the concern in his expression has deepened, gradually replacing whatever casual curiosity had prompted the question in the first place.
“Bucky?”
Only then does Bucky realize how long he has been standing there, silent. The pause has stretched far beyond what’s normal, long enough that another few seconds might encourage Sam to get closer and see for himself what has captured his attention.
That can’t happen.
Not now.
Perhaps not ever.
“Yes.”
The answer is devoid of any emotion yet delivered with enough certainty that someone else might have accepted it without question.
Sam knows him too well for that.
For a long moment he studies Bucky’s face with the skepticism of a man who has already reached the conclusion that something is wrong but has not yet decided whether it’s worth arguing about. The wind moves between them, tugging at jackets and carrying the distant sound of waves against the rocks beyond the harbor, while behind Bucky the figure continues drifting steadily through the dark water.
Eventually, Sam exhales and gives a small nod.
“Alright,” he hums. “Pietro wanted me to ask if you’re coming to Joe’s for a beer.”
“No, I’m beat.”
Sam stares at his friend for a little longer, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But he doesn’t make any move to leave.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He doesn’t sound particularly convinced as he frowns. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, his eyes flicking briefly toward the open sea out of sheer habit before meeting Bucky’s gaze.
“Well, don’t stay out here all night.” He sighs.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Sam nods again, giving him a tight-lipped smile.
“See you tomorrow, Barnes.”
Bucky grunts in response, waiting until the sound of his footsteps has disappeared completely before allowing himself to look back at his new problem.
The first indication that Bucky has made a catastrophic mistake arrives approximately halfway between the maintenance ramp and his truck.
Up until that point, the plan seemed bothersome but achievable. Certainly not smart, but achievable.
You, the creature—because he still refuses to think of you as anything else—were fully unconscious as the current eventually carried you near enough for him to step off the ramp and into the freezing water. From there, he decided that he would check whether you were alive, get you out of the water, and then figure out the rest somewhere private.
Instead, the moment his hand finally closed around your wrist, the entire evening began deteriorating at an alarming pace.
The first problem was that you were barely alive. The pulse beneath his fingertips was weak, but still there.
The second problem revealed itself only after he managed to drag you close enough to properly examine you, and that forced Bucky to immediately abandon several much simpler solutions, because his nose instantly caught the revolting smell of seaweed mixed with iron.
The blood was difficult to see at first in the dark, diluted by water, but red streaks had spread around you as the waves shifted, eventually staining his palms and clothes once he reached underneath your shoulders to keep your face above the surface.
Bucky adjusted his grip and promptly regretted it when the movement caused the weight of your tail to shift again.
“Jesus Christ.”
If there was one thing he had learned during the last twenty minutes, it was that mermaids are significantly heavier than they look.
His attention then settled on the scratches scattered across your arms and shoulders—thin deep lines that looked as though a ferocious beast with big claws had taken an interest in you with all the intention of turning you into its next meal. More marked your sides as others disappeared around your back.
The damage to your tail, however, was horrifying.
Even now Bucky finds himself grimacing whenever his eyes drop to the big bloody stains on the beach towel wrapped around it.
Several scales were torn away completely and parts of the fin looked shredded. Deep gouges crossed sections of muscle that probably made swimming impossible, as the amount of blood surrounding the wounds suggested that whatever had happened to you was quite recent.
The sight alone was enough agonizing to make Bucky wince.
And because the injury somehow made the entire situation feel more real.
Unfortunately, the third problem proved considerably more immediate: transportation.
Bucky stops briefly beside a stack of lobster traps to adjust his hold before continuing toward the parking lot.
You remain entirely unhelpful throughout the process.
“Could’ve at least woken up.” He grunts. “You don’t have to hold a conversation. Just enough to explain why your mauled tail is so damn heavy.”
The closest thing to a response he receives is your head rolling slightly against his shoulder.
His jaw clenches.
“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”
The walk should not have been difficult, his truck is visible from the dock, a distance he crosses almost daily without effort. Tonight, however, every step seems determined to prove some previously unknown law of physics regarding large aquatic women.
The tail keeps shifting, the fin catching against his legs.
Twice he nearly lost his grip entirely.
The second occasion could have been particularly catastrophic because it occurs directly beside a puddle deep enough to soak both of you. The sudden jolt nearly sends you slipping from his arms and onto the hard concrete.
Bucky lurches forward instinctively.
“Absolutely not.” He tightens his hold.
“No.” He grits out, his chest heaving quickly under the exertion. “We’re not doing that.”
He stops for a second, enough to properly recover his balance.
“If I drop you in a fucking parking lot after dragging you out of the damn sea, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m leaving this town.”
By the time he finally reaches the truck, his lungs are burning.
The vehicle sits alone beneath one of the lampposts, exactly where he left it that morning, completely unaware that its owner has apparently spent the evening acquiring a mermaid.
Bucky stares at it for a long moment, before he looks at you.
Then back at the truck, before his eyes fall on the tail.
A deep sigh escapes him.
“Stupid dock.”
He shifts your weight.
“Stupid town.”
He takes a step forward.
“Stupid Sam.”
A particularly awkward portion of your tail nearly slides out of his grasp.
“Stupid fish-lady.”
The nickname feels unfair, but he uses it anyway. Because blaming himself would have required accepting that every terrible consequence currently happening is the direct result of a decision he had made entirely on his own.
The irritation only grows as Bucky awkwardly maneuvers you on the passenger side, already wondering how exactly he intends to explain the blood covering his clothes if anybody happens to drive past before he gets out of there.
That concern alone is enough to make him move faster.
Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman through the harbor after dark would already guarantee several months of gossip.
Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman covered in blood would almost certainly result in the police becoming involved.
And carrying an unconscious, half-naked mermaid covered in blood...
Bucky doesn’t even bother finishing the thought.
Some things are too large to contemplate while lifting.
The passenger seat offers the illusion of structure. It’s familiar, comfortable... None of which matter the moment he realizes that your lower half doesn’t, in fact, respect the concept of seating.
The tail doesn’t fold, nor moves in any cooperative manner. It simply exists—heavy and entirely indifferent to the existence of upholstery.
Bucky stands before the passenger seat for a moment longer than necessary, breathing hard with one hand braced on the truck door while the other supports your shoulders. He stares at the seat with quiet resentment.
“Of fucking course.” He grits out under his breath.
Carefully, he tries once again to lower you into the seat anyway, because he has already wasted too much time trying to not drop you on his way back to the truck. The moment your weight shifts fully into the cabin, the tail slides sideways with alarming inevitability, dragging across the door frame before settling awkwardly along the floorboard, resulting in the fin to bend unnaturally.
Bucky pauses to look at it for a long moment, arms open as if ready to catch you, before he lets out a slow sigh.
“This is fine.” He murmurs, in the same tone of someone who is trying to convince himself as well.
The engine starts with its usual reluctant groan and for a few seconds there is a brief, deceptive sense that the worst part has just begun.
The road away from the docks is, as always, in a state of neglect that could only be described as communal acceptance of decay. Potholes interrupt the asphalt at irregular intervals, forcing the truck into sudden dips that make the suspension complain loudly, while uneven patches send vibrations through the chassis that consequentially reach the passenger seat.
And you.
The first jolt is mild, barely noticeable. The second makes your upper body shift forward enough for Bucky’s arm to shoot out instinctively, bracing across your chest to push you back against the seat.
“Yeah,” he exclaims flatly, eyes going back and forth between you and the road. “That’s right. Stay there.”
Another pothole hits immediately after, harsher this time, and the truck lurches hard enough that your entire weight shifts again.
Bucky’s hand moves without thought, catching your arm firmly before you can tilt any further.
“I don’t know who the hell is in charge of this town,” he states far more loudly than before, steering one-handed as the road curves unexpectedly. “But I would very much like five minutes alone with them and a shovel.”
The truck bounces again and your tail scrapes against the floorboard with a dull, dragging sound that makes his jaw clench.
“We have time and money to build a fucking dock extension nobody asked for, but fixing the only road anyone actually uses is apparently optional.”
The silence that follows is, as always, entirely unhelpful. It makes the entire situation worse—at least if you had been awake, he could have been annoyed at you directly.
Instead Bucky is forced to distribute his frustration evenly across the universe.
The truck continues forward, tires thudding rhythmically over uneven pavement, while the landscape outside the windows shifts from industrial structures to the quieter edges of town. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, casting brief white flashes across the interior of the truck that make you look almost unreal, as though you were the beloved, ethereal character out of a forgotten fairytale rather than a half-dying creature tossed around by the cruel sea.
Bucky keeps one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally bracing you when the road demands it, each movement growing more automatic the longer the drive continues.
Eventually, the houses grow farther apart and the roads slightly less cratered, until the familiar shape of his street comes into view.
Only then does he notice the faint sting in his muscles, how tightly his shoulders have been locked.
Bucky parks into his driveway with more precision than usual, worried that any sudden turn might somehow jerk your body one final fatal time. When the truck finally comes to a full stop, he allows himself to exhale properly.
For a long moment, he just sits there with the faint noise of the engine ticking as it cools, and his hands still on the wheel.
Then, slowly, he turns his head.
You are still unconscious. Still inconveniently alive. Your tail occupies roughly eighty percent of his passenger seat in a way that suggests you have no intention of becoming easier to deal with at any point in the near future. Saltwater has already begun to dry in uneven patches across the upholstery and Bucky already knows he is going to regret the smell for a very long time.
With a tired sigh, he tips his head back against the headrest, letting his eyelids flutter shut.
Even for him—broad-shouldered and built for hauling anything the harbor demands—this is a new kind of effort. It settles deep into his muscles in a way that ordinary work never does, accumulating in his forearms and shoulders and along the length of his back with a dull, persistent ache that sharpens every time he shifts in his seat.
Crates have handles, machinery can be pushed, and even the heaviest loads usually possess the decency to distribute their weight evenly. But between the painful wounds and the sheer mass of that ridiculous tail, carrying you feels more like wrestling with gravity itself.
Now that the adrenaline has worn off, a knot throbs beneath his left shoulder blade. His lower back protests when he breathes too deeply, and his hands faintly burn from how tightly he had been holding on.
Bucky drags a hand down his face, and as he sits in the dark in the middle of his quiet driveway, he’s forced to acknowledge the next dreadful step: getting you inside.
That night, locking the front door comes with a heavy weight on his chest.
He can no longer pretend this is temporary. The ocean is not going to reclaim you overnight, nor the harbor is going to quietly undo his fate.
Officially you are, for the foreseeable future, his responsibility.
The bathroom is the only place that makes even a limited amount of sense, because as far as Bucky is concerned fish need water to survive.
He carries you in carefully, adjusting his grip more than once with low, strained groans, and by the time he finally manages to lower you into the tub, he is already panting in a way that has nothing to do with physical strain alone. The tub itself is barely large enough, your body forced into a curled position that makes the entire thing feel wrong from every possible angle.
With a long sigh, he can finally focus on the injuries.
Every time he peels back maimed scales or moves a section of the tail enough to inspect the wounds, he finds himself pausing for a fraction too long, hissing quietly as he registers just how extensive the damage actually is.
The scratches along your arms and torso are deep enough that he cleans them with antiseptic without hesitation, muttering under his breath the entire time.
“What the fuck did you do?” He shakes his head, though there is no indication you could hear him.
The gauze comes next, wrapped carefully around injuries that would have required a hospital if you had been human. He works methodically, hands steady out of habit more than comfort, leaning closer than he would have liked in order to keep the bandaging tight enough to stay in place without cutting off circulation.
The tail is another story.
Nothing about it behaves like something that could be treated in a conventional medical way. Bucky does what he can, though, gently wiping the blood, applying antiseptic where it makes sense, and then carefully positioning the injured section so that it remains mostly above the waterline while the rest of you is gradually submerged.
It’s an awkward compromise, the kind that makes him repeatedly adjust the placement of towels and folded fabric until he is reasonably satisfied that nothing is actively getting worse.
Bucky stands over the edge of the tub for a long moment, one hand braced on the tiles to support his aching body as much as he can while he watches absently the water fill around you. At least something in your posture finally eases a little.
“That’ll have to do.” He mutters, finally breathing properly once he steps into the hallway.
Over the next three days, the house stops feeling his in any meaningful sense.
The bathtub remains occupied at all times, which means that basic routines have to be adjusted in ways he finds increasingly irritating. At one point, after nearly knocking over a bottle of soap while trying to maneuver around the bathroom, he stares at you for a long moment.
“This is ridiculous.”
You don’t respond, which he has already established as your primary method of communication.
On the third day, he drives into town and returns with a large tub that requires significant rearranging of his living room to accommodate. The old furniture is pushed aside with minimal ceremony, the new container placed near the center of the space like some kind of absurd contemporary art installation he refuses to acknowledge as emotionally significant in any way.
“I’m not doing this for you,” he grunts while dragging it slightly to the left. “I’m doing this because I need a place to shower without stepping over a fucking unconscious fish.”
When he finally deems the position satisfying, he stops right before the tub and stares at you.
“You’re not even supposed to exist.”
By the fifth day, Bucky has acquired a new kind of routine, because now every part of the day revolves around returning home.
He checks on you before leaving for the dock. At first, the visits are practical and necessary: he needs to make sure the water is clean, that the bandages have not come loose during the night, that whatever infection he has been quietly expecting has not finally decided to appear.
The tail still unsettles him every time: some mornings he rounds the corner carrying a mug of coffee and stops at the sight of the scales beneath the surface before remembering that there is, in fact, a mermaid occupying his living room.
The realization is somehow never less strange.
He checks on you again when he comes back for lunch. He tells himself it’s because no sensible person would leave an unconscious stranger unattended for twelve hours yet this conveniently ignores the fact that he has never once come home for lunch before, though. It happens on the third day of this new arrangement for the first time ever, not even realizing what he’s doing until he’s pulling into his driveway instead of sitting with the others eating his sandwich.
The second time, he pretends it’s intentional. Until he gives up trying to justify it altogether.
The moment he returns in the evening, before taking off his boots—before even putting away his keys—Bucky walks to the tub.
His groceries sit forgotten by the front door more than once. One evening he tracks muddy footprints across half the house because he catches sight of the injured part of your tail on the brink of falling into the water, so he ends up jogging straight past the mat. Another time he leaves the television running in the background for nearly an hour before realizing he has spent the entire time sitting beside the tub staring blankly at the water instead of watching the stupid show Sam insisted he would like.
At some point during the night, he inevitably finds himself getting up for no reason he can adequately explain, walking across the house in silence and standing beside the tub just to confirm that you are still breathing.
Sometimes he remains there longer than necessary, enough to notice that the house sounds eerily different at night. The old pipes creak, the wind howls against the windows, water shifts softly whenever you move in your sleep... and he catches himself waiting for that sound.
He hates himself.
It’s fucking humiliating and he’s fully aware of that.
And then there is the staring.
Bucky would like to claim that it only happens while he’s changing the bandages, while his hands are occupied with gauze and antiseptic and his mind with the careful reminder of making sure nothing has worsened overnight, because that would somehow justify it.
Yet there are moments when he lingers there long after cleaning your wounds, sitting beside the tub with his hands resting loosely on his knees, his attention no longer anchored to anything in particular, as though he has simply forgotten to stand up and leave. Only after several seconds does he realize that his eyes have settled on your slack face and stayed there without permission.
The problem is not simply that you are beautiful, though even that thought irritates him in a way he doesn’t fully care to examine, because it’s too simple and therefore too easy to dismiss. The problem is that everything about you feels impossible in a way that doesn’t sit comfortably within the ordinary structure of his life.
Although silence was forced upon you, your magnetic presence still creates an unsettling contrast with the quiet, predictable weight of his house. At the end of the day, you are something borrowed from a place that doesn’t follow the same rules as the rest of the world.
More than once, while standing in the middle of tasks that require his full attention, he finds himself wondering what color your eyes are, and not as a question he intends to answer, but as something that simply appears in the background of his thoughts and refuses to leave when he tries to push it away.
It leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue, because it’s unnecessary and Bucky doesn’t have time for unnecessary things. It implies a level of attention he has no intention of giving, even though it returns again and again in the quietest moments, as persistent as the sound of the tide against the harbor walls.
At work, he is more silent than usual even by his own standards, which is something Pietro comments on more than once with the kind of exaggerated concern that suggests he is both amused and genuinely uncertain whether something is wrong. Even the few words he normally allows himself seem to cost more effort than they should, part of his attention already drifting back toward the house without him fully noticing it.
There are moments when he finds himself standing still, eyes fixed on the open stretch of sea beyond the harbor where the water darkens with depth and distance. His thoughts lose their usual shape and linger instead on the parts of the world that have never been accounted for in humans’ understanding of it.
It’s not simply the sea as he knew it, with the predictable rhythms of tide and current and the weathered ships moving in and out of the harbor, but something broader and less defined. Your existence is indeed the confirmation that most of it remains unseen, untouched, and entirely outside of anything he has ever had reason to consider.
Bucky wonders, without meaning to, how many things move beneath that surface without ever breaking it, how many shapes exist in the deep water that have no connection to anything on land, and whether the world has always been fuller than it looks from the edge of a dock.
The thought is not particularly welcome, because it doesn’t fit into anything that Bucky normally considers useful.
Another ten days pass and you still haven’t awakened, but your breathing has stabilized and that has to mean something. Right?
That morning, when he steps closer to the tub, Bucky is already reaching for the edge before his brain fully registers what his eyes are seeing.
The bandages on your tail are still in place, though slightly shifted from movement he had not witnessed. The injuries beneath them look marginally less severe than before—still far from healed, but no longer actively worsening.
He frowns slightly as he leans in, adjusting the gauze diligently and checking the open wounds with the same clinical focus of the last couple of days.
“Still looks like hell,” he mutters. “But at least you’re stable.”
He straightens slowly with a sigh, unconsciously letting his gaze trace the length of your body until they reach your face.
And there, he meets your eyes.
Your open eyes.
Bucky freezes mid-motion, both his hands still hovering over your tail. His lips part pathetically at the ethereal sight, but before he can comprehend what’s happening, you scream right in his face.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
word count | 13.5k words
summary | you had the house. the husband. the hollow life. but every tuesday and thursday at 10:45 AM, you opened the door to something sweeter—a young mailman with a mouth full of yes ma’am and hands made for sin.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, suburbia au, pwp, cheating sex, infidelity, age gap, power imbalance (but consensual), marital infidelity, dom/sub dynamics, begging, doggy style, overstimulation, light dirty talk, reader fantasises about bucky during sex with husband, tw: br*ck r*mlow, mention of emotional neglect in marriage, praise kink, creampie, bucky is obsessed, lowkey inexperienced!bucky, subby!bucky, bucky calls you ma’am and then fucks you stupid, he leaves your pussy full of mail, cuckold core, possessive!bucky, pussy drunk!bucky, heavy praise
a/n | tbh this could’ve taken place in the 50s or 2000s, nobody knows. this was inspired by desperate housewives but i made it sluttier (if gabby and bree were one person)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @enchanthings
There’s something peculiar about the way a woman can be broken without ever making a sound.
No cracks. No gasps. No shattering porcelain on the floor.
Just a quiet kind of nothing that settles behind her eyes like dust on a windowsill, inevitable and slowly turning everything gray.
You were folding laundry when you found it.
One of Brock’s white shirts. The expensive kind. Egyptian cotton, triple-stitched, with his initials monogrammed just inside the collar—BRR—like a cattle brand stamped into the fabric. You’d pressed it yourself that morning, running the iron over the sleeves in slow, methodical passes, breathing in the steam and starch and the faint ghost of his cologne.
And then you saw it.
Lipstick.
Not yours.
Too red. Too loud. The kind of colour worn by women who laugh too hard at dinner parties and drink too much gin straight from the glass. Women who don’t bother to wipe the smudge off the rim before they hand it back to the waiter.
Right there, faint but certain, a smear near the collarbone. Just a whisper of crimson against the white. Like a signature. Like a taunt.
You didn’t scream or crumble. You just held the shirt between your fingers and stared at that mark like it was a wine stain on the wallpaper. Inconvenient and not even worth fussing about.
Because this is what it meant to be Mrs. Rumlow. And you had no one to blame but yourself.
After all, you weren’t swept off your feet. You were just worn down.
Brock pursued you the way a dog gnaws a bone—persistent and aggressive. He asked you out eight times before you said yes. Called your job every afternoon until the receptionist started putting him through just to shut him up. Sent flowers to your apartment; carnations, always carnations, because he never bothered to learn what you actually liked. Showed up at your mother’s dinner parties with that performative charm, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, grinning like he’d already won.
And everyone else loved him.
Your friends said he was handsome. Your mother said he had prospects. Your father just nodded and shook his hand and called him a good man.
You didn’t feel anything at all really.
But the word “yes” started falling out of your mouth like clockwork. Yes to dinner. Yes to letting him in. Yes to the ring—heavy and perfect and exactly what a girl should want. Yes to the house with the white picket fence and the immaculate lawn. Yes to the title—Mrs. Rumlow.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Until suddenly you were thirty, standing in your laundry room at two in the afternoon, holding a man’s shirt that didn’t even smell like you anymore.
And what now? You could confront him. Cry, maybe. Throw a tantrum. Smash a vase against the wall and watch the pieces scatter across the hardwood.
But for what? To make him feel bad for fifteen minutes before he went right back to doing whatever he pleased? To force an apology you knew wouldn’t mean a thing?
No, thank you.
You hung the shirt neatly over the back of the chair, the way you’d been taught, and went back to folding towels. Matching corners. Smooth stacks. The rhythm of it steadied something in your chest.
That afternoon, you made a lemon cake.
You creamed the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. You zested the lemons until your fingers smelled sharp and bright. You poured the batter into the pan and watched it rise through the oven door, golden and perfect. You whipped the frosting by hand until your arm ached, then spread it in smooth, even layers across the top.
And when you sat down in your immaculate kitchen—surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, with a slice of cake on a china plate in front of you—you took a bite.
The frosting was just a little too sweet.
You felt absolutely nothing at all.
Dinner was silent.
You set the pot roast on the table, the porcelain platter warm against your palms, steam curling upward like cigarette smoke in a half-empty bar. The scent of rosemary and roasted carrots hung in the air, filling the dining room with something that smelled like home… even if it didn’t feel like one.
Brock thanked you without looking up from the newspaper.
The words came out flat, automatic, as if spoken by a machine. He ate quickly, efficiently, like everything in his life. Fork, knife, chew, swallow. A rhythm of consumption without pleasure. He checked his watch between bites, that little gold-faced wristband catching the chandelier light, and you wondered if he ever really tasted anything at all.
You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he made a dry comment about work… something about a man named Alexander Pierce, a deal gone sour, a shipment delayed. You didn’t really listen. You just let your mouth move in practiced curves while your eyes drifted to the lipstick stain you’d pressed out of that shirt hours ago.
You poured him another drink when he tapped the glass. The two clinks of his wedding band against the crystal, a wordless request you had long since learned to obey without thought.
You didn’t bring up the lipstick.
Why would you? He would deny it. Or worse—he would tell the truth like it was trivial, like it was nothing more than a spilled drink at a work function, a kiss on the cheek from a client’s wife. He would wave his hand and say you know how these things go, sweetheart, and then he’d go back to carving the roast.
So you kept your mouth shut and your hands steady and your face smooth as porcelain.
After dinner, you washed the dishes while he stood behind you. His hands found your hips in that familiar way, yet less like a husband touching his wife and more like a man checking the fence posts on his property. You didn’t flinch or lean back into him. You just let the warm water run over your fingers and watched the soap bubbles pop one by one against the stainless steel.
He guided you upstairs without a word.
In the bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He never did when he was in this mood. It was easier for him to pretend you were anyone he wanted. Easier for you to pretend you didn’t know who he was imagining. Easier for both of you to exist in that shadowed space without having to look each other in the eye.
He unbuttoned your dress halfway, just enough to get what he needed, and pushed inside you with a sigh. The same tired exhale he gave when he loosened his tie after work. A release. Not affection. Not even desire. Just pressure leaving the body, a valve opened after a long day.
He moved like a man finishing a task before bed. His breath warm and stale against your neck, tinged with whiskey and gravy. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling where the moonlight bled through the curtains.
You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t tremble or cling or gasp. You just lay there, letting him take what he thought was his, feeling nothing but the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ear and the slight friction of the sheets against your thighs.
When he came, he groaned your name like an afterthought and rolled off you immediately. A completed chore. The mattress shifted as he settled onto his back, and within minutes his breathing evened out into the low, rough snore you’d grown accustomed to.
You pulled the sheets back up to your chin and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.
The moonlight cut pale lines across the room, sharp and silver, like broken glass scattered on the floor. You traced them with your eyes, following the angles where they crossed the crown molding, the light fixture, the corner where the wallpaper had begun to peel ever so slightly.
They didn’t point anywhere. They didn’t mean anything. They were just lines of light falling across a dark room where a woman lay next to a man who didn’t see her.
The ache between your legs was faint now, fading into something distant and numb. You folded your hands over your stomach, fingers interlaced, like a woman lying in a casket.
The ceiling fan hummed above you, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence with something almost like comfort.
Then you let sleep pull you under, still hollow, still quiet, still waiting for something to crack.
Tuesday
You sat in the kitchen with a cigarette burning between your fingers and your second cup of coffee growing cold on the counter, wearing a satin robe the colour of pale champagne; too soft, too pretty, too delicate for a life this dull. The fabric whispered against your skin with every small movement, a reminder that you still had a body, still had nerve endings, still had wants that went unacknowledged.
The floor was spotless. Linoleum gleaming under the morning light, every crumb swept, every scuff wiped away. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, porcelain and ceramic arranged like soldiers at attention. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.
And for a moment, just one dizzy, suffocating moment, you considered what it would be like if you just… walked out.
Not packed. Not explained. Not left a note. Just stood up, pushed back the chair, and let the front door click shut behind you without a backward glance. No destination. No plan. Just the simple, radical act of leaving.
You thought about the other wives on the block. Margaret with her twin boys and her perpetual exhaustion. Doris with her tennis club and her too-bright laugh. Eleanor with her country luncheons and her gossip that cut like a finely sharpened knife. All of them busy, all of them pretending they weren’t slowly going mad in their identical houses with their identical husbands and their identical lives.
You didn’t have a baby. You didn’t have a career. You didn’t even have friends you really liked—just women you drank tea with because it was expected, because the calendar said Monday and Wednesday meant bridge club whether you wanted it or not.
You had a house that stayed clean and a husband that didn’t. And every day felt the same.
Breakfast. Clean. Grocery store. Smile politely. Dinner. Dishes. Sex if he remembered. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
You stubbed the cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray, the ember hissing against porcelain, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe you’d bake something today. A cheesecake, perhaps—the one your mother had taught you, the one that took two hours and left your hands smelling of cream and sugar. Or maybe you’d just sit here, watching the clock tick toward noon, counting the minutes until the day blurred into the next one.
Knock. Knock.
Your head turned, like a reflex you hadn’t trained but couldn’t control.
The clock on the wall said 10:45. Which meant it was Tuesday. Which meant—
You already knew before you opened the door.
The morning light spilled across the porch, catching in his hair, turning it something between caramel and chocolate. He stood there in his postal uniform; navy trousers pressed sharp, shirt buttoned to regulation, the leather strap of his mailbag cutting across his chest.
But beneath the uniform, he wore a white t-shirt, the collar just visible at his throat, and he’d cuffed his sleeves once, twice, to show his forearms. Tan skin dusted with fine golden hair, muscles that moved beneath the surface with a boyish, easy strength.
There was a curl stuck to his forehead, dark and damp from the morning humidity. Your fingers itched to push it back.
He smiled when he saw you, that wide, eager grin that made him look like he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “G’mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice had a rumble to it, low and warm. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty this mornin’.”
The words landed somewhere in your chest, like a stone dropped into still water. You didn’t smile back, not the full thing, anyway. Just a curve at the corner of your mouth, a softening of your eyes. You held the doorframe with two fingers, the satin of your robe draping against the painted wood.
“Thank you, James.” His name felt intentional on your tongue, drawn out just a little longer than necessary. “Right on time, I see.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so young, so unpolished, it made something tighten in your stomach. “You know me, ma’am. Gotta keep to a schedule.” He laughed once, a short breath of sound. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”
Disappoint. The word hung in the air between you, weighted with something neither of you acknowledged aloud.
He pulled the letters from his bag with careful hands; one bill, one catalog, one cream-coloured envelope with your mother’s looping handwriting on the front. He offered them to you, and you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
A whisper of contact. Barely anything at all. But your skin remembered it. Tingled with it. Held onto it like a secret.
You looked down at the envelopes, then back up at him. His cheeks were flushed, that telltale pink climbing up from his collar, and he was looking at you like you were something more than a housewife in a bathrobe holding a stack of bills.
“You have a good day now, ma’am,” he said, quieter this time, as if the words were meant only for the space between you.
The ma’am made something in your chest loosen. It wasn’t condescending, not the way Brock said it when he was irritated, a dismissive verbal pat on the head. This was different. Like being called something sacred.
“Thank you, James.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
His grin widened, a flash of white teeth, and he touched the brim of his cap like a soldier saluting. “Yes, ma’am. Thursday.”
Bucky turned and walked back down the path, his stride easy and confident, the mailbag swinging against his hip. You watched him go, fingers still pressed to the doorframe, the letters clutched against your chest. He glanced back once, just before the hedge swallowed him from view, and caught your eye.
He didn’t wave. Neither did you.
But the look he gave you lingered long after he disappeared.
You closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the wood cool against your back through the thin satin. And suddenly, all you could think about was Thursday.
All you could think about was him.
Thursday
You put on lipstick before breakfast.
Not the usual pale pink you wore to bridge club or church, the kind that barely registered on your lips, a ghost of colour meant to be respectable and forgettable. No. Today, you reached for the tube tucked behind the vanity mirror, the one you’d bought weeks ago on a whim and never worn. A glossier red. Crimson. The kind of shade that demanded attention.
It wasn’t quite as brazen as the stain on Brock’s collar’ that shade had been brighter, cheaper, applied with less care, but it was close. Close enough to feel like a statement. Close enough to feel like your own small rebellion.
You curled your hair, too. The iron hissed against the strands, shaping them into soft curls that brushed your shoulders. You ironed your best blouse, cream silk with mother-of-pearl buttons, and paired it with a navy skirt that cinched at your waist and fell just below your knees. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts, letting the scent settle into your skin like a secret.
All for what? A two-minute doorstep exchange.
Maybe.
But it had been a long time since you got ready for someone. A long time since you’d felt the flutter of anticipation in your chest, the nervous checking of your reflection, the quiet thrill of wondering if he would notice.
And Bucky? He always noticed.
The morning moved slowly. You tried to busy yourself—made the bed with hospital corners, scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, cleaned out the icebox with methodical precision. But your hands went through the motions while your mind wandered elsewhere.
You kept glancing at the clock.
10:32.
10:39.
The coffee grew cold in your cup, untouched.
10:44.
Your pulse quickened, an involuntary flutter against your ribs. You wiped your palms on your skirt, smoothed a hand over your hair, touched your lips to check the lipstick was still perfect.
Then—
Footsteps on gravel.
Your breath caught. You straightened your posture, squared your shoulders, and walked to the front door with a calm you didn’t feel. You opened it before he could knock, the morning light spilling across the porch and catching him mid-step.
“Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
He stood there with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling it lazily between his lips. Same cuffed sleeves, same easy stance, same sunshine grin, but something shifted when his eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, just a fraction. His gaze traveled down, then back up, taking his time. Top to bottom. Appreciative. Hungry.
Your skin warmed under the weight of it.
“Why, James,” you said, your voice light and teasing, carrying the faintest lilt of surprise. “You’re lucky I’m dressed. Another ten seconds and you might’ve caught me in a robe.”
He laughed, a low, full sound that rumbled from his chest. “Guess I showed up just in time, then.” He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, tucking it into his shirt pocket, and let his eyes linger on your lips. “You look real nice today, Mrs. Rumlow. That colour suits you.”
You felt the compliment settle low in your belly. You leaned against the doorframe, letting your hip jut out just slightly, letting him see the curve of your waist beneath the silk. “Thursdays feel longer than Tuesdays,” you mused, taking the mail from his outstretched hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose this time. “I think I like Tuesdays better.”
He cocked his head, watching your fingers trace the edge of the envelope. A slow smile spread across his face, not shy now, not boyish. Something else. “Then I guess I’ll have to make Thursdays worth your while, won’t I?”
There it was. The cocky edge under all that charm. The faintest bite, the shift from sweet to knowing. He wasn’t just flirting anymore, he was answering you.
You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. That quiet, familiar clench that hadn’t visited in years, the one you’d thought had died somewhere between Brock’s indifference and your own resignation.
“You always this flattering to the women on your route?” you asked, tilting your head, keeping your tone airy. But your eyes held his, unflinching.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only the pretty ones.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So just Mrs. McCall across the street, then?”
He laughed again, and God, that laugh. It was warm and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me, Mrs. Rumlow. You know you’re my favourite.”
The way he said it. That confident little smirk. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a second, before returning to yours, like he was memorising you.
It shouldn’t have made your thighs press together. But it did.
He made no move to step back. You made no move to end the conversation. The morning stretched around you, the only sounds the distant hum of a lawnmower and the thrumming of your own pulse.
“You got plans this weekend?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. You blinked, your composure slipping for just a moment. “No,” you admitted. “Just the usual. Laundry. Groceries. Maybe lunch with some women I don’t particularly like.”
He smiled again, wide and wolfish this time. “I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.”
Your lips parted. You could feel the weight of his words, the implication wrapped in that easy grin. But you didn’t speak.
He stepped back then, finally, breaking the spell slowly. He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “See you Tuesday, Mrs. Rumlow.”
“Tuesday,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.
He turned and walked down the path, his stride easy, his shoulders broad beneath the blue uniform. You watched him go, watched the way his hips moved, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. And this time, when he glanced back, just before the hedge swallowed him, he didn’t just look.
He winked.
You closed the door slowly, and exhaled through your nose, a long, shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your heart rattled against your ribs. Your lips still tingled from the weight of his gaze.
You were old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize the danger in a boy who looked at you like you were the sun. But today? You didn’t feel old. You didn’t feel married. You didn’t feel like a housewife in a quiet suburb with a cheating husband and a hollow life.
You felt looked at. You felt chosen. And maybe Bucky had other girls. Maybe he had dozens, scattered across his route like wildflowers. But when he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman on the planet, you let yourself bask in it.
Saturday Night
Brock wanted sex, again.
You could always tell by the way he stood in the doorway after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the very thought of wanting you exhausted him. It never felt like desire. It felt like appetite, hunger without taste, a reflex he performed out of schedule rather than longing. He never looked at you the way Bucky did. He looked through you, like you were a task to check off before sleep.
You were propped against the headboard, a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal open in your lap, your eyes scanning the same paragraph three times without reading a word. The magazine had been a shield. A pretense of being occupied. But when Brock padded over and plucked it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours without lingering, you didn’t protest.
He placed it on the nightstand and you watched his shadow fall across the bed.
“You ready for me?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was flat, perfunctory.
“Mhm,” you murmured, the sound soft, neutral. Invitation enough.
He climbed on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His lips found yours in a single, dry kiss , just a press of mouth against mouth before he pulled back. His lips were damp from the shower. Impatient. He pushed your nightgown up over your hips, the cotton gathering in wrinkled bunches around your ribs. The air hit your thighs, cool and indifferent.
“I missed you,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, a script he recited by rote. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it. But the sound still filled the room, settling between you like dust.
You opened your legs because that was the routine. That was marriage. That was being Mrs. Rumlow, a woman who spread her thighs for a man who forgot she had a name beyond the ring on her finger.
He entered you with a grunt. As you felt the familiar weight of a man claiming what he believed belonged to him. His hips settled against yours, and he began to move, steady, mechanical, like the piston of a machine. In. Out. In. Out. His breath hot against your neck.
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing.
You stared over his shoulder at the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper blurred as your focus drifted. The lamp on the nightstand flickered once, a tired bulb. The headboard creaked with each thrust, a rhythmic complaint that had long since become white noise. You counted the creaks. Six. Seven. Eight. You wandered through the numbers like hallways, searching for somewhere else to be.
Your mind wandered. It always did. But tonight it wandered somewhere new.
James Buchanan Barnes.
You pictured him without even meaning to. The curve of his smile, that boyish confidence that didn’t know its own power. His hands, rough and calloused from sorting mail and lifting parcels, curling around envelopes with a casual grace. Forearms tight and sun-browned, taut with youth and strength, so much younger than they should be for how much they made you ache.
You imagined those hands on your waist instead. Sliding over the curve of your hip. Fingers digging in like he was afraid you might slip through them, like he wanted to hold on so tight he’d leave bruises you could press in the morning and remember.
Brock groaned into your shoulder. A sound of effort, not passion. You barely heard it.
Your mind was in your foyer. Sunlight streaming through the side window, catching the gold in James’s hair, turning it to chocolate brown. His eyes dropping to your lips and the quiet hitch of his breath when he realised you were wearing red today. The way his tongue touched his bottom lip before he spoke.
You imagined him standing too close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, the faint salt of a morning’s work. You imagined him saying your name with that low rasp, Mrs. Rumlow, not as a title, but as a confession. Almost shy. Almost cocky. Almost daring you to stop him.
You imagined him whispering something filthy in your ear. Something a young man should never say to a married woman. Something you would let him say anyway, would crave him to say, would press your thighs together under the kitchen table and pretend not to hear.
“I think about you when I’m alone, Mrs. Rumlow. Late at night. Do you think about me?”
Brock picked up his pace. His breathing turned heavy, tight, a rhythm he knew by heart. His hips slapped against yours, harder now, more insistent. Your body moved out of habit—a practiced arch of your back, a soft sound you’d learned to make at the right intervals. But you weren’t there.
You were in the kitchen with Bucky, morning light streaming through the lace curtains. Your robe hanging open. His mouth hot on your throat, trailing down, down, tasting the perfume you’d dabbed there just for him. His voice unsteady and hungry, cracking with want. His hand sliding up your thigh, like he had been dreaming about the feel of your skin for months.
“Tell me you want this,” he’d whisper. “Tell me you want me.”
You imagined him losing control. The careful restraint crumbling. The boyish charm replaced by something ravenous, something that needed you so badly it frightened him. You imagined him taking you right there against the counter, your back arching, your fingers tangled in his hair, every sound you made pulling him deeper.
Your breath caught. Heat crawled up your spine like fingers tracing vertebrae. Your nails dug into the sheets, white-knuckled, pulling the fabric taut.
Brock didn’t notice.
You came quietly. An involuntary gasp against his shoulder, a tremour that ran through your thighs and settled deep in your belly. You bit down on the sound, swallowed it whole. You didn’t want him to know why. You didn’t want him to know it wasn’t for him.
He finished thirty seconds later with a strained grunt, his body tensing, his release hot and forgettable. He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, sweating and satisfied, completely ignorant. His breath evened out against your neck, slowing into the rhythm of a man who had taken what he wanted and was already forgetting he’d had it.
“I missed you,” he said again. A kiss pressed to your shoulder, empty of meaning.
You closed your eyes. Your pulse settled slowly, like dust after a storm.
Your husband had made you orgasm for the first time in years. And he would never know that he had nothing to do with it.
You lay there under Brock’s weight, the lamp flickering, the headboard silent now. Your fingers still curled in the sheets. Your skin still tingled where you’d imagined Bucky’s hands.
You thought about Tuesday. You thought about the red lipstick in your vanity drawer. You thought about the way James’s eyes had dropped to your lips this morning, hungry and hopeful, like a boy ready to sin.
And you smiled in the dark.
Tuesday came again.
And so did you.
Not physically. Not yet. But God, did you want to.
You spent the morning choosing your clothes with the kind of care you usually reserved for holidays or funerals. A blush pink blouse with three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. An indecent skirt that hugged your hips when you walked. You applied your lipstick slowly, blotting against tissue paper until the colour was perfect, a deep, shameful red that screamed look at me.
You heard the mail truck before you saw him. The low rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the squeak of brakes. Your pulse quickened. You stepped onto the porch just as he rounded the corner of the driveway, satchel slung over one shoulder, a stack of envelopes in his hand.
He looked up. Saw you. Stopped.
The sun caught the sweat on his brow, glistening on his temple. He was so young. It made your stomach tighten.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice came out a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your usual. Couple of bills. A catalog.”
You smiled and stepped forward. Close enough that the breeze carried your perfume straight to him. You saw his nostrils flare, just slightly—, efore he caught himself.
“That’s very kind of you to bring them right to the door,” you said, letting your voice dip low. “Y’know most mailmen would just toss them in the box.”
“I like makin’ sure you get yours proper.” He held out the envelopes. His fingers brushed yours when you took them. Lingered. You didn’t pull away.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You’re good at your job, James.”
He smiled, crooked and shy. “Only ‘cause the scenery’s nice.”
You laughed softly. “Careful. You’ll spoil me.”
“Well, maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.
Thursday came with a different kind of heat.
Thick and humid, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow. You wore a sundress, thin straps, low neckline, the fabric loose enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving everything away. No stockings. No slip. Just your body and cotton and the knowledge that the afternoon sun would make the dress cling to every curve.
You heard the truck at the usual time. You opened the door before he could knock.
This time you leaned out a little too far as you reached for the envelopes. Let the neckline gape. Let him see the swell of your breasts, the shadow between them, the way your skin glistened from the humidity.
His eyes dropped.
It was only for a second. Less. But you saw it. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hand tightened around the mail he was holding, crinkling the edge of an envelope.
“Thanks, James.” You straightened slowly, letting him see the smile playing on your lips.
“Y-yes ma’am.” He swallowed. “You have a good day now.”
“I plan to.”
You closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. That night, you ran a bath so hot the mirror fogged over. You lay in the water with your knees bent, steam curling around your face, and you let your hand drift between your thighs.
You imagined him on his knees in front of the tub. His hands gripping the porcelain. His eyes on you, dark and hungry. The way he’d look up at you before lowering his head.
“Please, Mrs. Rumlow. Let me taste you.”
You pressed your fingers deeper, biting down on your own wrist to muffle the sound. You came with his name on your tongue, barely whispered, lost in the steam.
Tuesday
The heat came early that morning, crawling through the window screens like something alive. Thick and unforgiving. By the time the clock struck ten, the air in the house had gone still and heavy, pressing against your skin like a warm palm.
You didn’t bother dressing.
There was no point. Brock had left before sunrise, a muttered goodbye and the slam of the front door, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t here. The house was yours.
You slipped into your favourit pink champagne robe. You tied it just once at the waist, loose enough that the fabric fell open when you moved, baring the slope of your collarbone, the shadow between your breasts, the long line of your thigh as you walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.
No bra. No slip. Just your skin beneath the silk, damp from the humidity.
The clock ticked to 10:45.
Right on schedule.
You’d been standing at the kitchen window, watching the street through the sheer curtain, a glass of ice water sweating in your hand. You saw the mail truck pull up. Saw him step out, satchel slung over his shoulder, wiping the back of his hand across his brow.
He looked up at your house. Paused. Adjusted his collar.
You smiled to yourself, set down the glass, and walked to the door.
Knock, knock.
You waited two beats—long enough to seem unhurried, not long enough to seem reluctant. Then you turned the knob and pulled the door open.
The heat hit you first, a wall of it, thick and wet. It smelled like cut grass and pavement and the faint, clean sweat of a young man who’d been working under the sun.
And there he was.
Bucky Barnes, all six feet of him, backlit by the morning glare. The light caught his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the brown strands of his hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric gaping open to reveal the smooth plane of his chest, the sun-warmed skin, the fine sheen of sweat that made it gleam.
He had a stack of mail in one hand. The other hung loose at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.
His eyes met yours.
And then they dropped.
Down your body. Over the open V of your robe. Down to your bare legs, the curve of your calf, the way the silk shifted when you breathed. It wasn’t a glance. It was a slow and helpless look and he didn’t even try to hide it.
You saw the exact moment his brain caught up with his body. His throat moved. His jaw tightened. His gaze snapped back to your face, but it was too late. You’d already seen everything.
“M-Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The stutter was tiny. Barely there. But you heard it, felt it like a small victory.
“Good morning, James.”
Your voice came out low, syrupy, the kind of voice you used when you wanted a man to lean in closer. You let your hand drift up to the doorframe, the movement casual, but it pulled the robe just a fraction tighter across your chest.
“Hot one today,” you murmured, tilting your head. “I thought I’d stay in something a little lighter. The heat’s been unbearable.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flickered down again, just for a second, just a brief, helpless slip, before he forced them back up.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s—real hot. Humid, too.”
“You must be dying out there in that uniform.”
“It ain’t so bad.” He shifted his weight, licked his lips. “Got a good schedule. Nice houses. Nice people.”
He held out the mail. You took it, slowly letting your fingertips brush against his. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped under your touch.
“Thank you,” you said, soft. “I notice you always bring it to me personally. You don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”
He blinked. “I—no, ma’am. I usually just leave it in the box.”
“So why do you bring mine to the door?”
The question hung in the air between you, sweet as poison. He stared at you, and you watched him search for an answer that wouldn’t give too much away.
He failed.
“Guess I like seein’ your face.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost rough. “You’re always real nice to me. Not everyone is.”
You stepped closer, just enough to bring you into the wedge of sunlight spilling through the doorway. The robe shifted, gaping open at your thigh. You saw his eyes track the movement.
“You like talking to me, James?”
“Yeah.” The word came out breathless. “I really do.”
You let a small smile play at the corner of your mouth. “I like talking to you too.”
A silence settled between you. The air itself seemed to thicken, you could hear the hum of a lawnmower two streets away, the distant bark of a dog, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.
The sun spilled across his shoulders, catching the sweat on his collarbone. Your robe was loose, barely tied, the silk shifting with every shallow rise and fall of your chest. Just standing there, two feet apart, was a kind of intimacy.
You could have kissed him then. You knew he would have let you. You knew he wanted you to. You could see it in the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his irises, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then darting away, like he was afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.
Instead, you smiled.
“Would you like some lemonade?”
The question hung in the air like a dare. His eyes snapped to your mouth, then back up, and you watched him process what you’d just offered. The invitation. The implication. The fact that you weren’t asking him to leave.
He nodded. Too quickly. His voice cracked when he spoke.
“Yeah. Sure. I’d—I’d like that.”
Come in.
You didn’t say it. You just stepped back, letting the door swing open wider, and turned without another word. Bare feet on cool tile. The soft whisper of silk against your thighs. You walked ahead of him, letting him follow, letting him watch.
The robe shifted when you moved, slipping off one shoulder, brushing the backs of your knees, the hem fluttering just above the curve of your calf. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze on you like a hand at your waist, trailing down your spine, settling low.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No radio humming. No laundry churning. Just the low buzz of the ceiling fan from the living room and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock over the sink.
The kitchen blazed with sunlight pouring through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the still air. The counters gleamed. A half-used lemon sat on the cutting board from this morning. The whole room smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and the clean scent of dish soap.
“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the stools at the counter. “I’ll get the lemonade.”
He obeyed. Quietly. He set his satchel down on the counter, then pulled out one of the stools, the legs scraping against the tile. He sat, watched you, said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing.
You moved unhurriedly. Opened the refrigerator door. Let the cold air wash over you. Bent slowly, reaching all the way to the back for the glass pitcher, knowing exactly how the robe tightened across the backs of your thighs, knowing exactly how the hem rose just a little higher when you stretched.
When you straightened and turned, his eyes snapped up too fast. A flush crept up his neck. He’d been staring. Caught.
You didn’t acknowledge it. Just smiled to yourself and poured two tall glasses, condensation already beading on the glass.
You set one in front of him. Then took the stool across the counter, crossing your legs as you settled. The robe fell open at the knee, baring the length of your thigh. You saw him glance down, then force himself to look at the lemonade.
You brought the glass to your lips. Sipped. Let the cold sweetness coat your tongue. When you set it down, you licked a stray drop from your lower lip, slow enough to make him shift in his seat.
“Still hot out,” you said, your voice light, conversational. “Not used to this kind of heat. Makes a woman crave something cold.”
He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s—it’s bad this week.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting, though he’d barely spoken a word.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You alright, sweetheart? You look a little flushed.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Just warm,” he managed.
“Mmm.” You rested your chin on your palm, elbow on the counter, watching him. “You know, you’re always so nice. I really like that about you.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Ma’am?”
“A lot of boys your age wouldn’t be so kind to someone like me.”
His brow furrowed. “Someone like you?”
You smiled, bittersweet, letting your gaze drop. “A housewife,” you murmured. “Married. Boring. A little past my prime, I suppose.”
The words hung in the air. You felt the weight of them, the small lie you were telling, the way you were baiting him.
He sat up straighter. His jaw tightened. “You’re not past anything.”
You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.
“You’re—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His ears were red. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The silence stretched between you. The ceiling fan turned overhead, stirring the warm air. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The ice in your glass settled with a soft clink.
You held his gaze a second longer than was appropriate. Then you took another sip of your lemonade, letting the moment breathe.
“That’s very sweet of you to say, James.” Your voice was quieter now. Softer. “Very sweet.”
He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles white, like he was bracing himself against something.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Just sat in the sun-warmed silence, pretending to be casual while the air thickened between you like honey left too long on the stove. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this counter, this boy with his hands wrapped around a glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
You shifted in your seat, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way. The silk whispered against your skin.
His eyes dropped. You felt them like a touch, the way they traced the line of your thigh where the robe had fallen open, the way they lingered on the curve of your knee, the shadow above it. He watched the slow slide of your fingers over your glass, watched the way you wet your lips without thinking, and you watched him right back, cataloging every small tell.
The way his breath stalled when you moved. The way his knuckles went white. The way he bit his lower lip—just the tiniest flicker of restraint cracking, the pressure of his teeth against the soft flesh making you feel something warm and dangerous coil low in your belly.
You caught him. You didn’t say a word. Just smiled, the kind that said, I saw you. It’s alright. I wanted you to.
He bit his lip harder, then let it go. His mouth stayed parted, pink and slightly swollen.
You leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Do you like coming here, James?”
The question was simple. Innocent in its phrasing.
He looked up. Met your eyes. Nodded, like he was admitting something he’d been holding back for weeks.
“Yeah,” he said, like gravel scraped smooth by water. “I really do.”
You let the silence fall again, full and heavy and humming. And then, with the softest, most dangerous smile you owned. “Good,” you whispered. “Me too.”
You stood from your stool, the wood scraping softly against the tile. Took your empty glass to the sink, and rinsed it slowly, letting the water run over your fingers, watching the last traces of lemon and sugar swirl down the drain. The tap hummed. The water was cool against your heated skin.
You lifted your eyes to the window above the sink, watching his distorted reflection in the glass. He was staring at your back. The curve of your spine through the thin silk. The dip of your waist. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
Finally, you turned off the tap. Shook the excess water from your hands. Dried them slowly on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
Then you spoke.
“Tell me something, James.”
Your voice was soft. Curious.
“Yes, ma’am?”
You turned around slowly, hips resting against the counter’s edge, the thin silk of your robe parting just a little as it settled around your waist. The morning light caught the curve of your hip, the shadow of your navel, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric.
You watched his eyes follow it.
“Do you flirt with every woman on your route,” you asked gently, tilting your head, “or only me?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He actually blinked, like he needed to reset his brain, like the question had short-circuited something vital. His ears reddened. His hands tightened on the glass again, then relaxed as he set it down carefully, as if afraid he might break it.
“Only you,” he said quietly. The words came out steady, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Only ever you.”
You nodded once. As if that confirmed something you already knew, something you’d suspected since the first time he lingered a little too long at your door, since the first time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you the mail.
Then you walked toward him.
Slow steps. Bare feet on cool tile. The sun fell across your path, warm on your shoulders, and you felt beautiful in a way you hadn’t in years. Not for Brock. Not for anyone else. For yourself. For the way this boy’s eyes followed every inch of you like you were something sacred.
When you reached him, you placed your hand lightly on the counter beside his shoulder. Not touching him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You leaned in just slightly, letting him smell your perfume.
His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke your composure. You felt a thrill run through you, sharp and electric.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He did.
You let your gaze drag over his face, the strong line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his lips. The way his blue eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, the colour swallowed by want. The way his throat worked as he swallowed again, the Adam’s apple bobbing.
You let your fingers trail down his forearm. Barely a touch. The lightest brush of your fingertips over the fine hair on his skin, over the warmth of him, over the tremour that ran through his muscles when you made contact.
“You know,” you said softly, your voice a murmur, “you have been very good to me these last few months.”
His chest rose. Fell. His lips parted.
“I like our chats, James.”
Your fingers continued their lazy path, tracing the line of a vein, the curve of his wrist. You felt his pulse jump beneath your touch, rapid and wild.
“And I like how you look at me,” you added. “Even when you try not to.”
He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and honest and cracked at the edges.
“I am trying real hard right now.”
You smiled. A slow, sinful curl of your lips. “You don’t have to.”
Then, in the softest voice you had used with him yet, “Stand up for me, James.”
He obeyed before he realized he had moved. The stool scraped back against the tile, and suddenly he was towering over you—tall, flushed to the tips of his ears, trying not to tremble.
You stepped closer. Close enough that the fabric of your robe brushed his barely opened shirt. Close enough that your breath touched his mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight shake in his hands as they hung at his sides, not quite daring to reach for you.
“You want me,” you said. Not a question. A truth spoken plainly, laid out on the counter between you like a confession.
He nodded. Hard. His jaw worked, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word.
“I been tryin’ not to,” he whispered. “Swear I been tryin’, ma’am. Every time I see you at that door, I tell myself—” He broke off, swallowing. “I tell myself to just hand you the mail and go. Just walk away.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, ma’am.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “I can’t.”
You touched his jaw. The barest brush of your fingertips against the stubble along his cheekbone. He shivered under your touch.
“I don’t want you to try anymore.”
His eyes darkened. Something shifted behind them, the last thread of restraint snapping. What was left was something hungry. Something young and desperate and finally set free. His breathing turned shallow. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then released.
“M-Mrs. Rumlow,” he breathed, voice shaking, “if I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
You tilted your chin up, lips inches from his. Close enough to taste the warmth of his breath, to see the fine tremor in his lower lip.
“Good.”
That was it. That was the spark.
He grabbed your waist with both hands, strong fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry and messy and eager. A young man who had been imagining this for months and finally snapped.
You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, took the chance to push his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like lemonade and something masculine. His hands moved without permission, shoving your robe open at your hips, dragging you against his body like he needed to feel every inch of you through the thin silk.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the first taste of anything real in his short, hungry life. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and you felt the tremble in his arms, the barely leashed violence of his need.
You let him. You let him take. You let him lose control.
Because you had been waiting for this. For this exact moment.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Take me, James.”
The hallway was a blur.
You didn't remember crossing it. You didn't remember the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling on the floor. You didn't remember the bedroom door swinging open, or the way the afternoon light fell across the bed in golden stripes.
What you remembered was the moment Bucky lost control.
The moment his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to hold you in place or he’d fall apart. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets.
The moment he said your name.
Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Rumlow. Not anything polite or proper.
But your name, whispered like a sin he was dying to commit, like he’d been saving it for this exact moment, tasting it on his tongue for the first time.
“Please,” he breathed, hot against your neck, lips brushing the thrumming pulse at your throat. “Please let me.”
And then he pushed inside you.
Your gasp broke in half. Your fingers clutched the sheets. Your breasts arched into his chest on instinct, a reflexive surrender.
You cunt was soaked, open and ready, aching for him in a way you hadn’t ached for anything in years. But he still felt too big. Too deep. The stretch of him made your eyes roll back, made your breath catch in your throat.
You hadn’t been touched like this in years. Not with intention. Not with fire. Not with the kind of desperate, worshipful need that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled against your skin, rough and broken. “God, you feel—fuck—”
Each thrust was harder. Needier and more frantic. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound mixing with the ragged fall of his breathing, the wet, slick sound of him moving inside you.
He fucked you like he was making up for every time he watched you from the sidewalk and imagined what you’d sound like under him. Like he’d been storing up this hunger for weeks, months, and finally had permission to let it out.
You dragged your nails down his back and he trembled, a full-body shudder that made him bury himself deeper.
“Easy,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
He shook his head, fucking into you harder, faster, his rhythm falling apart at the edges.
“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I—been wanting you so long—”
You grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at you.
His pupils were blown, dark as ink. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from kissing you too hard. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.
“Then take what you want,” you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Come on, baby. Don’t hold back.”
He broke.
His mouth crashed onto yours again, sloppy and desperate. His hips snapped forward in a brutal rhythm, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your tits bouncing with every impact.
He stared at you like he’d never seen a naked woman in his life, like you were something sacred and filthy all at once. His gaze traced the curve of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your body moved beneath him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken. “Been dreamin’ about you in this bed—fuck—thought about it every damn night. Every time I walked past your door, I’d picture you right here, spread out for me.”
You moaned, loud and shameless, your fingers threading through his damp hair and tugging him down. Your mouth met his in a kiss that bruised, tongues sliding, the taste of salt and lemon mingling between you.
He kissed like he fucked. All tongue and breath and raw, unfettered hunger. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and moaned into the kiss, his cock still pounding into you with that relentless, youthful urgency.
“You like this?” he panted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were glassy, pupils blown wide. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me. Please—I need to hear it. I need to know I’m doin’ it right.”
Your voice came out broken, barely recognizable. “Yes. God, yes. Harder—don’t stop—”
His grip shifted. One hand stayed firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, angling you deeper, opening you to him in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Shit—James—”
“I know, I know—feels good, right?” His voice was ragged, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. “I can feel you—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me, ma’am. Like you don’t wanna let me go.”
He was falling apart. You were too. Your nails dragged down his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake. Your breath hitched, stuttered, dissolved into a whimper. Your thighs quivered around his waist, the muscles trembling with the effort of holding on.
“Don’t stop,” you whined, the plea ripping out of your throat. “Don’t you dare stop—”
His voice broke completely, cracking under the weight of his own need. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m gonna stay right here—gonna give you everything, Mrs. Rumlow—everythin’ I got—”
Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even register your own moan. It tore through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that stole your breath and turned your limbs to jelly. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your vision going white at the edges.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as he felt you clench around him, a sudden grip that dragged him over the edge with you.
“Oh—oh my God—” he gasped, his rhythm faltering, his hips stuttering. “You’re—fuck—you’re cummin’—”
And then he fell apart inside you.
A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest as he thrust deep burying himself to the hilt while he spilled into you with an urgency that bordered on desperate. His body shook, every muscle taut, his hands clutching your hips like you were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your sweat-slicked skin. He breathed you in; the scent of your perfume, the salt of your skin, the lingering musk of sex, and let out a shuddering exhale.
“Mrs. Rumlow…” he whispered, like a confession. His voice was raw and hoarse. Then, as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, he added, “I… I don’t wanna stop.”
You stroked the back of his head gently, your nails grazing the nape of his neck, tracing the fine hairs there. His skin was damp, warm, trembling slightly under your touch.
“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” you murmured, the words low and honeyed.
He lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy. His hair was a wild mess, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen, and under all that, still hard, still pressing against your thigh with stubborn, unapologetic desire.
“I can go again,” he whispered, almost frightened of his own need. “Please let me. I know I just—but I need—please, I ain’t done with you yet.”
Your fingers raked through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He was so young. So pink. So earnest in his hunger. You’d just let him cum inside you, and he still looked like he wanted to say thank you.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Breathe, honey,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “You’re not done yet.”
And before he could even answer, you shifted from underneath him, a slow, fluid motion that left him blinking, confused, his body still humming with unspent need. You climbed onto all fours, and looked back over your shoulder at him. The afternoon light caught the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your hips.
You looked over your shoulder at him, a lazy, knowing smile curving your lips.
“Come here, James. Show me what else you’ve been dreaming about.”
His eyes went wide. The pupils had already swallowed most of the blue, leaving just a thin ring of colour around the black. His chest heaved, still slick with sweat, a fine sheen glistening across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.
You didn’t have to tell him twice.
He was already fully hard again, flushed tip, veins twitching along the shaft, the head glistening with a mixture of your combined slick. When he slid behind you, it wasn’t with the frantic rush you expected. He took his time. Let his hands trace the curve of your ass first, palming the roundness like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hushed and awed. “You’re perfect. I swear to god—”
“Show me, then,” you said. “Show me how perfect I am.”
His hands tightened. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, anchoring himself. And then, he pushed in again. Thick and warm, the slick heat of you parting around him like you’d been waiting for this very moment. You moaned like you meant it, your forehead dropping to the sheets as he filled you inch by inch.
“Jesus—still so fuckin’ wet—” he hissed, hips stuttering as he bottomed out, pressing flush against you.
You were. Dripping with the evidence of his first release and still greedy for more. The feeling of him sliding into that already-fucked heat sent a shiver through you, your inner walls clenching instinctively around him.
“Harder,” you rasped, cheek pressed to the mattress, the words muffled but clear. “I can take it. Come on, honey. Fuck me.”
His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks you’d find tomorrow. His thrusts came harder, deeper, desperate and sloppy with sound. The wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into you filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your broken moans. He was panting behind you, fingers digging in as he drove into you like he wanted to climb inside, to bury himself so deep you’d never forget the shape of him.
You arched your back, pressed into him, gave him more. Your breasts swung beneath you, nipples dragging against the sheets with each impact. The sensation sent sparks through your chest.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Use me.”
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me, ma’am. I’m never gonna be able to look at another woman without thinkin’ of you.”
And you smiled, even as your mouth fell open with another moan as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl.
The room was hot. The sheets wrinkled and twisted beneath you. Skin stuck together wherever you touched, his thighs against yours, his chest against your back when he leaned forward, his breath hot on your shoulder blade. The scent of sex clung to every inch of air; sharp and sweet, salt and musk, the metallic tang of arousal and the warmth of two bodies pushed past their limits.
Slap—slap—slap of skin meeting skin. The desperate whine building in his throat. The soft chant of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer, ma’am, Mrs. Rumlow, please, please, each syllable punctuated by a thrust.
“You like this?” you managed to gasp, your voice frayed at the edges. “Fucking a married woman? In her bed? Filling her up like a good boy?”
He whimpered. The sound was raw, stripped of all pretense.
“Yes—yes, ma’am—fuck—” His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “Please let me cum again. Please. I’ll do anythin’—I’ll be so good—”
You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers, the pressure just enough to send sparks up your spine, to tighten the coil building low in your belly. Your hips pushed back to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper.
“Then do it,” you moaned, the words thick with approaching release. “Cum in me, James. Again. Show me how much you want me.”
He buried himself so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat, a fullness that stole your breath, that made your eyes roll back. And with a strangled grunt, he came again.
Pulsing inside you like he never wanted to leave. You felt each spasm, each flood of warmth, each desperate clench of his hands on your hips as he emptied himself into you.
The sensation pushed you over the edge. You followed hard, clenching around him, crying out into the sheets as your body finally gave out. The tremors ran through you in waves, stealing your strength, turning your limbs to jelly. Your arms collapsed beneath you, and you sank into the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp fabric.
But he stayed inside. Held your hips. Rested his forehead on your back and just breathed, hot, uneven puffs of air against your spine.
You didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the sheets to cover yourself. Just lay there, chest pressed to the mattress, skin hot and slick with sweat and the evidence of what you’d done, your breath slowing in the heavy stillness of the room.
The clock on the nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Life continued in the world beyond these walls, oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bed.
You felt the soft drag of Bucky’s fingers down your spine. Tracing each vertebrae like he was memorising you.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still raw. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
You smiled into the pillow, eyes closed, lips curving against the cotton.
“Believe it,” you murmured, voice rasped and ruined. “You earned it.”
He laughed, a breathless sound that didn’t quite mask the wonder in it, and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. His lips lingered, warm and soft.
And then another. And another. Trailing up the ridge of your spine to the nape of your neck, where he nuzzled into the fine hairs there and let out a contented sigh.
“I don’t wanna leave,” he mumbled against your skin. “Ever.”
You hummed, a low, pleased sound. Your hand reached back blindly, finding his head, patting it once.
“Then stay a little longer, sweetheart. Clock’s not even at twelve yet.”
He shifted, pulling out slowly, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, a faint ache in its wake.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, nosing into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. The question came out hushed, almost fragile. “Did I—was I too rough?”
You shook your head, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The pillowcase was cool beneath your cheek, a soft counterpoint to the heat still radiating from your skin.
“No, honey. You were perfect.”
That made him groan, the sound vibrating against your back where his chest pressed flush against you. You could feel his cock twitch, still half-hard against your thigh, a stubborn pulse of warmth that refused to fully subside.
He shifted beside you, curling around your back, fitting himself to the curve of your spine like he’d been made to fill that space. His mouth kept moving, over your shoulder, across the delicate skin where your neck met your collarbone, pressing featherlight kisses that made your breath catch.
“I’ve never…” He paused, his lips still against your skin. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”
His hand slid up your stomach, palm flat, fingers tracing lazy circles into the soft plane of your belly. It came to rest just beneath your breasts, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispered, wonder threading through the words. “I can’t stop touching you.”
“Then don’t.”
You meant it. Let him have you. Let him touch and kiss and worship every inch of you until your skin felt new again, until the ghost of Brock’s careless hands was erased entirely, replaced by the devotion of this boy who acted like you were something special.
His lips found your jaw. Your cheek. The slope of your neck where your pulse still fluttered. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt the tip of his tongue.
“Can I stay a little longer?” His voice was quieter now. Stripped of the confident swagger he’d worn on your doorstep. This was the boy beneath the uniform, the one who still got nervous around pretty girls and asked permission like he expected to be denied.
You turned your head, looked him in the eye for the first time since you’d let him fuck you senseless. The blue of his irises was hazy, pupils still blown wide, but there was something raw there too. Something that needed to hear the answer.
“You can stay as long as you want, honey.”
His exhale was shaky. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh of relief.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, James.”
He smiled. A real one, boyish and crooked.
You lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, letting your heartbeat settle, letting the room breathe around you. The afternoon light had shifted, softer now, casting long shadows across the floor.
Bucky eventually had to pull away to dress again. He stumbled a little getting off the bed, his legs still unsteady, and you watched him gather his uniform from where it lay scattered across the floor. He flushed every time he caught your eye, a pink bloom creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.
He kept looking back at you. At your thighs still parted, at the imprint of your body on the mattress he’d just ruined.
You watched him pull his uniform pants back up, hands shaking as he fumbled with the zipper. His tucked-in shirt stuck to the sweat drying on his chest, and he smoothed it down like he was trying to make himself look respectable again.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour moaning into your pillow.
When he reached the doorway of your bedroom, his steps slowed. His hand came up to grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. He hesitated. Then lingered.
“Um… I should… I gotta get back,” he muttered, voice small, almost apologetic. “My route. They’ll notice if I’m gone too long.”
You nodded gently, propping yourself up on one elbow.
He looked down at the floor. At the worn wooden boards. Then at you again, as if drawn by some invisible force.
“Was that… was this just…?”
He swallowed, his jaw flexing as if the words hurt to push past his teeth. “Was it just a one-time thing?”
You didn’t move. Not at first. You let him stand there, already addicted, already terrified of losing something he never thought he could have. The silence stretched, just long enough to make him fidget.
“I… I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re married. I just— I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you at that door, I couldn’t think straight. And if you don’t want to see me again, I—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You slid out of bed, the sheets pooling at your feet, not bothering to cover yourself. The air hit your skin, but you didn’t shiver. You walked toward him slowly, each step intentional, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.
When you reached him, you put your hands on his face, palms against his stubbled jaw, fingers threading into the hair at his temples. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it.
His breath stopped altogether.
And you kissed him.
A slow, sultry kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth, your body pressed against his until you felt the hard line of him through his uniform pants. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound swallowed by the kiss, his free hand coming up to grip your waist like he might fall without you.
His fingers curled into the doorframe with his other hand, white-knuckled, like he needed the support to stay upright. His chest heaved against yours.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed. Puppy-soft.
You brushed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin.
“Baby,” you whispered, lips grazing his, close enough that you felt his breath ghost across your mouth. “I’ll see you again on Thursday.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Like you’d reached into his chest and wrapped your hand around his heart and told him it was safe to keep beating.
“Thursday,” he repeated, dazed, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here.”
You smiled. Soft and sure. A promise sealed in the space between your bodies.
“I know you will.”
He stared at you one last time, like he didn’t want to look away, like leaving meant losing something he’d only just found. His eyes traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat where his mouth had been. Then he forced himself to turn, to walk out of the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the front door.
You followed at a distance, leaning against the wall just inside the living room, watching through the sheer curtain as he stepped outside. He paused on the porch, shoulders tense, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was still trying to understand what you’d done to him.
He walked down the path, past the rose bushes, past the mailbox, towards his truck, his steps heavy and light all at once. At the gate, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the house.
At the window where you stood, half-hidden behind the curtain.
He didn’t wave, he just looked. A long, searching look that said everything his stammering words couldn’t.
Then he turned and disappeared down the street, his mailbag slapping against his hip, his life forever changed by the woman in the window.
After that Tuesdays and Thursdays became your favourite days of the week.
The clock became your accomplice. You’d watch the hands crawl toward 10:45, feel the familiar flutter build in your chest, absolute anticipation. That electric hum that made everything sharper, brighter, more alive.
By the time his footsteps sounded on the porch, you were already at the door.
He never had to knock again.
The first Thursday after that Tuesday, you opened it before his knuckles could meet wood, and he stood there, mailbag slung across his body, cap in hand, that boyish grin already spreading across his face. But his eyes were different now. Hungrier. Like he’d spent the the last two days reliving every second.
“Good mornin’,” he said, voice low, glancing down the street before stepping inside.
You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed his collar, pulled him into the kitchen, and pushed him against the counter.
He laughed against your mouth, surprised and delighted. “Damn, woman—”
You bit his lower lip. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He did.
The kitchen became a playground. Flour dusted the counter where he’d lifted you onto it, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you slow and deep. The sun streamed through the window, catching the sweat on his chest, and you remembered thinking, this is what mornings should feel like.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmured against your throat, thrusting up into you. “All day. Every night.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged. “Kept seein’ you in my head. The way you looked at me when I—”
You pulled his head back, made him look at you. “When you what, honey?”
His cheeks flushed. “When I came inside you.”
You smiled, slow and wicked, and clenched around him. He groaned, head falling forward.
“Good,” you whispered. “You keep thinking about it.”
The stairs came next.
It was Tuesday, and you’d been waiting at the top of the staircase when he walked in. You’d worn nothing but his cap, the mailman’s cap you’d stolen from his head the week before, and peered down at him from the landing.
His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open.
“Mrs. Rumlow…”
“You coming up or not?”
He took the stairs two at a time, but you didn’t let him reach the top. You met him halfway, pushed him onto his knees, and let him bury his face between your thighs right there on the steps. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth worked you until your knees buckled, and you came with your fingers tangled in his hair, your back against the banister, the wood creaking beneath you.
He looked up at you afterward, lips slick, eyes dazed. “I’m gonna get fired if I keep this up.”
You helped him stand, kissed the taste of yourself off his mouth. “Then get fired. I’ll keep you.”
He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into the bedroom.
The dining table became an altar.
It was a Thursday, and you’d set it for two; plates, silverware, a vase of fresh roses, but lunch sat untouched. Instead, he bent you over the mahogany surface, your palms flat against the wood, his body pressed against your back. The china rattled with every thrust. A glass clattered to the floor, shattering.
“Sorry,” he gasped, stilling for a moment.
“Don’t stop.” You pushed back against him. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
Afterward, you lay tangled on the rug, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns across the floor.
“I ever tell you what I think about?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
He turned his head, kissed your hair. “When I’m out on my route. Walkin’ up all those driveways. I pretend every door is yours. Every house. Just… imagine your face, waitin’ for me on the other side.”
You lifted your head, looked at him. “That’s sweet, James.”
His ears went red. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell nobody.”
The Cadillac was your pièce de résistance.
Brock had taken it out just once that month, to some dinner with his boss, and he’d left it in the garage, waxed and gleaming, untouched. You knew exactly where he kept the spare key.
You led Bucky out there with your fingers laced through his, past the gardening tools and the oil-stained floor. When he saw the car, he stopped.
“Shit. You’re not serious.”
“Open the door.”
“Mrs. Rumlow, your husband will kill me if he finds out—”
“Bucky.” You turned, pressed yourself against him, looked up through your lashes. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to fuck another man’s wife in his own car?”
His breath caught. His hands trembled. And then he was fumbling with the door handle, pushing you into the backseat, following you in.
The leather was cool against your skin. The windows fogged up fast. He moved above you, inside you, his mouth against your ear, whispering things that would’ve made a priest blush.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathed.
“Then die happy, sweetheart.”
He came with a shudder, his face pressed into your shoulder, his body shaking. You held him through it, ran your fingers through his damp hair, felt the last tremors ripple through him.
He pulled back, looked at you like you’d rewritten the stars.
“I don’t have much,” he said softly. “But everything I got? It’s yours.”
You cupped his face, kissed him slow. “I know, baby.”
And every time, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The way he’d trace the lines of your face afterward, like he was memorising you. The way he’d whisper your name. The way he’d hold you after, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Maybe you weren’t in love. Not the kind you read about in books, anyway. Not the kind that lasted.
But you were wanted.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Every time he stepped through that door, you saw it in his eyes; that hungry, desperate, devoted look that said you were the best part of his week, the secret he’d carry to his grave, the woman who’d ruined him for anyone else.
And for now, that was enough.
a/n | yeah reading back on this, it’s very repetitive in some parts, maybe that’s why i didn’t post it, srry for keeping this fic hostage for eight months chat
Warnings: Married fluff, interrupted intimacy, parenting chaos
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles connected to this and this
Prompt: June 9th - “Like when you said you felt so happy you could die.”
Bucky kissed you like the morning would go on forever. Slow. Warm. With just that little bit of hunger behind it, his hand holding your cheek and the other curled around your hip, dragging you closer under the blankets. His hair was sleep-mussed, his jaw rough against your cheek. But when he made that low, pleased sound when your fingers slipped into it, you almost moaned.
“Door’s locked?” he murmured against your mouth.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Kids still asleep?”
“Should be.” That was as far as hope got.
Something crashed down the hall. A small voice shouted, “I didn’t do it!”
A second voice immediately yelled, “YES YOU DID!”
You and Bucky froze, mouths still touching.
Then came a thump.
Silence….The terrible kind.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “Nope.”
“Nope,” you agreed, already laughing into his shoulder.
He rolled onto his back with the long-suffering sigh of a man denied by his own offspring far too many times. “Remember how excited we were when they were on the way?”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, grinning. “Like when you said you felt so happy you could die?”
“Yeah.” He stared at the ceiling. “Turns out that feeling isn’t infinite...” he joked
You smacked his chest, laughing. “Bucky.”
“What? I love them. I would die for them.” Another suspicious bang sounded. His eyes closed. “I just didn’t think it’d hoping death would be before breakfast.”
You kissed his shoulder. “We’ll be sorry when they’re older and don’t need us.”
His expression softened at that, even as another shout echoed down the hall.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We will.”
Then something shattered.
Bucky sat up quickly. “But today ain’t that day.”
You watched him grab sweatpants, grumbling as he went.
“Remember we love them!” You called as he went out the door.
SUMMARY. What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?
WORD COUNT. 12.2K
WARNINGS. age gap, dad’s best friend, bucky calls reader ‘kid’ but she’s 25, MDNI, smut, forbidden relationship, guilt, mutual pining, first time, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, breeding kink, cum play, possessive language, bucky is obsessed with reader’s stomach, soft aftercare, porn with plot sprinkled, no use of y/n.
FROM KIE. The summary makes it seem like he’s some sleazy asshole, he’s not. I tried real with the title and summary, and that’s all I could come up with. Sigh.
Kid. The word has always been there between you, too worn-in to sound accidental now. Kid at nineteen, when you came home during college break and saw him for the first time, sitting at your father's dining table, quiet and so beautiful it annoyed you for three straight days. Kid at twenty-one, when you brought home cheap wine and he took the corkscrew from you while you were mangling it, his fingers brushing yours, that you almost dropped the bottle opener entirely. Kid at twenty-four, when your dad started leaving tools here and Bucky started appearing in your kitchen with excuses thin enough to see through.
Kid, so he could look away.
Kid, so you'd stay safe.
You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it. Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.
You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.
Watched him, lately, watch you back.
It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.
The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.
What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.
When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.
"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.
You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.
"Where's dad?"
Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."
"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself?
"Well, he's busy."
"So, he sent you?"
"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.
The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time.
The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.
His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"
"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.
Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.
There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.
"Thanks."
Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.
"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees.
"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.
Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.
The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.
The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.
Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.
"It's your dad."
The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth.
Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."
When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.
Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says
"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."
His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."
"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"
Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you.
"Why?" You prod.
"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"
"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."
"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."
Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.
A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.
He doesn't.
Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.
Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.
It doesn't work.
You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.
On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.
But he shows up at yours.
It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container.
The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.
The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand.
And there's Bucky.
Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour.
"Hey," he says.
"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together.
His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"
"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow.
"Not until you let me talk."
"Why should I?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."
A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."
"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."
You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."
"Can I come in?"
Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in.
"You can apologize from right there."
Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."
"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"
The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.
You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.
"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"
Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."
"That's not okay."
"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."
Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."
"It does have that smell."
His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."
"What kind of things?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"
His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."
"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."
"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."
His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.
"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.
Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."
"Not tonight. In general."
Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.
"Say my name."
He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."
"That's not my name."
"Please." His voice is rough, pleading.
"Say it, Bucky."
"Please don't make me."
The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"
"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."
"So you do want to walk away still?"
So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.
"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.
"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."
"Saying my name is hard?"
"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."
"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"No, I don't."
Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"
"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.
"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"
"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"
Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."
"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."
That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.
When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.
He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.
"Still time," he says.
"For what?"
"For you to tell me to leave."
You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."
Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.
"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth.
"Like some what?" You prod.
"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."
That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say.
"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real.
"Who isn't what?"
"Too old for you. Too —"
"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."
"You should."
His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."
His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"
"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"
"Sounds terrible."
"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.
Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."
His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."
"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly.
"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this.
His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"
"A little."
He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."
"You sure?"
"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."
His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.
The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses.
The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.
"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.
"How long?"
Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."
"How long is that?"
"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."
"That was July."
"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."
You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans.
Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.
"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."
His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.
You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.
"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.
"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"
The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you.
"Jesus," he breathes.
"Are you just gonna stare, or —"
Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.
He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.
When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"
"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root.
His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.
"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing.
Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."
He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"
He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.
You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.
You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."
The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.
Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.
Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."
He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"Since July, apparently."
His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."
"What changed?"
"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."
You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.
"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.
"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.
When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.
You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."
You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you.
That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"
"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."
The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."
Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart."
Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.
"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness.
"You already know the answer to that."
"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."
"You're fishing for compliments now?"
"Is it working?"
"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."
"Annoying?"
"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"
"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."
Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'.
Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.
"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."
"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.
"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."
He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot.
"Have you taken cock before?"
The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help.
"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."
The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.
His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"
"No. I haven't."
Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"
No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."
"We can't —"
"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."
"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"
"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."
"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"
"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."
Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press.
A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."
That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."
You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.
Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just — a lot."
"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."
He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else.
Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"
"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"You're crying."
"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."
Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"
"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it.
Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"
"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole.
"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours.
"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."
That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.
"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"
"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"
"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."
Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.
It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened.
"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."
You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting.
"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"
"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"
The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."
"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please.
"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."
The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.
"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."
That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"
He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out.
Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.
"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.
Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."
"All summer?"
"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."
The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.
He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck.
For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not —"
"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."
Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.
"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.
"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.
"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."
Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."
Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs.
You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."
You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.
You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."
He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.
"You just what?"
"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."
The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.
"So that happened."
"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go.
The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."
"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."
"Small comfort."
"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply.
"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"
"Fell in love with me?"
The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"
"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"
"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.
"It's what?"
"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."
"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.
"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"
"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."
"I know that. I do. But —"
"But what?"
"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."
You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."
A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."
"Let me worry about that."
"When your dad finds out —"
"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."
That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."
"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."
"I'll teach you."
"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."
"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.
"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.
He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"
"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"
"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"
"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."
"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."
"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."
He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."
"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry.
"Not funny."
"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."
"Can you walk?"
Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"
Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."
"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.
"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."
"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."
"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."
"Want me to pinch you?"
"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.
"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.
"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."
"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you too. Just so you know."
For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."
"I wasn't broody."
"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."
He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"
You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."
"Everything else like what?"
"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget."
"You noticed all that?"
"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."
"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."
"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."
A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."
There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.
"Buck?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't leave before I wake up."
"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. what can i say i love the concept of dbf bucky, i have like 15 more dbf pwp in mind lmao… also no taglist bc this is queued.
Summary: Tony's soundproof tech protects people's ears, not their eyes.
Warnings: some smut, poorly written story, unprotected sex (wrap it up), pet names (Sweetheart, baby), proofread but i'm not good at that
Word count: 455 (flash-fic)
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
[A/N] Just a slight idea I wrote. I started off on a roll but it quickly fizzled. I wanted to post something though so I might extend it later when inspiration strikes again.
Bucky was good in bed. Everyone in the tower knew that by now because you weren’t exactly quiet. How could you be though? You had never been fucked this good in your life. You’ve truly been missing out. You’re making up for lost time with all those exes of yours and climbing on Bucky every chance you get. It got so bad that Tony actually soundproofed both of your rooms.
Of course, sometimes you didn’t make it to either of your rooms which caused you to be temporarily banned from that area “until further notice”
Bucky actually preferred to have you in one of your rooms, cause then he could see if he could make you scream any louder. One of these days he is actually going to split you in two. At least that’s how it felt.
Today was no different. Bucky had you faced down on the mattress, relentlessly pounding into you. His fingertips gripping your hips so hard they were surely going to leave permanent dents.
You were boneless. Sprawled over the mattress, your ass only now slightly in the air since your knees gave out. You were gone. As far as you were concerned right now, you were in space due to how many stars you were seeing. All you could do was moan and scream and let out the occasional heavy breath.
The soundproof system Tony built worked for the ears of the people on the outside. But there was a slight flaw. Some people just don’t think before entering.
You were too lost in pleasure to even process what was happening other than the feeling of Bucky’s thick, long cock buried deep between your thighs but you felt him slow down.
"OH MY GOD!" the intruder yelled.
“Can I help you?” you heard Bucky’s deep voice say with a tinge of irritation laced in it. You felt a cool piece of fabric get draped over your sweaty bare skin and a hand placed gently on your lower back to keep it from moving.
“Can you lock the door?” you heard the other person say but you still couldn’t tell who.
“The door was locked!”
“Bucky,” you whined, moving your hips against him.
“I know, sweetheart, I’m here,” he whispered, his other hand reaching to gently stroke your hair. His head snaps to the intruder, “Get out, Wilson!”
“You two need to calm down,” he said before rushing out the door and slamming it behind him.
“Now” he started as he removed the sheet. He flipped you over onto your back and hovered over you, “Where were we?”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. Bucky let out a deep chuckle at your neediness.
“Don’t worry, baby. You know I’ll take care of you,”
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man 🙂↕️, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread, no use of y/n
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 🫶 post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic
And he talks as if he's doing road
And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling,
but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"…What?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Just—listen to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
Excuse my sluttiness, but I can’t help but imagine riding Bucky’s cock and he wraps his hand around my throat and pulls me closer to him and he whispers nothing but dirty words in my ear and calls me his dirty little slut😩🥵
My apologies for being slutty🤭
WOAH CAUSE.
cause his hand is so so fucking a large that it takes up most of the entirety of your throat, and you felt so …… warm and cozy, you know?
and good lord the second his hand wraps effortlessly around your throat, a smile slips on your lips at the pressure as he bucks his hips quicker into you, eyeing you
“what’s got you all smiley, huh?” he grunted, squeezing his fingers tighter around the sides of your throat and a soft moan escaped your lips, body leaning further into his touch.
“oh, i understand now…” he groans, pulling you close to him by your throat, teeth grazing your earlobe before he thrusts a particular thrust up into you. “You like when i have you under my hand like this, making you take my cock like a good slut, dont you?” and fuck you were not in the position to argue. the only answer you gave him was a moan
✦︎ — SUMMARY. Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves he’s incapable of acting normal about this information.
WARNINGS. established relationship, MDNI, 18+, porn no plot, Bucky has a raging breeding kink, soft smut, unprotected pnv, creampie, cumplay, mentions of lactation kink, domestic intimacy, no use of y/n.
NOTES. scheduled post bc your girl is on a break. also thank you for 4000 followers, what the hell 🥹
The only good thing about a mission was that it ended. And when it ended, Bucky can come home to you.
The door clicked behind him. He exhaled properly, maybe for the first time in three days, and let the quiet settle over him. He shed his jacket, his boots, and followed the strip of warm light under the bedroom door without thinking. Muscle memory by now, this particular walk.
You were on your stomach, one leg bent, cheek soft against the pillow, mouth barely open the way it only went when you were properly under. Completely gone. One hand curled slack beside a book lying pages-down on the bed, spine cracked, the way books shouldn't be left if you cared about them.
He'd seen this exact scene before — you falling asleep mid-read, the lamp still on — and his move was always the same: turn the light off, climb in behind you, sleep for ten hours.
He almost did.
His hand reached for the book to set it aside when his eyes caught the open page. He sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress because his legs stopped cooperating.
The prose wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be, it was blunt about what it was describing. A man with both hands pressed to his girl's lower belly while he worked himself deep, telling her she was going to take every drop, that he wasn't stopping until he'd filled her up past overflowing. That's it, pretty girl, take my cum, let me breed this tight little cunt till it takes, want you so full of me you can't think, wanna see your belly swollen with my babies. The woman in the story was begging for it, wet and completely broken, while he kept his palm flat over her stomach.
Bucky's hand tightened around the spine until the cover bent.
He turned the page and found a star drawn in pencil in the margin. Your handwriting. Neat and small, beside the passage where the man pulled back just enough to watch his cum leak from her before pressing it back inside — not wasting a drop, gorgeous, every bit of it stays right here where it belongs.
A star.
He sat with that for a moment. Two moments. Maybe a full minute of just sitting there with the lamp warm on his hands and your soft breathing behind him.
He knew this want. He'd been sitting on it for months — the need to just stay, every time he was buried inside you and the pull of it got so loud it took actual effort to talk himself back. The responsible thing. The right thing. Pull out. Don't push it. Don't put that on her. And then watching the mess of it on your skin and thinking about what it would mean to not. To keep it all where it was supposed to go. How many showers he'd stood in thinking about your belly. What you'd look like. How soft you'd go. How it would feel to press his palm there and know.
To him, this wasn’t some random story anymore. Apparently his girl has been falling asleep to fantasies of getting claimed and filled until she carried his baby, the same urges he’d been swallowing down every time he pulled out and spilled across your skin instead, not wanting to push too far and scare away that sweet softness you always seem to give him.
He turned another page. Found another star, this one beside the line where the man cradled his girl's tits as he asked about nursing from her.
He closed the book and looked at you. All the love he felt towards you multiplied with the awakened hunger, hands itching to wake you right then, to show you how perfectly those pages matched the way he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He stood up, stripped down. Shirt, pants, everything. He was not getting into bed in three-day mission clothes, even if his brain was only half working.
He looked down at himself. Already half-hard, his cock thick against his thigh, wet at the tip just from reading. He'd been on missions that didn't break him this fast. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, hissed at his own slickness smearing his palm and stroked just to get a handle on it.
He put his hand on your hip. "Baby." He shook you gently. "Wake up for me."
The sound you made was small and personally offended by the concept of consciousness. You burrowed deeper.
"Baby." He rubbed your hip. "Open your eyes."
Slowly, you did, blinking like a deer caught, as you found him in the warm lamplight and your face just opened. All of it, the sleep-blur gone in a second, replaced by that warmth, that automatic reaching, your arms coming up before you'd even finished registering what you were looking at. Like some part of you knew it was him before your eyes did, and your whole body moved toward him on instinct.
He gathered you in. He would never in his life stop being leveled by this, the way you reached for him like that, all open and unguarded, not one defensive thing in you when you saw him. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed.
"You're home," you mumbled against his neck. No matter what, the images from the book spilled over, now all he saw was you and him, those dirty promises echoing.
"I'm home." His lips found your temple. "Came home and found you sleeping like you haven't got a single bad thought in your pretty head." He felt your breath catching, your fingers going still in his shirt. "Left your book right out here for me."
"It's just a book." You spoke into his skin, pressing closer into him, fingers digging into his shoulders with a restless energy, soft sounds vibrating through you that only made him harder
"Pages worn soft from reading it."
"Bucky —"
"Little pencil stars in the margins." He pulled back just enough to look at your face. The flush was already climbing your throat, your eyes sliding sideways from his. He could see you trying to determine exactly how much he'd read. "My sweet girl." He shook his head slowly, as he watched you bite your lip. "Sleeping like an angel… with her breeding kink book on the nightstand."
A mortified sound left you as you tried to press back into his chest. He let you, his mouth curving, his arms pulling you in. "Don't," you said, muffled by him.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing." He really was, a little. He pressed his lips to your hair to hide it. "I would never." He rubbed your back, felt you slowly start to relax against him. "I've been pulling out," he said, into your hair. "This whole time."
You went completely still.
"Every single time," he continued. "Being responsible. Doing right by you. While you've been in here starring passages about being filled up and bred." He felt your fingers curl in his shirt. "I've been pulling out for nothin', baby."
A long pause where you just nuzzled again and breathed. Then very quietly your voice came. "I didn't think you'd want —"
"I think about it every time I'm inside you." He said it simply. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you. "Just — thought it would scare you. Thought I'd push you away." He pressed his lips to your forehead.
He continued when you didn't reply, "so here we both were, keeping our mouths shut like absolute idiots."
You looked up at him with an expression he could never quite name, somewhere between wanting and completely undone. He kissed you before either of you could ruin the moment with more words. Slow and thorough, hands cupping your face. You made a soft sound against his mouth that had always gone straight through him.
Clothes came off fast, what little you had on was gone, and he was already bare. He settled between your thighs and looked at you properly.
Your cunt was weeping before he'd even touched you. Slick and swollen, soaking the sheets, and he dragged two fingers through your folds and brought them to his mouth while holding your gaze the entire time. "You were dreamin' about it." He could still taste you on his tongue. "Weren't you? Dreaming about me filling up this tight little pussy."
A broken whimper came as you turned your face into the pillow.
"Baby." He tapped your thigh gently. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his eyes, warmth spreading to your ears. He circled your entrance without pushing in, felt you clench around nothing, as he listened to the sound it pulled out of you. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart. Tell me what you want."
"Please —"
"Please what baby?"
"Fill me up. Please, Bucky, please just fill me up, I need it —" Your hand raised to hide your face, which he softly pulled away.
Bucky pushed in slowly. Your nails found his biceps before he was halfway there, digging crescents into the thick muscle. He worked into your dripping cunt inch by inch, feeling every clench and flutter, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet room.
When he got himself fully seated, he held there, both of you just breathing each other in.
His palm pressed flat to your lower belly. "Feel that?" He pressed down gently and watched your eyes go soft. "That's me, baby. Right here." He pressed a little firmer and your breath punched out. "That's where it's staying. Every load, from now on." He pulled back slowly and drove in, as he watched your mouth fall open. "Never pulling out. Not wasting a drop. Gonna fill this pretty pussy up and keep her that way."
"Bucky —"
"I know, baby." He started moving, finding a rhythm. "I know. We've been idiots."
You came apart under his hands easily, wound up and desperate, scratching at his back, your thighs locking around his waist. Your cunt was soaking him, drooling around his cock with every thrust, the slick sounds of it filling the room.
"I know you love swallowing." You made a soft, small sound when he said that. "And I love watching you do it. Love seeing my cum on your stomach, on your tits." He palmed your breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, feeling you jolt under him. He did it slower the second time, watching your face. "But that's done. From now on every single load goes right here." He ground his palm down over your lower belly. "Load after load, until you're round with my babies and everyone can see what we've been doing."
"Yes — please —"
"These tits." He thumbed your nipple again and your back bowed off the mattress. He felt you gush around him. "They're gonna fill up, you know that? Get so heavy and full." He kept his palm there, felt your pulse jumping under your skin. "Gonna let me drink from them." His thumb dragged slowly across your nipple again and your whole body shuddered in a shock. "Aren't you?"
A gasp spilled from your lips, barely a sound.
"Aren't you, baby?"
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, god, yes, anything you want —"
"Atta girl." He sucked a mark into your throat and felt your cunt clench and flood around him, soaking him straight down his thighs. He kept his palm on your belly. Couldn't stop touching you there, the soft warm plane of it, the thought of it round and full of him. "Gonna put a baby right here." He spread his fingers wide. "Take such good care of you. You and our baby both, I promise you that."
"More — please — Bucky—"
He hooked your knee higher and drove in harder, making you cry and scratch at his skin.
His metal hand reached up, curving gently under the back of your neck and tilted you forward. "Look how good you're taking me."
You looked down. He watched your face while you watched his cock move in and out of your puffy, soaked cunt, the slick mess of you coating every inch of him. Your thighs were dark and wet, your pussy drooling around each thrust and clinging to him when he drew back. He could see the drag and pull of it from here. Watch the way your cunt stretched open and tried to keep him every time he moved.
"Look at her," he marveled. "See how she takes me? Sucking me in like she's been starving." He drove in to the hilt and held himself there, watching your head drop back. "Did I starve her? Hm?"
"Bucky —"
"Tell me." He rocked into you, slow enough to be punishing. "Did I keep her empty when she wanted to be full?"
You whined in response, clinging to his arm. He pulled back slowly, and pushed back in. "That's done, babygirl."
Your sounds had gone to pieces, his name breaking apart in your mouth. He worked you harder and felt you winding up, getting impossibly tight around him.
"You'd make such a good momma." The words fell out of him without planning. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck. "Gonna make this belly round and take care of you through every bit of it. Every part. I mean that. You want that, sweet girl?" The headboard rattled at his pace, as you openly scratched at him harder, head lolling to one side, soft mewling sounds threading through each exhale.
"Say it baby. Come on, sweetheart."
"Please — I'm so close —"
"I know, baby… I know. Say it first."
"Make me a mommy —" It tore out of you. "Please, Bucky, please — make me a mommy—"
That pushed him to the edge, and he came, hard and sudden, hips slamming forward and holding while his cock pulsed in long thick ropes inside you. You came apart with him, cunt clenching in tight rippling waves, whole body shaking, a broken sob of his name leaving your mouth. He felt you your pussy milking every last drop, as he kept grinding in, palm pressed hard to your lower belly, like if he just kept his hand there
"Take it — take all of it — every drop, baby —"
He was still rocking into you in slow, sloppy thrusts when he felt himself going soft, working the last of it out. You were limp and shaking underneath him, hands slack in his hair. He pressed his face to your neck and breathed until he could.
He lay there with his softening cock still inside you, palm warm over your belly. You nuzzled your face against his jaw. The room smelled like sex. He pressed his lips to your cheekbone, your temple, the side of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. Told you between each one how good you were, how beautiful you'd be, how he'd meant every word.
When he finally slipped free, it was reluctant, genuinely, physically reluctant, a resistance he had to push against. As he looked down, slow, thick stream of his cum leaked from your swollen, puffy cunt, running down your inner thighs.
He pressed two fingers gently at your entrance before he'd even made a decision about it.
Your whole body twitched. "Bucky."
"Shh." He pushed it back inside, slow but thorough, and pressed his fingers there when he was done. Just held it there. Keeping the warmth of you against his palm, plugging you, not letting any more of it go.
"I know what you're doing," you said.
"I know you do." He didn't move his hand though.
A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. You pressed closer into his chest, as he brought his other hand over your shoulders to rest on your lower belly. Both of them just stayed there — one cupping you from below, one warm and flat on your stomach.
He nuzzled into your hair. Pressed his lips to your forehead. He's wanted this for so long, and he's going to be good at this no matter what.
"You're not moving your hands," you said eventually, voice drowsy, sated, barely there.
"No," he said.
"Either one."
"No."
You made a sound that was too tired to be an objection and pressed your face into his chest. His thumb drew a slow circle on your belly and didn't move.
THE ART OF DEVOTION [masterlist]
bucky barnes x female!reader
— ⟢ GENERAL WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI. each story has its own specific warnings; some will lean into darker themes such as obsession and stalking.
— ⟢ A/N: I debated for a while whether to throw myself into this big project, but in the end I decided there was no point fighting it. that damn picture took root in my brain and has refused to leave ever since. honestly, this is also an excuse to shamelessly explore different versions of bucky while indulging in my favorite dynamic: a man who falls hard and never recovers. I have no idea how much time it’ll take to write each story, but I hope you’ll stick around for the journey!
ᝰ dockworker!bucky x mermaid!reader
— a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues a stranded, wounded mermaid, fully intending to send her back to the sea—until the thought of losing her becomes unbearable.
ᝰ truck driver!bucky x waitress!reader
— a lonely truck driver used to spend most of his life on the road starts planning entire routes around the waitress who always remembers his name.
ᝰ reclusive alpha!bucky x hurt omega!reader
— a tired, reclusive alpha notices the omega who moved into the neighboring cabin to escape her past is barely taking care of herself, so he quietly dedicates himself to looking after her.
ᝰ bouncer!bucky x spoiled princess!reader
— a stern club bouncer has long since accepted that his favorite part of every shift is keeping an eye on the pretty rich girl who drives him crazy.
find out here how to be added to my bucky barnes general & individual series taglist!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes follows his therapist's advice to play Call of Duty as exposure therapy only to find himself with a new online friend.
Word count: 999 words
Tags/warnings: online rivals to friends to....?; reader is master rage baiter and also way funnier than Bucky; Sam shows up to be a small nuissance; Bucky's therapist trying her best; no use of Y/N
Notes: so, as it turns out, I have been since January participating in the incredible event @writer-in-a-cryofreeze 😍 I was unfortunately put on cryofreeze last round...... but that means I can finally share with all of you which entries were written by me! Here's the first of 7. The prompt was: Write about Bucky Barnes’s new 21st century hobby/obsession. At some point, use some form of the line: “Oh my god, this is worse than the bananas.” Thank you for reading ❤️
It all started as it always does for him now; another one of Dr. Raynor’s weird suggestions. She said these exercises were designed to bridge the gap between his past and his present, but Bucky usually just got the feeling she was secretly mocking him.
The latest prescription? Gaming. Specifically, first-person shooters. Dr. Raynor’s logic was frustratingly… normal. She argued that, for a trauma survivor, experiencing high-arousal states in a controlled, fictional setting could teach his nervous system how to down-regulate once the "threat" was over. Basically, digital exposure therapy.
And this is how Bucky Barnes, Sergeant, veteran, former Winter Soldier, finds himself hunched over a glowing monitor in his dim Brooklyn apartment. He looks entirely out of place, his vibranium fingers hovering over the mechanical keyboard while his flesh hand grips the mouse. He wears a headset over his ears, the frame feeling flimsy compared to any gear he has ever worn, as the title screen for Call of Duty flickers on the screen.
Bucky thinks he plays with the tactical precision and patience of a man who has spent decades behind a scope in the Siberian wilderness. In reality, he plays like a jerk. He camps, spawn traps the enemies, yells insults into the microphone until someone accuses him of ragebaiting.
The first time he gets put in his spot while playing is during a Deathmatch. That’s when he encounters you at first, too, and you are way too fast for him to keep up with; sliding around corners, hitting shots that seem to defy the laws of physics these games live by. When you take him out three times in a row, that’s when Bucky leans into his mic, barely contained anger as he complains.
“You know, in a real combat scenario, that ‘slide-cancel’ bullshit would just end with your knees shattered and your head blown off,” he says, tone dripping with very unimpressed disdain.
He expected a teenage kid to insult him back. Instead, what he gets is a feminine voice, clearly not childish, laughing before answering with amusement.
“Good thing this is a living room in 2026 and not a trench in World War II, boomer,” you shoot back, while your character is dancing over his digital corpse. “If you spent more time checking your six instead of lecturing strangers on ‘real life tactics,’ you wouldn’t be spectating right now. Sit down.”
Bucky’s jaw drops for a second.
Not because he’s been killed three times by the same person—he’s been killed plenty of times tonight, mostly deservedly—but because of the voice coming from his assassin. The way it sounded so warm and lovely even while it was edged with a particular brand of sarcasm that hits like a backhand you never see coming.
He stares at the kill-cam replaying your headshot. Your little character is dancing over his ragdoll corpse with the kind of obnoxious enthusiasm usually reserved for TikTok teenagers. Bucky hates that he kind of respects it.
Before he can think too much of it, he hovers his mouse over your gamertag.
LUNARWOLF13
Stupid name. Cute stupid name. And now Bucky’s sending a friend request before he can talk himself out of it.
A message pops up seconds later.
LUNARWOLF13: didnt think the grumpy grandpa routine came with follow-up stalking privileges
Bucky snorts despite himself. His fingers hesitate over the keys; he used to be good at banter back in the 40s, but his seven decades of time with Hydra didn’t really train him for shit-talking in Call of Duty lobbies.
SGTxWINTER: Not stalking. Recon.
LUNARWOLF13: recon on a 2kd player in a casual lobby? ambitious
SGTxWINTER: You’re annoyingly good at this game.
LUNARWOLF13: u say that like it’s an insult. i feel it’s more foreplay
He almost chokes on his own spit. No one has ever managed to throw him off balance with nothing but text. Dr. Raynor would love to hear about this experience, he’s sure.
SGTxWINTER: Insane thing to say.
LUNARWOLF13: awww grandpa is a prude too, damn
LUNARWOLF13: next match? or are u gonna ragequit and go yell at youths on ur lawn or smth?
The matchmaking screen is already popping up. Bucky sees your name slotted into the same team as him this time. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders like he’s stepping into a real op instead of a virtual one, and mutters under his breath, “Alright. Let’s see what else you got.”
A week later, Sam Wilson lets himself into Bucky’s apartment, expecting to find him brooding over his notebook as he usually did. Instead, he finds the lights off, the room smelling of cold coffee and cheese chips. Bucky is leaning two inches from the screen, his vibranium thumb hammering the spacebar so hard the desk vibrates. He looks more alive, and, honestly, more stressed than Sam has seen him in months.
“Oh my god,” Sam sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. “This is worse than the bananas.”
Bucky doesn’t even look up. “No. No! Don’t bring up the bananas situation, I was not obsessed—”
“Yeah, so you’re also not obsessed right now?” Sam shoots immediately.
Your voice rings on Bucky’s ears a second later. “Focus, Grandpa, or you’re getting us killed.”
“Sorry,” Bucky answers into the mic. “Sam’s being a pain.”
“Tell Sam to stick it up his—” your voice cuts in, merciless, “—and focus. We’re down three.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches and he glances at Sam, who’s now grinning like he’s won the lottery.
“Oh, wow, you’ve got yourself a murder-wife,” Sam says, loud enough for the mic to catch.
“She’s not my—” Bucky starts, then stops when your laugh crackles through the headset.
“If you revive me, you can buy me virtual dinner later.”
An exhale. Bucky aims and drops two enemies in one clip, and you clap happily on the other end.
“Hell yeah, murder-husband,” you yell. For once, the tension in Bucky’s shoulders loosens significantly. Maybe Dr. Raynor was right all along.
Summary: Sergeant Bucky Barnes from the 107th gets injured a lot. And when he does, there's only one nurse he lets touch him.
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Female Nurse!Reader
Warnings/tags: unrequited crush; romantic rejection; pining & yearnin; reader is romantically inexperienced; slow burn (kinda); mentions of injuries (some will be more detailed than others; i have no medical experience and apologize in advance); no use of Y/N; unbeta'd (tags are updated as series progresses, make sure to always check individual chapters for the right warnings)
Series word count: 12.5k words (will be updated as new chapters are posted)
no word count. was edited but then tumblr didn’t save it so slight minor mistakes!
uh, yk the drill the watch is in the right hand instead and imagine the imagine flipped so it fits buck buck <333 enjoy!!! based off a dream i had so. also listened to megan the stallion’s fell in love for some of this teehee
“you cant wear stuff like that around me and expect me to behave.” you said in a half joking tone, half serious. more serious because the ache you felt reverberate through your cunt and spine was enough to know you were about to jump his bones if he wasn’t careful.
he raised an eyebrow looking at you, looking down at his shirt and then back to you with a curious look.
“my undershirt?” he laughed while he said this, noting this for the future but still surprised that something as simple as his undershirt would get you this riled up.
you nodded, biting your lip as you shrugged. you couldn’t help it, why did his bicep have to look that good in a simple undershirt that he usually always wore for work anyways? you couldn’t help but stare, not really caring if you figured it out or not. you just wanted those strong arms around your body while you rode him, took him anyway he let you.
he only laughed, clearly not taking you seriously. thats what annoyed you the most, flaring your inner brat for just a moment before you bit your lip, rolled your eyes and looked away.
he caught on.
“what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he strides across the room in a few easy steps, smirk on his lips as he comes up behind you in the living room, his boots discarded by the floor along with his suit jacket and tie. you could smell his cologne the second he came into your close space, the scent overriding tour brattiness for just a second before you felt his hands on your hips, pulling you close.
you huffed, crossing your arms and tried not to give in, but fuck — the way his strong arms were wrapped around your hips like his, pulling your waist flush into his, feeling him near your lower back, grazing the top of your ass.
you felt your cunt pulse. please, it seemed to beg you.
“c’mon, you cant be mad,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, before nipping it slightly and tugging it. “where would be the fun in that? let me make it up to you…” he suggests, and you shiver softly as he slowly grinds into you from behind, enticing you further and further in the softness and warmth of his broad frame taking out your space.
his cologne really contributed to the dizzy feeling he left you feeling almost all the time.
“dont you want to feel me here, sweetheart?” his hands find the bottom of your abdomen, pressing firmly as you let out a little sigh, giving him an answer without even realizing it.
there you were, hips on either side of his as your hands steadied yourself with the expanse of his broad shoulders. your fingers grazed over the soft scarring where metal met flesh. he groans softly, the skin always sensitive, no matter how much time has truly passed. he adored the way you were with his arm and his shoulder — you never lingered on it long enough to make him self conscious but he even knew that was far fetched. he never felt that way around you.
he felt his most confident self, with our without the arm.
you had felt the same way, thankfully but much to bucky’s surprise. he couldn’t imagine someone like you loving someone like him. but you did, you proved it to him every single day. there was hardly any room for him to doubt you.
especially when you were laid atop him like this, reaching between your legs a grabbing his hard cock. he kept his hands loosely on your hips, still sometimes nervous to touch you with his metal hand. but you encouraged him, as soon as you slipped the tip of his cock inside of you, you took both your hands and pressed them more firmer over his on your hips — signaling him that it was okay.
and he understood instantly. the moan that left your lips as you lowered yourself slowly on his cock, the shudder that ran through your body that he could feel because it happened to him as soon as it happened to you. you felt amazing, better than he could ever have imagined. no matter how many times he was blessed to make love to you, to pour himself into you, it always felt like the first.
“you feel so good, baby, fuck…” he couldn’t keep his eyes off yours as you lowered yourself more and more onto him, hoping that you could feel the love pour through his gaze, and you could. he didnt look at anyone else like he was you right now, he doesn’t think he had ever looked at anyone like this before.
you lean forward, pressing your forehead against his as you take all of him, moans slipping from the both of your lips, swallowed by each other. your lips find home against each other as his hands move your hips making his cock nudge deeper inside of you.
you couldn’t find any words right now but that was okay, bucky never minded doing most of the talking. he loved just seeing you enjoy yourself and fuck — the noises he was able to drag out of you in many, many ways was enough for him.
he’d do anything for you.
you rock into each other for a while, his hands roaming up your hips and against your sides before traveling back down your thighs wrapped around his, then to your ass, squeezing possessively. you let out a moan, hiding your face into his neck as he starts to move you on top of him. his cock slides easily in and out of your cunt, slick dripping down his shaft and making a mess under his lap and to his balls. he loved when he could get you this wet, opening up for him easily.
“that feel good, baby?” you nod your head in the crook of his neck, your lips parting against his skin as you nip on it, moaning softly. he could tell your body was slipping deeper for him, letting him take control — take care of you.
he continued his pace, feeling your cunt squeeze and writhe around his throbbing cock, the only sound in the room was the pants and moans exchanged in each others ears, the slight slaps of his hands on your ass cheeks. you gave some effort in moving your hips to the rhythm of his own with he guidance of his hands and fuck. it made you both feel closer to each other.
“buck…” you whined against his neck, nuzzling your nose deeper into his skin as if you could crawl in there and live in the space.
he kept going, and you could feel his cock throb deep inside you, before you sat up, stretching your back slightly enough so your chest stuck out, driving his cock deeper into your abdomen, he couldn’t help but press his hands against the small bump, both of you groaning.
“gonna cum this fuckin’ deep in you.” he groaned like it was a promise, and with the hungry look in his gaze as he watched you lean back enough to give him enough leverage to fuck up inside you, it only encouraged him.
“jus’ like that, sweetheart. stay right there, takin’ my cock so fuckin’ good.” he groans as he feels his balls tighten, leaning his head back with a moan as he screws his eyes shut and you squeeze his cock tighter, not letting him go because you knew exactly what you both wanted
“please,” you pleaded him, his body shivering with pleasure as you begged. it was simply a trigger for him as the second time you groaned another please, he let go with a moan, his fingers digging into your hips to keep you in place.
you moan with him, watching him as he grunts, starting a slower pace to keep him from being overstimulated. he didnt want to stop now. he leans his head forward to meet your eye before hes pulling out and he can feel his mess on his stomach just as soon as his tip pops out.
he quickly replaces it with his right hand fingers, a moan slipping from your mouth as you situated yourself more comfortably on his lap and he watches you take what you need, what you’ve needed the second he walked through the door.
you could feel yourself slipping away to the touch of him, curse words slipping out between moans as you felt your body teeter closer to the edge.
exactly what he wanted.
“there you go, sweetheart. oh fuck…dripping down my fuckin’ wrist…” he gruffs out, his thick fingers sinking in and out of you cunt that was dripping his cum. he loved fucking his mess back into you, watching as you drip down his arm and over his lap.
his eyes hungrily lap up the scene, eyes traveling up your body and watching your chest move with each move of your hips, lightly bouncing on his fingers. he did the rest of the work.
you grabbed his wrist, usually an indicator that you were close. he groaned softly, eyes finally making their way to your face, your eyes already closed and brows scrunched. he licked his lips, siting up more to kiss the column of your throat lightly, nipping at the thin skin with his teeth.
“fuck, bucky… im so close i —“ you let out a choked moan as his fingers curled inside of you, his thumb pressing against your swollen clit and moving in precise and steady circles, not breaking rhythm. he kept his metal arm wrapped around your back to cradle you, making sure you didnt have to do any lifting of your own body. he just wanted to feel you like this
“yeah, baby? you gonna make a mess on my fingers? add to mine?” he asks gruffly against your skin, muffled. he tastes your sweat on his lips as he licks them with each thrust of his fingers, his cock throbbing back to his half hard self as he felt you tighten around his digits, your fingernails digging bluntly into his skin keeping him there. he loved knowing what you loved, reading your body and how you reacted to his touch
he wanted to study your body forever. keep it locked in his memory, only him.
“yes, please i… fuck…” words were lost from you as you felt your hips stutter, your mind going blank as you felt your orgasm ripple through your body, squirting all over his hand and down his wrist, soaking the glass front of his watch. his eyes watched the mess unfold, his cock rightfully hard and pressing against your inner thigh, pre cum smearing on your skin.
“atta girl, just what i wanted… what you needed,” he groans, watching you ride your high as he slows his fingers, removing them and holding them up to the dim lighting, seeing the shine on his fingers, wrists, the small droplets of your squirt on his watch. he looks up at you, his metal fingers splayed out across the expanse of your back, holding you close as you semi lowered yourself back into his lap, his hard cock in between the two of you and snug up against the mound of your bush.
“I am not done with you yet, promise you that.” he nuzzles his nose into your neck, letting you catch your breath as he lazily kisses your skin, and you find yourself melting more into his gentle touch,
thinking about bucky fucking me for hours… oh my gosh I’d do anything to get fucked dumb by his thick cock. jus all curled up, legs around him, crying overstimulated into his chest and he’s just fucking into me- fuck lemme stop haha, I think I’m ovulating
i have literally two days untitled im officially ovulating so i am right there with you
like in have been thinking about him so bad lately.
like his arms are wrapped around you so tightly and all you can focus on is how good it feels when his cock slides in and out of you. you can feel the vibrations of his grunts inside his chest as he fucks up into you and all you can do is lay there and take it
and fuck he praises you just for that
“letting me do whatever i want to this pussy, isn’t that right?” you moan as you nod into his chest and before you know it he has the two of you flipped.
he hovers over you at his point, making sure press his right hand down on your lower stomach. you could quite literally feel him in your stomach and he fucking loved that. his eyes blown wide as he notices just how deep he is in you, when he feels your stomach protruding just enough on his palm to make him hike your body up enough where your hips are angled to take more of him.
“good fucking girl, takin’ all of me like this…” not like you had much of a choice and even if you did you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else
husband!congressman!bucky x wife!diplomat!reader
⤷ matt murdock x reader
summary: one week. that's what you agree to. one week for bucky barnes to prove that your marriage can still work. it should be simple. it never is.
because bucky starts taking up space in your life like he never left, and matt murdock never quite takes up enough. you already know how this should end. the divorce papers have been sitting in your drawer for two months, waiting. but you kept his side of the closet clear. you never put anything on his nightstand. and that, more than anything, is what gives you away.
warnings/tags: SMUT, p in v, semi-public sex, fingering, praise kink, oral sex (f receiving), manhandling, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spit kink, pussy pronouns, dacryphilia, soft dom!bucky, bucky and reader are privately separated but publicly still married, love triangle (no cheating), second chance romance, idiots in love, avoidant!matt, possessive!bucky, bucky being an emotionally repressed idiot, he's also kind of manipulative at one point but reader chews him out for it trust me, divorce babes, bucky grovelling til his knees are shredded, mutual pining, lots of yummy angst, hurt/comfort, alpine mention, bucky actually works on himself, a man who yearns is a man who earns, eventual happy ending, 18+ MDNI
word count: 28.8k (i think i went crazy writing this)
from maddie: hello and welcome back to yappers anonymous (i mean it, there's so much dialogue in here). anyway, i'm really sorry for taking so long on this. but it's finally here, and i hope the word count makes up for the delay. i have really struggled with writers block while writing this, and i lowkey kind of hate it. but i really really hope you guys don't <3
p.s. i realise the first part was set in december but i couldn't physically write about christmas in april/may so imagine that part one was set in early december and that's why there's no mention of christmas lol
masterlist | series masterpost
The last guest leaves at half past midnight, and then there are no more excuses.
For the past two hours since leaving your office and slipping back into the ballroom like you hadn't just comprehensively undermined eight months of careful separation, you'd had the party. The party, with its noise and its obligations and its endless, mercifully absorbing requirement that you be on. All of it demanding just enough of your attention to make thinking about anything else logistically impossible. It had been, if nothing else, somewhere to put your face.
But now the guests are gone, the house has exhaled down to its bones, and the silence left behind is the kind that doesn't stay empty for long. You can already feel the thoughts beginning to squirm back in at the edges, insistently, like they've been waiting all evening with a numbered ticket and now it's finally their turn.
The whole room is still dressed and gleaming for an evening that was, by every external measure, a resounding success. But you are currently conducting a very focused internal audit of every decision you have made since approximately nine o'clock this evening.
The audit is not going well.
Returning to the party with your husband—ex-husband—Bucky, on your arm like you hadn't just left a significant proportion of your dignity scattered on your desk had been one thing. The way the evening had gone after was quite another.
Bucky had been insufferable, obviously. Warm in the particular way that reads as devoted husband from twelve feet away but as I have won something and we both know it in closer proximity. His arm became a fixed and immovable constant around your waist, metal hand pressing at the small of your back with the patient, territorial certainty of a man who has decided something and seen no reason to discuss it.
Matt had gone. You'd felt his absence around ten minutes in. The particular negative space of someone who has quietly removed themselves without making it anyone's problem. The only remnant of his presence was his champagne flute left half-finished on a windowsill you'd passed on the way to the speeches. You'd stared at it for a moment longer than you should have.
Bucky had noticed your mind drifting, of course. His thumb smoothed over your back - just a small, deliberate pressure that meant I see exactly where you're looking, and I'm still here. Stay. And you had, because the alternative was making a scene at your own event. And also because—well.
Because somewhere between the dinner and the second round of speeches, something had started happening that you hadn't authorised and couldn't entirely stop. You'd caught Bucky's eye over a comment from the Belgian ambassador and he gave you that faint, private smile in return - the shared language you developed years ago.
At one point he’d dipped his head to your ear to murmur something dry about one of the ministers, and you’d had to bite your cheek to keep from laughing. Bucky had looked down at you with those soft eyes he does when he's not thinking carefully enough about his own expression, and you'd looked away first. You were even finishing each other's sentences again without realising.
And by the time the last round of handshakes came, you'd stopped noticing the weight of his hand on your back and started noticing the absence of it when it left. If you clutched at straws, maybe you could convince yourself that this was just eight months of having nobody to lean into. That, and the fact your body had always been significantly stupider than your brain where Bucky Barnes was concerned. But truth of it was quieter and more inconvenient than any rationalisation you could construct: it had felt, humiliatingly, like home.
The audit is really not going well.
“Madam Ambassador.”
Thomas, your chief of staff, materialises at the foot of the stairs. Silent, eternal, and entirely too perceptive. A man who has worked in diplomatic residences long enough to have seen everything and professionally forgotten most of it.
“The last of the staff will be finished within the hour,” he offers. “Will there be anything else tonight?”
You open your mouth.
“That'll be all, Thomas, thank you.”
Bucky's voice comes from somewhere behind your left shoulder, easy and warm in the way of a man who has slipped right back into the domestic machinery of your shared life.
Thomas nods, unperturbed. “Very good, Congressman Barnes. Wonderful to have you back, sir. I've had your things brought up.”
Of course he has.
Because why wouldn't he? Congressman Barnes is visiting his wife, and that is a thing that happens, and the residence's household operates on the reasonable assumptions, none of which were consulted past you.
“Great, thanks Thomas.” You reply, and your voice comes out perfectly steady, which feels like a small miracle. “Goodnight.”
Thomas retreats. And then it is just the two of you, on the landing, in this enormous, beautiful house, at the end of the most profoundly strange evening of what has already been a profoundly strange year. Neither of you speaks for just a beat too long.
“Right,” Bucky says finally.
“Right,” you agree.
You head upstairs, and he follows, and the house closes around you both like it was always going to.
── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹
The master bedroom is on the first floor, east wing, overlooking the gardens.
It's your favourite room in the house; twelve foot ceilings, original cornicing, sash windows that rattle faintly when the wind comes off the park. It even has an original, working fireplace and enough space that the four poster doesn't overwhelm it, which is saying something.
You have not, in the past eight months, shared it with anyone
The door closes behind you both with a soft, decisive click.
You set your clutch down on the dressing table. He's already shrugging off his jacket, moving through the room with the ease of a man whose muscle memory never got the memo that he left.
Like a man who has lived here. Like the months of absence were a minor administrative detail rather than anything worth adjusting for. Like a man who has decided - and this is the thing about Bucky, this has always been the thing - that simply resuming works better than discussing. That if he just continues, the awkward conversation about feelings never has to be raised.
He reaches up to loosen his tie, that automatic gesture you have watched a thousand times, and then just… stops.
The pause is small. Almost nothing. His hands still at his collar and there's the briefest flicker of something in his expression that looks almost like recalibration. Like a man who has been operating on instinct for the last several hours and has only just now checked in with his frontal lobe to ask if instinct is advisable right now.
You watch him start to process the situation in real time. The room. The two sides of the turned down bed. His coat already laid on his chair. His suitcase placed next to his left side of the bed, because your chief of staff doesn't forget anything, ever, including what side of the bed the Congressman sleeps on.
Bucky’s tongue drags briefly over his teeth. Then he looks up and meets your eyes in the mirror, and the silence that follows has the particular quality of two people clearly thinking about the same three or four things and not willing to be the first to name any of them.
“I can take the couch,” he offers carefully. Gesturing vaguely at the small sofa by the fireplace that is, objectively, six inches shorter than he is.
“Don't be ridiculous, you'll be folded in half,” you object. “I'll take it.”
“You won't fit either,” he points out.
“At least I'm smaller than you.”
“Well,” Bucky sighs flatly, “I'm not letting my wife sleep on a fucking loveseat.”
There it is again. Wife. The word he keeps wielding like a claim, like it still means what it used to. And it still lands the same. You hate that it does.
You hate the warm, stupid, entirely unwelcome thing it does somewhere behind your sternum. Because he's being impossible - he's been impossible all evening - and yet here he is, immovable on the subject of your comfort even while being the singular architect of your discomfort.
“Separated wife,” you correct, sharper than you intend, but one of you has to keep score here and it's clearly not going to be him.
He tilts his head, slow and deliberate, his eyes doing that thing where they get very still and very blue and very focused on your face.
“Didn't seem very separated a few hours ago when you were coming on my—”
“Don't.” You hold up a hand. “Do not finish that sentence in my bedroom.”
“Our bedroom,” he replies, and the audacity of it nearly makes you laugh.
“You haven't lived here in eight months,” you scoff.
“Yeah, well.” He looks around the room with something that might be fondness or might be smugness or might be both. “Doesn't seem to have changed much.”
And that's the problem, isn't it? Because he's right. You haven't changed anything. His nightstand is bare but still his; you've never put anything on it, never colonized that space. Even the closet still has the section you'd never quite gotten around to re-purposing, like some part of you had been keeping it warm. Keeping it ready.
The thought makes you feel pathetic and furious in equal measure.
“Well it's my bedroom now, and I'm telling you not to—” You stop yourself, jaw tight, because getting into this right now, at nearly one in the morning with him half-undressed, is absolutely not happening. “You know what? Fine. We're both adults. We can share a bed again without making it a thing.”
“I wasn't making it a thing.”
“You were absolutely making it a thing.”
“I was making an observation—”
“You were being an ass.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Yeah, well. You married an ass.”
“Separated from an ass,” you correct sharply, moving toward your dresser with more force than necessary.
The muscle in his jaw strains. Pops, like he's physically holding something back, biting down on whatever else he was about to say.
“Fine.” He reaches up, resuming the work on his tie, fingers pulling the silk loose with deliberate, practised movements. “We'll be adults about it.”
“Fine,” you echo.
You yank open your pyjama drawer with more violence than it deserves, pulling out the silk set you'd bought months ago in a fit of reclamation. Expensive, modest, and nothing like the worn t-shirts you used to steal from him.
“Great.” The tie slides free. He starts on the top button of his shirt, then the next, movements slow and methodical. You catch yourself watching his fingers work the buttons with that same deft precision they had a few hours ago when they were working you open instead. Christ.
“Fine.” And the second it leaves your mouth you know you've made a tactical error, because—
“You already said fine.”
There it is.
“Well I'm saying it again.” You turn toward the bathroom. “Because we're being adults about this. Mature, reasonable adults who can share a sleeping space without any complications,” you finish firmly.
“Right. No complications.” His voice is dry, but not quite enough to hide the edge underneath. Something that sounds dangerously close to hurt. “We're real good at uncomplicated, you and me.”
You don't bother with a response. Just gather your things and head for the bathroom with all the dignity of a woman who is, essentially, fleeing. There's no other word for it. You're running away from your own husband in your own bedroom, and you both know it.
“I'm taking the bathroom first before I smother you with a pillow,” you announce.
“See, that doesn't sound very adu—”
You slam the bathroom door before he can finish that sentence, and the lock clicks with a satisfaction that's entirely petty and entirely warranted. Behind the door, you hear him huff a laugh. Something that might be fondness disguised as frustration and that particular stubborn amusement he gets when you're both being impossible.
He always claims not to get off on your verbal sparring. You know he's always lying.
Leaning back against the door, you finally let yourself breathe. Your reflection stares back from the mirror, still perfect from three hours of performance.
Except it's not really, is it? Because underneath the dress, you're still wearing the evidence of what you let him do. What you begged him to do.
You reach behind yourself for the zipper, fingers searching low on your back for the tab. The dress is one of those gorgeous, backless nightmares designed by someone who clearly never considered that women might need to undress themselves. Your fingers catch the zip and you pull, but it only moves an inch before jamming.
“Come on,” you mutter, twisting your arm lower. Your shoulder protests. The zip grudges down another half-inch before catching completely on some invisible fold of silk.
You try the other arm. Same failure, different angle.
“Fuck.”
You stare at your reflection. At the reality of your options, which is that you have exactly one and it's terrible.
“Bucky?” You call, quieter than intended, opening the door just enough to suggest he's being granted entry, however reluctantly.
A pause, and for a moment you're not sure he heard you. “Yeah?”
“I need help with my zip. It's stuck.”
You hear him cross the bedroom before the door opens the rest of the way, but he doesn’t step in immediately. There’s a pause, like he’s giving you the chance to change your mind, and then he crosses the threshold.
“Turn around.” It’s not quite an order, but your body responds to it anyway before your brain has the chance to argue. You pivot, presenting your back to him, fingers braced lightly against the edge of the counter.
You feel him step in behind you, close enough that the heat of him registers before anything else does. Your breath stutters, traitorous, and you fix your eyes on your reflection. His hands come into view in the mirror a second later. One settles lightly at your waist, just enough to still the fabric, the other finding the zipper with careful fingers.
His breath grazes the back of your neck as the zip finally gives and slides down, and every nerve ending along your spine lights up. His hands still for just a moment, a beat that lasts slightly longer than it should, and the bathroom is very quiet. For a second, it feels dangerously like the easiest thing in the world to lean back that last inch. To close the distance without naming it. To let instinct run the show again, just for a moment.
But then his fingers flex, and he lets go. He steps back, and the air between you is breathable again.
“Got it.” He clears his throat.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, of course.” he replies, slightly unsteady, and then he's gone.
You stare at the closed bathroom door for a moment longer before finally forcing yourself to move.
The shower is too cold once you turn it on and step beneath it. But you linger under the spray anyway, letting it work down your shoulders, washing the evidence of the evening - of him - away until the water runs clear. At least your IUD means this is the extent of the cleanup. But sooner than you'd like the heat fades, the old pipes protesting. Damn old house.
You towel off. Perform your entire nighttime routine with robotic habit, because anything else means thinking, and thinking is dangerous right now. Toner. Serum. Moisturiser. You find a loose thread on your sleeve and fiddle with it. You reorganise nothing on the counter and call it tidying.
Eventually, you run out of tasks.
The bedroom is waiting on the other side of the door.
Bucky's sitting on his side of the bed - when did you start thinking of it as his side again? - in nothing but his boxer briefs, scrolling through his phone with the blank expression of a man who is absolutely not reading anything.
He's kept himself in shape. Of course he has. Super soldier serum aside, Bucky's always been disciplined about training.But there’s more weight on him than last time you saw him - broader through the shoulders, softer in some areas. It suits him unfairly well. Fills him out in a way that makes him look less like a weapon and more like a man who’s taking care of himself.
The thought makes something warm bloom in your chest, and your gaze lingers long enough to catch on the scars at his left shoulder, where metal meets flesh. The scars there are unchanged, a familiar map you’d once known by touch rather than sight.
He looks up when you emerge, and his gaze tracks over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“Bathroom's yours,” you manage.
He slips into the bathroom without another word. You climb into bed, trying to stay as far to your side as physically possible. You shift. Adjust the pillow. Shift again. Can't find the position you normally sleep in, and you’re still awake when Bucky reemerges.
The mattress dips under his weight. You do your best impression of a woman who is already asleep, which would be more convincing if he hadn’t spent the better part of three years sleeping next to you. If he didn't know exactly how your breathing changes when sleep actually takes you. He doesn't call you on it. Just settles back against the pillows with a soft exhale that says he knows exactly what you're doing.
The residence settles around you both. The old Georgian silence, where the radiators tick, the pipes groan, and the old timber relaxes.
You can hear him breathing. Feel the heat radiating off his body across the sheets, your whole right side hyper-aware of it. The bed that felt cavernously large when you slept alone suddenly feels impossibly small. Every nerve insisting on registering his presence with an enthusiasm you find deeply unhelpful.
“We should probably talk,” he states, though there’s not real conviction behind it.
“I'm tired, Bucky.”
A pause. You can practically hear him deciding whether to push.
“Yeah,” he concedes, something resigned in his voice. “Me too.”
He reaches over and turns off his bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The bed shifts as he settles onto his side, facing away from you. And then it's just the sound of his breathing, evening out into an easy slumber.
Which is something. Because for a long time, sleep was a thing Bucky Barnes did badly. You’d learnt that slowly, through observation, the way you did most things about him in the early months. Through the careful cataloguing of details he wouldn't offer freely. The nightmares. The insomnia. The tense stillness that only came from someone forcing themselves to lie motionless, hoping you wouldn’t notice. Which you always did, and pretended you hadn’t.
Because pressing would've sent him retreating behind walls you were only just beginning to see past. So you'd just held him tighter and let him figure out you weren't going anywhere.
Over time his body learnt yours. Your warmth. Your weight beside him. The rhythm of your heartbeat. Something in him that had been braced for decades finally started to let go. He'd started reaching for you in his sleep without waking. Started sleeping past five a.m., then six. Once, memorably, past nine, and he'd surfaced so bewildered by his own rested state that he’d just stared at you like you’d performed some kind of miracle.
It's particularly memorable, your heart unhelpfully supplies, because it’s the exact moment you knew you were in love with him.
He used to say you were the only place he didn't have to be on guard.
Used to.
You'd worried about that, those first few months after you separated. Whether he was sleeping at all in that sterile DC apartment. Whether the nightmares had crept back in without you there. Whether he lay awake at three a.m, every muscle held just a little too tight, waiting for something that never quite came. You'd tried not to feel guilty about it. Failed, mostly.
Beside you, Bucky makes a small sound and shifts.
It's drowsy, unconscious, seeking you out in a way his waking self wouldn’t authorize. His body curves toward yours, closing the distance between you with the same inevitability as a plant tipping toward sunlight. It’s like his nervous system runs through a quick inventory - familiar warmth, familiar scent, familiar body - and just defaults back to you like coming home.
Which is deeply inconvenient knowledge to possess while you're actively trying to remember all the very good reasons you separated in the first place.
His face has even softened in that devastating way where it sheds the mask and just looks like Bucky. The real one. The version that doesn’t belong to the Congressman, or the ex-assassin. The one that you’ve probably spent more time with than anyone else alive.
You are absolutely not thinking about how much you've missed that face. You are not.
Instead, you think about Matt.
The thing is, you don't know exactly what you owe Matt, which is in itself a fairly damning summary of where you'd arrived. Two months. Easy, fun, uncomplicated in the way that things are when neither person is asking too much or offering too much and the arrangement suits them both. You'd liked him. You do like him. He's brilliant and funny and present, in the straightforward way that had felt so startling after months of press releases and assistant-mediated contact.
But he hadn't committed. Neither had you. That had been the point, or at least the operating premise.
So, the question of guilt.
Do you owe Matt anything that would make tonight a transgression? You'd not made promises. The terms, such as they were, had been deliberately unspecified, which had felt like freedom at the time and feels significantly more complicated now.
And, of course, there’s no way he hadn’t heard everything.
That is the part you keep arriving at and then shying away from like a horse refusing a jump, because there is no version of that in which you come off well. Matt Murdock, who can hear a heartbeat from across a room, absolutely heard every single thing that happened in your office tonight. Every word. Every sound. Every moment of two people who were supposed to be separated doing a fairly comprehensive impression of the opposite.
He'd left without saying anything. You don't know whether that makes it better or worse. You suspect worse.
You're going to have to talk to him. You're going to have to talk to him, and you're going to have to figure out what tonight was, and what the past eight months of separation actually mean in practice versus on paper.
You're going to have to stand in front of Matt and have some version of a conversation you cannot currently outline because every time you try to construct the opening sentence your brain just goes quiet and offers you nothing except a replay of Bucky's mouth hot against your throat, and the rough edge of his voice when he called you his pretty wife.
Next to you, Bucky’s forehead comes to rest against your shoulder - tucked against you like something that simply found its way back to where it was always going to end up. Your chest does something you'd really rather it didn't.
You look at the ceiling for a long time, listening to your husband breathe, and try not to think about how natural this feels.
How terrifying that is. How much you've missed it. How angry you are that you've missed it.
Eventually, because the ceiling has offered no solutions and your body has been quietly conspiring with Bucky's for the past twenty minutes, you drift off next to him.
── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹
You reach for him before you're properly awake.
Your hand finds cold sheets, and the humiliation of that is enough to finish the job of waking you up completely.
For a moment you just lie there, staring at the indent in his pillow, at the covers thrown back on his side. Processing the faint sense of abandonment that has absolutely no right to exist given that you spent half the night wishing he'd spontaneously relocate to a different continent.
The shower in the en-suite isn't running. The dressing room is quiet. He's not here. You lie there for a moment, taking stock of the specific variety of idiot you are. Then you get up.
Twenty minutes later you're dressed and heading downstairs with the grim determination of a woman about to reclaim her life and her sanity. The sound of voices reach you before you make it to the breakfast room. Two of them - your aide's quick, efficient register, and underneath it, lower, Bucky's.
You stop in the doorway.
Bucky's sitting at the table looking unfairly well-rested, already dressed in one of his perfectly tailored suits. Your aide - Caroline - sits across from him, laptop open, notepad beside it, wearing the expression of someone who has been efficiently charmed into full co-operation and hasn't quite noticed yet. Papers are open between them. His handwriting is on some of them.
When you walk into the room, they both look up. Caroline smiles, bright and professional. Bucky's smile is slower, warmer, with an edge of something that makes your spine stiffen on instinct.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he greets, and you immediately don’t trust his tone. “Sleep well?”
You manage a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. “Fine, thank you.”
“Morning,” your aide adds brightly, already turning the laptop toward you. “Perfect timing actuall—”
“What is all this?” you interject, a little sharper than you intend, crossing to the coffee pot because you need something to do with your hands.
“Just some press co-ordination,” Bucky shrugs, like it’s obvious. Like obviously your time belongs to him whenever he's in town. “We thought it made sense, while I'm here. The Times have been wanting a piece for a while, and with the summit coverage still running there's a window to get some good visibility.”
Your aide nods with the enthusiasm of someone utterly oblivious to the tension crystallizing in the air. “It's perfect actually, I've already reached out to a few contacts. We've got the charity reception Friday, a lunch Thursday that Lord Johnson’s been requesting for months, then the Atlantic Council meeting on Wednesday - that'll be good for photos if you both attend together - then tomorrow—.”
“Wait.” You set your cup down carefully. “Wednesdays I meet with our legal counsel.”
There's a small pause. Your aide's fingers hover over the keyboard.
“Mr. Murdock?” Caroline glances at her notes. “That’s been pushed back,” she says, slightly carefully.
You look at her. “To when?”
“These press things have tight windows,” Bucky interjects smoothly, with an expression of such reasonable, considered sympathy that you could scream. “Visibility with the right people, good for both our offices. You know how it is.” The faintest tilt of his head. “I'm sure Murdock will understand that these things take priority.”
There is a very specific register that Bucky uses when he has already made a decision and is presenting it as a collaborative discussion, and this is unmistakably it.
“Especially,” he continues, and you have to bite your cheek so you don’t say something you’ll regret, “given the transatlantic tensions recently. It's important we present a unified front. As husband and wife.”
The words land exactly how he means them to. A reminder. A claim. You know exactly what he’s doing because he’s not even trying to be subtle.
He's monopolised your entire week, filled every available slot with joint appearances. Between your existing obligations and everything he's just loaded into your schedule, there isn't a single free hour left for the meeting with Matt that you both know isn't really about legal counsel.
“And tomorrow,” Caroline ploughs on, bless her completely oblivious soul, “you'd originally blocked out for paperwork, but the round-table is invitation-only and they specifically requested both of you, so—”
“So you've just... rewritten my entire week.” You hear yourself say. Your smile is so tight it might shatter.
“Optimized.” Bucky corrects gently.
His eyes meet yours across the table, and the look in them is pure, undiluted victory. And the worst part? He's not even wrong. These are important events. You should attend them together. From any objective standpoint, his logic is flawless. Any attempt at protesting would make you look like you're prioritizing the wrong things.
Which is exactly what makes it so infuriating.
“Will there be anything else?” you ask, voice perfectly professional. “I have a meeting I’m already running late for.”
“I think that covers it,” Caroline says brightly. “Oh, the German Ambassador's office called about scheduling a—”
“Send me the details,” you interrupt. “I'll review them later.”
You pick up a croissant from the breakfast spread. Turn to leave.
“Sweetheart?”
You stop. Take deep breath. Don't turn around. “Yes?”
“I was thinking we could have lunch later. Just the two of us. Prep ourselves for the busy week ahead.”
The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking audacity.
You turn back, smile still in place. “Sounds perfect, why don’t you come by my office later?”
“Absolutely.” His smile widens. “It's a date.”
You leave the residence before you turn your private separation into a very public spectacle involving thrown pastries, taking your fury with you to the embassy where it promptly gets buried under the weight of your actual job.
The morning is a blur of meetings that run long and emails that multiply faster than you can answer them. Trade briefings that should take thirty minutes stretch to fifty. Security updates that require your signature on six different documents. A conference call with State that goes in circles for forty minutes before anyone agrees on anything. Your assistant has brought you coffee twice, and both cups have gone cold on your desk untouched.
You're mid-sentence in a response to the German Ambassador's office when there's a knock at your door.
“Come in,” you call, not looking up, assuming it's another briefing packet or someone from the communications team.
The door opens. You register the footsteps, the soft tap of a cane, before the voice.
“Busy morning?”
Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
Matt's standing in the doorway, one hand on his cane, the other tucked into his pocket. His expression is pleasant and unreadable in that way he does when he's being very deliberate about not showing what he's actually thinking.
Fuck.
This would've been significantly easier with some advance notice. A text, or an email, or a calendar invite titled “Discuss Why You Disappeared Into Your Office With Your Supposed Ex-Husband”. Anything that would've given you more than zero seconds to figure out what the hell you're supposed to say right now.
You've walked into treaty negotiations with less anxiety. Those at least came with agendas. Preparation time. The basic courtesy of knowing they were happening before you were actively in them.
“Matt.” Your brain scrambles for words, or literally anything useful. “Hi. I didn't—I wasn't expecting—”
“Noticed your calendar got significantly fuller since yesterday,” he observes mildly, tilting his head. There's no accusation in his tone, but you hear the question underneath it anyway. “Lot of joint appearances suddenly.”
Heat crawls up your neck. You're aware, abruptly, of how you must look - harried, distracted, still half-focused on the email you were writing. “Yes,” you manage. “I'm sorry. I wanted to—I meant to call, I just haven't had a second to—”
“It's fine.” He steps into the office properly, and your heart kicks harder in your chest, whether it’s dread or want, you’re not entirely sure. “It's your lunch break now though, isn't it? We could grab something. Talk about last night.”
Oh god. Suddenly the conference call that went in circles for forty minutes seems appealing by comparison.
“Matt,” you start, but you don't even know where that sentence is going. Because what can you even say? My husband is systematically cutting you out of my life and I'm clearly too much of a coward to stop him?
“I'm not—” He stops, and there's a light sigh before his lips press together in that particular way he does when he's choosing his words carefully. “I'm not trying to make this difficult. I just think we should probably talk about where things stand. Clear the air.”
You scramble find words that don't make this exponentially worse. “It's complicated.”
“Is it?” There's an edge to his voice now, however faint. “Or is it actually pretty straightforward and we're both just avoiding saying it out loud?”
You're trying to formulate something that resembles an answer when you hear the distinct cadence of footsteps you’d recognise anywhere, coming down the hall towards your office.
“There you are, sweetheart.”
Your stomach drops straight through the floor and keeps going.
Bucky appears in the doorway, looking between you and Matt with an expression of polite surprise that would be convincing if you didn't know him well enough to see the calculation behind it.
“Oh, Murdock,” he greets, as though he's only just noticed Matt standing there. “Didn't realise you were stopping by.”
“Congressman Barnes,” Matt turns slightly, angling toward Bucky's voice. “Just thought I'd see if the Ambassador was free for lunch, because it seems like her schedule's quite full.”
“Yeah, it's a busy week,” Bucky agrees easily, stepping into the office properly now. Not quite crowding, but definitely occupying space between you both. “We've got lunch plans actually. Lots to catch up on - isn't that right, doll?”
You're still sitting at your desk, frozen, watching this happen like you're observing it from outside your own body. The air in the office has gone thick and uncomfortable, the silence stretching just a beat too long.
Matt's expression hasn't changed, but you can see the slight tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens fractionally on his cane; he knows exactly what's happening here
“Right,” you manage finally. “Yes. We're—it’s a working lunch. Coordinating the rest of the week.”
“A working lunch,” Matt repeats, and you can't tell if there's an edge to it or if your guilt is adding subtext that isn’t there.
“You know how it is,” Bucky adds. “Just making sure we're aligned before all the joint appearances. Tedious stuff, really.”
Bucky’s still smiling. Matt's still standing there. You're still trying to remember how to breathe normally.
“Of course,” Matt says after a moment. “I should let you both get to it then.”
“We could reschedule,” you start, but the words feel hollow even as you're saying them. “Later this week, maybe—”
“Your calendar looked pretty full,” Matt interrupts. “But sure. Have your people call my people.”
The formality of it stings more than it should. Like he's already pulling back, already creating space between you that wasn't there before.
“Matt—”
“It's fine.” he assures, though it doesn’t sound fine. It sounds like a door closing. Or maybe you're imagining that too - there's nothing in his voice you can parse clearly. “Really, enjoy your lunch.”
You want to say something else. Want to explain, or apologise, or do literally anything to make this less excruciating. But the words stick in your throat, and Matt's already shifting toward the door into the hallway, and Bucky's just standing there, absolutely not trying to hide his satisfaction.
“Ready to go?” Bucky asks.
“I just need to freshen up,” you reply. “Give me two minutes. I'll meet you downstairs.”
It's a transparent excuse and you both know it. But you need air. You need thirty seconds where you're not feeling like you’re being pulled apart at the seams. You grab your bag and slip out after Matt, turning the opposite direction toward the bathrooms, leaving Bucky alone in your office. Which is possibly the worst decision you could have made, you realise, but you can't exactly turn around now.
Behind you, Bucky watches you disappear around the corner. Waits patiently until your heels clicking fades down the corridor. Then he moves.
Matt's halfway down the corridor when Bucky catches up.
“Murdock.”
Matt stops mid-stride. There's a fractional hesitation where his shoulders stiffen before he turns. His expression has shed whatever careful pleasantness he'd been wearing in your office. What's left is cooler. Bucky stops a respectful distance away, hands loose at his sides. Everything about his posture says this is just two professionals having a friendly discussion.
“I think we should talk,” he begins. “Briefly.”
Matt's expression doesn't change. “About?”
“About boundaries.” Bucky asserts, though his tone is reasonable - almost apologetic, even. Like this is an awkward position he’s been forced into rather than something he’s orchestrating. “Look, I'm going to be direct here. My wife and I are working through things. Trying to figure out what we want going forward. And I think—Well, I think it would be easier if we had some space to do that without other complications.”
Matt tilts his head slightly, and there's something almost amused in the gesture. “And by complications you mean me.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick about this, I'm just asking you to back off for a while. Let us have the space we need as we get back to where we were.” It comes out steady, but Bucky’s heart rate betrays him. That telltale spike that means he’s not being entirely truthful. Matt catalogues the lie for what it is. “It's been a difficult few months, but we're in a good place now.”
“And she's aware of this? The working things out?”
Bucky's jaw tightens. “We're on the same page about what matters.”
“Wow,” Matt scoffs softly, a disbelieving smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what you’re telling yourself?”
Bucky goes still, but Matt hears the minute hitch in his breathing anyway. The slight shift in his heartbeat as he re-calibrates, trying to decide whether Matt actually knows something or if he’s bluffing.
When Bucky speaks again, there’s bite to his tone, the pleasantness veneer starting to crack around the edges.
“My relationship with my wife isn't really your concern.”
“It is when I’ve been sleeping with her the past two months.”
Bucky’s mouth pulls into something mean immediately, his expression hardening as the last scraps of diplomacy finally burn off. Any pretence of this being a civil conversation is entirely gone.
“And yet those two months didn’t seem to mean much last night, did they? I hadn’t even been back three hours, that must sting a little.”
The barb lands. Matt's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait.
“You know, if push her into something she doesn't actually want—”
“I know my wife.”
“Do you?” Matt asks, and there's just enough lift in it to make it a real question but not quite enough warmth to make it a polite one. “Because despite what you think, two months ago she didn't seem like someone who was waiting around for you to come back.”
Bucky's hands flex. “Meaning?”
“Meaning she built a life here without you in it,” Matt states, matter of fact. “And sleeping with her and monopolising her calendar doesn’t undo that, no matter how much you want it to.”
That lands differently. Bucky's mouth presses into a thin line as he tries to find his footing again. Tries to figure out how to wrestle the conversation back under his control. But Matt's already turning away, done with whatever this was.
“Next time you want to have a conversation about boundaries, Congressman,” he tosses back over his shoulder, “maybe try having it with her first.”
Then he's gone, footsteps receding down the hallway, leaving Bucky standing alone with the distinct feeling that he didn't win that exchange nearly as cleanly as he'd intended.
He stands there for a moment, trying to sort through what just happened. Matt's parting shot sits uncomfortably in his chest, because that’s what he’s trying to fix, isn’t it? Except maybe Murdock has a point about the method.
He straightens his jacket. Rolls his shoulders back. Whatever. He has lunch with his wife, and Matt Murdock can go back to whatever law firm he crawled out of.
Bucky makes it down to the entrance hall,checking his phone more out of habit than any real interest in the messages accumulating there. When he hears your footsteps on the stairs, he looks up, and something in his chest loosens slightly. At least he has this. This week. That has to count for something.
He straightens as you approach, and there's something careful in the way his eyes track over your face, like he's bracing for whatever mood you're bringing down those stairs with you.
“Ready?” He asks, aiming for casual but it doesn't quite land.
“Do I have a choice?” The question comes with a raised brow. You don’t slow down as you reach him, just brush past toward the door.
“You always have a choice.” He falls into step beside you, hands sliding into his pockets.
“Funny,” you return, pushing through the door without waiting for him to open it. “Doesn't feel like it this week.”
Wisely, he chooses not to argue. Instead, he follows you out into the grey London afternoon, the kind of day where the sky can't decide if it wants to commit to rain or just make everyone miserable with the threat of it.
The walk is silent - not the comfortable kind. Bucky keeps his hands in his pockets because if he doesn't, they'll instinctively search for your waist or the small of your back or some other familiar place they've been gravitating toward for years. And that Velcro instinct to maintain contact feels entirely unhelpful given the current temperature between you.
The restaurant Bucky chose is one of those discreet places where ministers go to have conversations they'd rather not have overheard. The kind with enough distance from other diners that you could have an argument without making it everyone's business. Not that you're planning to argue. You're planning to get through this lunch, get through this week, and then figure out what the hell your life is supposed to look like when your ex-husband stops playing whatever game this is.
You both settle into your seats. Pick up menus you don't really look at. You order a salad you won't finish, and he gets something with chicken. The waiter retreats, and you're left with the silence again, which is starting to feel like a third presence in your relationship. Bucky's doing that thing where he looks like he's about to say something, then doesn't, his jaw working slightly like he's testing out sentences in his head before committing to them out loud.
“Just say it,” you offer eventually, unfolding your napkin with more attention than the action requires.
His eyes snap up, sheepish. “Say what?”
“Whatever it is you've been composing since we sat down.”
He huffs a breath that might be amusement. Looks down at his water glass, turning it slightly on the table, before looking back up at you through his lashes with that rare, almost boyish uncertainty. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than you're expecting.
“I know you're pissed about the calendar.”
“Observant.” The word comes out flat, edged with sarcasm. “What gave it away? The part where I barely spoke to you on the walk over, or the part where I'm sitting here looking like I'd rather be anywhere else?”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn't smile. “I should've asked first.”
“Yes. You should’ve.”
“I didn't think you'd say yes if I asked.”
The honesty of it catches you off guard. You look up, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite parse. Like he's trying to gauge how much damage control he needs to do, but it's coming off more hesitant than calculated.
“Would you have?” he presses.
“We'll never know now, will we?”
The waiter arrives with water. You both fall silent until he leaves. Bucky exhales through his nose. His fingers drum once against the table before going still, like he's physically stopping himself from fidgeting.
“Look, I know I've been—” He stops. Starts again. “The past year has been shit. And I know that's on me.”
You weren't expecting that. You were expecting deflection, or charm, or strategic redirection. Not this.
“I let the distance grow,” he continues, not quite meeting your eyes. “Got buried in DC and the constant fucking politics of it all. And somewhere in there I stopped picking up the phone. Stopped making time. Started letting my assistant filter everything because it was easier than dealing with how far apart we'd gotten.”
“You suggested the separation,” you point out, voice flat. “You're the one who said no strings, no hard feelings.”
“I know.”
“You made it impossible for me to reach you and then acted like the distance was mutual.”
“I know,” he repeats, and there's something tighter in his voice now. “And I'm not saying that was fair. It wasn't. It was cowardly. But I'm here now.”
“For a week.” You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. “And you got here by hijacking my calendar instead of just asking me to talk.”
“We're talking now.”
You sigh, or maybe it's closer to an exhale of pure exasperation. Your gaze lifts to the ceiling for a brief moment like you're asking for divine patience.
“Bucky—”
“Okay,” he concedes, hands lifting briefly in surrender before he shifts forward, elbows coming to rest on the table. “I know monopolizing your schedule was a shit way to go about it, but I miss you.” He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “I miss us. I miss you being the first person I want to tell things to. And I want to prove that we can still do this. That I can be here, when it matters.”
The words settle in the space between you, complicated and messy and not nearly enough to fix everything that's broken. It's nowhere near enough.
You want to stay angry. Want to hold onto the fury that's been building since this morning, or since last night, or over the past year, really. But there's something in his voice that sounds like actual regret, and you're so tired of being angry all the time. It's more than he's said in months, and that matters more than it should.
“So this is what, exactly?” you ask, trying to stay firm. “An audition? A demonstration?”
“It's me trying.” It’s a simple confession, like he’s run out of polished answers, and this is all he has left.
The food arrives. You both go quiet while the waiter sets down plates and refills water and does all the small choreographed movements of service. Once he's gone, you pick up your fork without any real intention of eating.
“You hijacked my week, Bucky. You coordinated with my staff behind my back and filled my schedule so I couldn't—” You stop yourself before you finish that sentence, but he finishes it anyway.
“So you couldn't see Murdock.”
“So I couldn't make my own choices,” you correct sharply.
He has the grace to look slightly abashed. Slightly. “Fair enough.”
“Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like the same pattern. You can't just show up and expect—”
“It’s not—“ He stops, looking for the right words. “Okay. Maybe. But just let me show you I can be present. That we still work as a team.” His voice is steady now, certain. “The rest of it, we can figure that out. Just give me this week, please.”
You should say no. You should tell him that orchestrating your life without your consent isn't how you rebuild trust. That half-apologies that don’t actually contain an apology don't undo eight months of distance. That you can't just paper over everything with joint appearances and pretty words.
But he's looking at you so earnestly that it makes you hesitate. And the treacherous truth is that you're tired. Tired of being angry, tired of navigating this alone, tired of lying in that too-big bed and pretending you don't notice the empty space beside you.
And it would be so much easier to just... let this be easy.
“One week,” you hear yourself say.
Something in his face softens. His posture shifts, only slightly, but you catch it. Relief, maybe. Or victory. Hard to tell which. “Yeah?”
“One week of actually showing up. And then we talk. Really talk. About all of it.” You hold his gaze. “And I mean everything, Bucky. The separation, the distance, why we're even doing this. No more avoiding the hard conversations.”
“Deal.”
The silence that follows is different. Still weighted, but less hostile. More like you're both feeling your way toward something that used to be natural and isn't anymore.
“So,” Bucky says, moving food around his plate. “How bad is Lord Johnson actually going to be on Thursday?”
Despite yourself, you almost laugh. “Unbearable. He's going to lecture you about trade policy superiority while asking for concessions.”
“So exactly like last time.”
“Mhm,” you agree, finally taking a bite of your salad. “Except now he's also upset about the tariffs, so add that to his list of grievances. Plus he's developed this tendency to touch people when he talks. Very hands-on.”
Bucky's eyebrow raises, fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “Should I be worried?”
“About Lord Johnson making a move?” You can't quite keep the smirk off your face. “I think your virtue's safe.”
“I meant about him pawing at you for two hours.”
There's an edge of possession in his tone that should irritate you. Instead it does something warm and stupid in your chest. You take another bite, buying yourself a moment. “I can handle Lord Johnson.”
“I know you can.” He pauses. “Doesn't mean you should have to.”
You shrug. “If he tries it with me, I'm elbowing him in the ribs.”
“I'll back you up. You sneezed, he was unfortunately in the blast radius, these things happen.”
You take a sip of water to cover the fact that you're almost smiling. This is the problem. This is exactly the problem. Two minutes of actual honesty and you're already slipping back into familiar patterns, already falling back into the easy rhythm of banter and knowing looks.
“Morrison might be at the Atlantic Council thing tomorrow,” you mention, trying to redirect to safer ground.
Bucky groans. “He's going to corner me about the infrastructure bill again.”
“Probably. He's been insufferable about it since the committee hearing.”
“Well, I've gotten very good at the diplomatic non-answer.” His mouth curves slightly. “Take it under advisement, appreciate the input, look forward to continued dialogue—”
“You learnt that from me.” You point your fork at him accusingly, though there's no real heat in it.
“I learnt most of the useful stuff from you.” He says it like it's simple fact, but something in his expression has gone softer.
The admission sits there between you, heavier than it should be. You look down at your plate, suddenly very focused on rearranging lettuce.
“You really think this will work?” you ask quietly, not looking up. “This week?”
“I think when we're together, we're still good at this. The partnership part. That has to count for something.”
It's not an answer to the bigger question. But maybe it's the only answer either of you has right now.
You eat in silence for a moment, but it's different now. Less hostile. Almost comfortable. Your phone buzzes. You glance down, it’s another email from Caroline about tomorrow's schedule. When you look back up, Bucky's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
You eye him suspiciously. “What?”
“Nothing. Just...” He shakes his head slightly, but he's almost smiling. “I missed this.”
“Yeah,” you admit, quieter than you mean to. “Me too.”
And you have, you realise. Not just him - though that's there too, complicated and inconvenient as it is - but this. The ease of being with someone who knows you well enough that you don't have to explain every reference or thought. Who can read your expressions without words. Who makes you laugh even when you're furious with them.
It doesn't fix anything. Doesn't undo the eight months or the separation or the fact that you still haven't actually addressed any of the reasons you split in the first place. But for right now, sitting across from your husband in a quiet corner of a restaurant where nobody's watching, it feels like maybe, just maybe, you can remember why you married him in the first place.
Even if that's exactly the problem.
── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹
The week unfolds with a momentum you can't quite control, each day bleeding into the next in a blur of meetings that run too smoothly, dinners where the conversations flow too easily, and nights where he sleeps in your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
By Wednesday you're laughing at his jokes again without the bitter edge. By Thursday his hand at your waist feels less like a claim and more like an anchor. The Times runs their profile on your relationship - ‘A Political Partnership That Works’ - pulling photos from the week's events. You're flipping through them absently when the pattern registers. Different events, different rooms, different contexts. But in every frame, Bucky’s eyes are always fixed on you.
Oh.
You save the photos to your phone, which is its own kind of problem.
Matt's name sits in your contacts with no new messages. Of course, you're not keeping score of his silence against Bucky's constant presence. That would imply there’s a competition between them. Which there definitely isn’t.
To be fair, Caroline did mention his office called about rescheduling. You said you'd handle it. You didn’t.
Matt hadn’t chased the issue after that. Which is, objectively, the respectful thing to do. Matt never demands more than you freely offer him, which had once felt refreshingly uncomplicated. Lately, though, you’re starting to wonder if there’s a difference between being understanding and simply never fighting for a place in someone’s life.
Maybe Matt only knows how to want you in situations where wanting you remains easy.
By Friday morning you're walking back from the Canadian delegation breakfast, Bucky's telling some story that has you laughing hard enough that your sides hurt, and for a dangerous moment you forget about the separation. About the ocean's width of distance - literal and otherwise - that usually sits between you. That Sunday he leaves and you have to figure out what any of this actually meant.
But that's fine. You're exceptional at compartmentalizing. You've had years of practice at keeping different parts of your life in separate boxes that never touch. The fact that the boxes are getting harder to keep closed is something you'll worry about later.
Or at least, it should be, because right now you have a meeting that got squeezed into your calendar this morning that you need to prep for. But you can't seem to focus on the sparse notes that Caroline left you because your brain keeps drifting back to the way Bucky’s hand found yours under the table this morning and you let it stay there.
A knock at the door pulls you from the spiral.
“Come in,” you call, straightening slightly in your chair, trying to look like you've been doing something productive instead of staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.
The door opens, and the distinctive tap of a cane against tile makes your stomach twist before you even look up.
Matt's standing in your doorway. Again. Appearing when you’re utterly unprepared to see him. Again. And you’re going to have to push him away. Again.
If the universe is trying to teach you something by replaying this week until you stop making catastrophically bad decisions, the lesson is lost on you.
“Matt.” You're already half-standing, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I'm so sorry, I have a meeting in—” you glance at your screen, at the calendar slot that's starting right now, “—I can't, I have to—”
“I know,” he interrupts, and there's something almost amused in his expression as he steps into the office properly. “I'm your meeting.”
Your eyebrow raises slowly. “You faked a meeting to see me?”
“Well, since your husband's been so thorough about cutting me out of your calendar all week,” he returns smoothly, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, “it seemed like the only way in.”
There's a joke there, light and easy, but underneath it there's definitely an edge. A deserved one, maybe. The guilt that's been sitting low in your stomach all week flares hot and immediate. “Matt, I should have called. I meant to, I just—the week got away from me, and I didn’t mean to disappear—”
“You didn't disappear,” Matt corrects mildly. “You've been very visible, actually. Hard to miss when you're in three different political newsletters looking very much like the devoted political wife.”
The observation lands with enough weight that you have to look away. Matt moves closer, leaning against the edge of your desk with his arms crossed loosely, head tilted in that particular way that means he's cataloguing everything you’re not saying. Your elevated heart rate. The shallow breathing you can't quite control. The tension wound so tight in your shoulders you might snap.
“I know I should've—”
“Should've what?” He interrupts again, but his voices stays gentle. “Called the man you've been sleeping with while your husband's in town making sure everyone knows you're still married?” His mouth quirks slightly. “Can't imagine why that would feel awkward.”
The last part comes with just enough wry humour to take some of the sting out of it. An acknowledgement that yes, this situation is absurd, and yes, you're both aware of it.
“You didn't call either,” you point out, and it comes out more wounded than you intend.
“No, I didn't,” he admits easily. “Didn't want to crowd you when Bucky's been taking up so much real estate in your schedule. Thought maybe you needed space to figure things out.” His mouth curves, voice going warmer. “Besides, seemed only fair to give him a shot, sweetheart. I had you to myself for two months.”
It should feel mature, the way he keeps placing the choice back in your hands. But standing here now, watching him deliberately leave the distance between you intact, you can’t quite ignore the small, ugly part of yourself that wants someone to fight a little harder for you than that.
So you close the distance yourself, drawn by the same gravitational pull that's been there since the first time he walked into your office three months ago. Once again doing the reaching. The pattern recognition occurring here is frankly humiliating.
Your hands find his chest, feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under his shirt.
“I haven't figured anything out,” you admit quietly, because you suppose he deserves the honesty. “About what this week means, or what I want, or any of it.”
“No?” There's something almost teasing in the question. “The Times seemed pretty convinced you and Barnes are a political power couple for the ages.”
“The Times doesn't know we're separated.”
“Clearly.” His hand comes up, fingers finding your jaw with unerring accuracy, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a touch that's devastatingly familiar. “Though after this week, I'm starting to wonder if you remember that either.”
The words should sting. Maybe they do. But mostly what you're aware of is his proximity, the heat of his palm against your face, the way your body has started leaning into him without conscious permission.
“Matt—”
“Sorry, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” His thumb traces lower, following the line of your jaw. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is this?”
“This,” he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours, “is me reminding you that you have options.”
“I've missed you,” you whisper against his lips.
His free hand comes up to your waist, thumb brushing the curve of your hip through your dress. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You should stop this. Should step back and have the actual conversation about this week and where you stand and all the things you've been avoiding. Should deal with the compartments that are failing to stay separate instead of making everything more complicated.
But his mouth is right there.
You kiss him before you can think better of it, before the guilt can claw its way up your throat and ruin the moment. He makes a soft sound against your mouth, surprise giving way to hunger as he kisses you back.
It's different than kissing Bucky. Where Bucky takes, Matt asks - the tilt of his head a question, the press of his tongue a request. You grant it. Grant all of it. Pour five days of frustration and confusion into the kiss until you're both breathing hard.
“Missed this too,” you gasp between kisses, and he laughs against your mouth.
“Just this?”
“Missed you being a smartass,” you correct, tugging him closer by his tie. “Missed your hands on me—god, I just missed—”
He lifts you then, strong hands gripping your thighs as he spins you both and sets you on the edge of your desk. Papers scatter. You don't care. Your legs open, allowing him to step into the space between your thighs.
“Missed having a conversation that didn't involve diplomatic immunity,” you continue, breathless, as his mouth trails down your neck. “Missed not being scheduled within an inch of my life.”
His teeth graze your pulse point. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” Your head tips back, fingers threading through his hair. “It's—fuck, Matt—”
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing the hem of your skirt higher. The drag of his palms against your stockings makes you shiver.
Your hands find his lapels, pulling him desperately closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and for a moment you forget about Bucky and the separation and every complicated thing you've been avoiding.
“You should've booked a longer meeting,” you manage, and it comes out almost playful despite the heat pooling low in your belly.
Matt's smile is absolutely wicked. “Please,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I don't need long to make you come, sweetheart. Just need your legs open and the door locked.”
Heat floods through you at the promise in his voice, your thighs clenching involuntarily. Before you can even respond, his hands are sliding under your ass, lifting you in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, gasping into his mouth as he turns and walks you backward.
You don't break the kiss. Can't. Your fingers are in his hair, tugging probably too hard, and he makes this gorgeous rough sound against your mouth that vibrates straight through you. His mouth is hot and demanding against yours, tongue sliding past your lips to taste you properly, and you make a sound into his mouth that's embarrassingly needy.
Your back hits the door hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, the solid wood catching you with enough force that you gasp into his mouth. Matt pins you there immediately, hips rolling forward, and you can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing right where you're aching. Your hand scrabbles blindly behind you for the lock, fingers clumsy with want, and when it finally clicks he groans like the sound itself did something to him.
“Fuck yes,” he breathes against your mouth, and his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. When his fingers brush the inside of your thigh you shudder, hips canting forward, seeking more contact. “Been thinking about this all week. Thinking about getting you alone, getting my hands on you—”
His fingers find the edge of your underwear, slipping just beneath the lace to trace along the seam where it meets your thigh. The touch is light, almost lazy, like he has all the time in the world and knows it's driving you insane. You gasp, hips grinding forward, trying to direct his hand where you actually need it, and your head drops back against the door. He laughs softly against your throat.
“God, you're impatient,” he teases, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Already trying to fuck yourself on my hand.”
“Shut up,” you whine, but there's no heat in it, just desperate need.
“Why?” His mouth trails to your jaw, leave wet kisses behind. “I like knowing you want me. Like hearing your pulse race when I touch you here—” His finger traces up the centre of your underwear, dragging slowly through the damp fabric from your entrance all the way up to your clit. The pressure is perfect and not nearly enough, and you can feel how wet you are, how the lace clings to you. “—and feeling you stop breathing when I—”
His fingers finally slip beneath the lace, and the second he actually touches you, feels how wet and slick you are, he makes this broken sound against your mouth that's half-groan, half-curse. Then he's kissing you again, mouth crashing back to yours. Tongue pushing past your lips deeper, harder, needier. Losing that earlier control. His fingers slide through the mess you've made and your hips jerk forward into his hand.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, fingers parting your folds and sliding through the wetness, spreading it deliberately before finding your clit. He circles it with your own slick, and you can feel how soaked you are, how easily his fingers move, and the wet sound of it makes your face flush hot. “You're fucking soaked for me.”
He's not wrong. You are soaked, aching, need clawing under your skin with an urgency that borders on painful. Whether it's because of him or because you've spent five days with Bucky's hand at your waist and his body in your bed, that constant simmering tension winding you tighter and tighter with nowhere for it to go, you genuinely don't know.
Don't want to know.
Your hips roll forward, trying to get more pressure, more friction, more anything. “Then stop teasing and do something about it.”
He laughs, the sound rough and a little desperate. “Yes ma'am.”
His fingers slide lower, one pressing inside you with a slow, deliberate stretch that makes your head thunk back against the door. You bite down on your lip hard, trying to keep quiet, hyper-aware that you're in your office in the middle of the day with your staff just outside.
“Matt—” His name escapes your lips anyway, louder than you intend.
“Shh,” he breathes against your lips, but he's smiling, adding another finger and curling them just right. “Sweetheart, you're gonna get us caught.”
“Your fault,” you gasp, barely above a whisper, hips rocking to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Fair point.” His forehead presses to yours, breathing ragged. “But you still need to be quiet for me. Can you do that?”
Nodding, you try to stop the moan building in your throat as his fingers work deeper, finding that spot that makes your thighs shake. Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt, breath coming in shallow, restrained gasps. But then he curls them again, harder, and the sound that escapes you is too loud, too obvious. His mouth is on yours immediately, swallowing the moan before it can carry.
He kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours as his fingers work faster, his thumb finding your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building fast and sharp. You're making these small, desperate noises into his mouth that you can't control, and he seems determined to catch every single one, kissing you harder each time his fingers make you gasp.
“Matt—please—I need—” you whisper between kisses, the words breaking apart.
“I know,” he murmurs back, and there's something soft in it even as his fingers work you closer to the edge. “Need to come. Need to stop thinking for five minutes.” His thumb circles your clit with perfect pressure and you gasp into his mouth. “Need it to be easy for once, yeah? Just this. Just us. Nothing complicated.”
Yes. God, yes. That's exactly what you need. To not think. To just feel something that isn't guilt or confusion or the weight of every choice you've made this week.
“More,” you gasp.
“So greedy sweetheart.” His thumb finds your clit, circling in rhythm with the thrust of his fingers. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Fuck me would be a good start.”
He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Love when you get bossy.”
His fingers slide out of you and the whimper that escapes you is pathetic, your hips moving forward involuntarily, trying to chase what you just lost.But your hands are already moving, shaking as they reach for his belt. You yank at it, fingers fumbling with the buckle in your desperation to get him undone.
You need him inside you, need it with an urgency that's making your hands clumsy and your breathing erratic.
“Condom?” you gasp out, finally getting his belt undone and working on the button of his slacks.
“Wallet, back pocket.”
A breath of relief punches out of you. “Fuck—good boy,” you tease, pulling him into a kiss.
Matt makes this wrecked sound into your mouth, somewhere between a moan and a growl, and his hand cracks down on your ass hard enough to make you gasp against his lips.
“Careful,” he warns, but there's no heat in it, just desperate want. “Keep talking like that and this is gonna be over way too fast.”
You reach around, palm sliding over his ass as you fish out his wallet. The leather is warm from his body heat, and your fingers are still trembling as you flip it open and grab the condom. You tear the foil packet open with your teeth, spitting the scrap of wrapper aside, and then your hand is wrapping around his cock. He's thick and hard in your palm, already leaking, and the groan that tears out of him is absolutely obscene.
“Can't have that,” you murmur, rolling the latex down his length slowly despite how badly you're shaking. You stroke him once, twice, feeling every thick inch, and your thumb swipes over the head. He shudders, fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise.
“Sweetheart,” he grits out, and it sounds like a plea. His hips buck forward into your grip. “Please.”
“Please what?” You're being mean now, hand still working him while he's trying to hold himself together.
“Please let me fuck you before I lose my fucking mind.”
You guide the swollen head of his cock to your entrance and you both go still for half a second, just breathing against each other's mouths. Then he's pushing inside you in one long, smooth slide and the stretch steals every thought from your head. It's almost too much, the thick press of him, and you're making these small desperate sounds you can't control.
“Fuck,” Matt breathes, the words vibrating against your throat where his mouth has landed. You can feel him shaking with the effort of holding still as he lets you adjust to the stretch of him. “You feel—god, you're so wet I can feel it dripping down my—”
You cut him off with a kiss, messy and graceless, and start rolling your hips experimentally. His cock drags against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. The angle is perfect like this, him pinning you to the door, and each roll of your hips takes him deeper. He meets your rhythm, hands gripping your ass to hold you steady as he thrusts up into you, and you have to bite down on his shoulder to muffle the moan that tears out of you.
Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
“That's it,” he groans, setting a rhythm that's slow but deep, each thrust deliberate and devastating. “Take what you need, sweetheart.”
You can barely form words, too focused on the stretch of him filling you, the way your needy cunt is already clenching around him, desperate to pull him deeper. The wet, obscene sounds of him fucking you fill your quiet office as you both pant into each other's mouths, drowning in the sensation of each other. The thick drag of his cock inside you, the press of his body against yours, the heat of your skin under his hands.
Your hand slides between your bodies, seeking more. When your fingers find your clit, it's swollen and sensitive, and just that first brush of contact makes you mewl into his mouth. You're so worked up, so desperate, that even your own touch feels like too much and not enough at the same time. You circle it carefully at first, testing, but the spike of pleasure that shoots through you makes your hips jerk and your walls clench around his cock.
“You sound so pretty like this,” Matt pants against your neck, hips snapping forward. “So fucking pretty when you stop overthinking and just let go.”
Your response is incoherent, something between a moan and his name. The pleasure is building fast, coiling tighter with each thrust, each drag of his cock inside you. Your cunt clenches around him, greedy, desperate, chasing the release that's right there.
“That's it, sweetheart,” he encourages, rhythm getting rougher. “Can feel you getting close. Feel you squeezing my cock. You gonna come for me? Gonna let me feel it?”
You're circling your clit in time with his thrusts and it's almost too much sensation, pleasure coiling tighter in your belly. He shifts slightly and the new angle makes you see stars, a whimper escaping before you can bite it back.
“Yes—fuck—Matt—”
“There?” he asks breathlessly, doing it again, and when you nod frantically he keeps hitting that exact spot. Every thrust drives him deeper and pushes your hand harder against yourself, and you're whimpering with each roll of your hips.
“I can hear it,” Matt groans into your mouth. “Can hear how close you are—your heart's racing, your breathing, you're right there—please, sweetheart, need to feel you—”
It crashes over you sudden and overwhelming, pleasure ripping through you in waves. You come with a broken cry that Matt catches with his mouth, your cunt clamping down on his cock so hard you're practically strangling it. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking as the pleasure tears through you in brutal waves. Your fingers are still on your clit, working yourself through it, and you're making these high desperate sounds into his mouth that you can't control.
“Fuck—oh fuck—” Matt groans, fucking you through it, prolonging it until you're gasping and oversensitive. “So fucking perfect—”
He buries himself deep with a final hard thrust and comes with a groan of your name, cock pulsing as he spills into the condom. You can feel every throb, every twitch as he empties himself, and it sends another aftershock through you that makes you clench around him all over again.
For a moment you just breathe together, foreheads pressed close, hearts racing in tandem. Your legs are trembling so badly around his waist that you're not sure they'll hold you when he pulls out. When he does, you both make these raw sounds at the loss of contact.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers you to the floor. Your knees wobble slightly as your feet hit the ground, and Matt immediately steadies you.
“Okay?” he asks softly, thumb stroking your hip.
“Yeah,” you manage, because that's about all your brain can produce right now.
He kisses you again, but when he pulls back there's something careful in it. Almost like he’s making sure it stays just the right side of casual. His hand cups your face briefly - thumb brushing rogue strands of hair from your face.
“Told you I didn't need long,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Smug bastard.”
But even as you say it your brain is already pulling away, cataloguing everything that needs to happen in the next ten minutes. Fix your hair. Cover that mark on your neck. Make yourself look like a composed diplomat instead of a woman who just fucked her boyfriend—situationship? god, you refuse to be a grown woman with a situationship—against her office door while her husband is probably working back home.
What the fuck are you doing?
Your heart kicks up, anxiety spiking sharp and sudden. Matt's thumb stills against your cheek, and you realise he can probably hear it. The way your body betrays every thought before you can even process it yourself.
“Hey,” he says, and there's a question in it. “Where'd you go?”
You open your mouth. Then immediately close it. You don't actually have an answer that won't make this worse.
His head tilts slightly, that listening posture you know so well, and his mouth curves into something small and resigned. Like he's already heard the answer in your pulse, in the shift of your breathing, in all the things your body is telling him that you won't say out loud.
So he steps back, creating space between you, and starts dealing with the condom without another word. He ties it off, wraps it in tissue from your desk, buries it under the papers in your trash bin so it's not the first thing anyone sees. The movements are quick and practised, and somehow that makes it worse.
“I should probably let you get back to it,” he offers, straightening out his clothes. “I'm sure you've got seventeen meetings stacked up this afternoon.”
You stare dumbly, watching him button his shirt, tuck it back in, re-buckle his belt. Everything going back into place like this was just a pleasant interlude in the workday and now it's back to business. He runs a hand through his hair to fix what your fingers messed up, and within two minutes he looks perfectly put together, as though nothing happened.
You catch sight of your reflection in the dark window and you definitely don't look like nothing happened. Your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen, and there's a faint mark on your neck that you're going to have to cover with makeup before your next meeting.
Matt turns away, adjusts his jacket, and something about the ease of it all makes your stomach twist. He's leaving. Of course he's leaving.
He picks up his cane, testing his weight on it, and the gesture is so familiar it hurts. How many times have you watched him do exactly that? Watched him prepare to leave after a late night working at your dining table, after drinks that turned into dinner that turned into more. Always the same smooth transition from intimacy back to separate lives.
He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple that lands somewhere between affectionate and perfunctory. “Don't let Bucky monopolize your entire weekend.”
It's said warmly. Casually, even. Like he's not bothered. Like this is all very uncomplicated and he's very okay with however this plays out.
“Matt—”
“I'll see you later,” he says easily, hand already on the door.
The casualness of it catches you wrong. Hooks into something raw that’s been building this whole week. And that’s what snaps you out of your own head and back into the moment.
“That's it?” The words come out sharper than you intend. “You'll see me later?”
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, shoulders stiffing as he tries to read the edge in your voice. “Are you—is something wrong?”
It’s remarkable, really. The man can hear your pulse spike from three rooms away, can detect the slightest shift in your body chemistry, can read more from your heartbeat than most people get from a full conversation. And yet here he is, still remarkably incapable of reading the room. Superhuman senses, same oblivious male brain.
“You know what, no, nothing's wrong.” You scoff, yanking your skirt down with more force than necessary, already moving towards your desk, trying to put yourself back together. “You're right, I do have a busy afternoon. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Okay, what's actually going on right now?” He asks slowly, like he's genuinely trying to figure this out. “You’re clearly upset.”
“I'm not upset.”
“Your heart rate says differently.”
God, you hate that he can do that. Hate that your body betrays you before your mouth can even form the lie. And if he's going to use those stupidly accurate senses to call you out, fine. You might as well just say it.
“When am I going to see you again?”
The question hangs in the air. Matt's quiet for a moment, and you can see him processing, trying to read the subtext.
“I don't know.” The answer comes after a beat, careful. “When do you want to see me again?”
It's a reasonable question. A fair question. So why does it make you want to scream?
“That's really how you're going to leave this?” You turn to face him, and you know you're being unfair but you can't seem to stop yourself. “I don't know, you tell me, we'll figure it out later?”
His expression shifts, the muscles tightening around his lips even as his posture stays relaxed. “I was trying to make it easy for you.”
“Easy for me or easy for yourself?”
“Both, probably,” he admits, and the ease of his honesty genuinely makes you pause. “You've got a lot going on. Your husband's here, clearly trying to…” The sentence trails off, unfinished, like he doesn’t want to say something he shouldn’t. “I'm trying not to put more pressure on you when Bucky's already doing that.”
“So you're just backing off? Not even going to—” You stop, because fight for me sounds insane and desperate and you're not sure you even want him to fight for you, but the fact that he won't makes you furious anyway.
“What do you want from me here?” Matt asks, and there's the first edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “You want me to demand your time? Tell you to pick me over him? Make this harder for you?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, because you don't know. You don't know what you want from him. You don't know what you want from Bucky. You don't know what you want from any of this mess you've created.
“Maybe I just want you to care! ”The words burst out louder than you meant them, and you have to forcibly lower your voice, aware again of where you are, who might hear. “I want you to act like this actually matters instead of just being whatever's convenient when I have a free hour.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
“That's not fair,” he says quietly.
“Isn't it? You won't make plans more than a day out. You've never even asked me to stay over.”
“Because I don't know what we are!” His voice spikes, exasperated, and you both freeze for a second, listening for footsteps in the hall. When none come, he continues, quieter but no less intense. “You're still married. He's clearly trying to get you back. You're asking me to push when you've made it pretty clear you don't know what you want, and I'm not going to compete with your husband.”
“There's a difference between not being pushy and not fighting for anything at all!”Your voice cracks slightly on the last word and you hate yourself for it, the vulnerability bleeding through when you're trying to stay angry. You swallow hard, trying to pull it back together. “There's a difference between giving someone space and just letting go without even trying.”
“I'm trying,” he begins, and there's something rawer in his voice now, “to give you space to figure your shit out without making you feel like you owe me something.”
“Maybe I want to owe you something!” You're pacing now, heels clicking sharp against the floor. “Maybe I want you to act like you actually give a damn whether I pick him or not!”
“Of course I give a damn!” It's the closest he's come to raising his voice. “But I'm not going to manipulate you or monopolize your calendar or show up and—” He stops himself. “I'm not him. I'm not going to do what he does.”
“At least he's doing something!”
The words land like a slap. You see it in the way his expression shutters, in the way his hand tightens on his cane.
“Right.” His voice is flat. “Well. At least we know where we stand, then.” He's already turning toward the door. “Clearly I’m not what you need.”
“Matt, I didn’t mean—” You press your palms against your eyes because you can feel the sting of tears starting and you really don’t want to cry right now. “You’re right, I don't know what I need.” Your voice cracks again and you hate it, hate the tears that are threatening, hate how small you sound. “But why does it have to be all or nothing with both of you? He smothers me and you won't even—”
You stop, pressing your hand to your mouth, trying to hold it together. But the tears are coming anyway, hot and frustrated and exhausted, because you've been holding everything in all week and it's too much. It's all too much.
The tap of his cane stops.
For a moment there's just silence, broken only by the humiliating wet sound of you trying not to sob.
“I'm fine.” But your voice does that horrible shaky thing that makes it very clear you are the opposite of fine.
“You're not fine.” He's already moving toward you, and then his hands are on your arms. Warm and solid and gentle in a way that makes your chest hurt worse. “You're crying in your office.”
“Don't—” You try to turn away, humiliation burning hot in your chest because this is mortifying. “I just need a minute. I'm fine, really,” you try again, but it comes out as barely more than a whisper.
“Stop saying that.” His voice has gone impossibly soft, thumb stroking along your forearm. “Come here, please.
You let him pull you in, let yourself press your face against his chest while the tears come properly now. His arms come around you, solid and sure, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He doesn't say anything. Just holds you while you shake apart against him, while you soak the front of his shirt with tears that won't stop coming.
“I'm sorry,” you gasp out between sobs. “I'm sorry, I don't—I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I want. This whole week has been so fucked up and I can't think straight and I don't—“ Another sob cuts you off.
“Shh. I know.” His hand moves in slow circles on your back, the pressure steady and grounding. “It's okay, just breathe”
“It's not okay.” The words come out muffled against his chest. “This whole week has been—” Your breath hitches. “He's everywhere and you're—and I can't think straight and I keep making everything worse—”
His hand stills on your back for just a moment. “What do you need?”
You pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, and his hands shift to your arms. Steadying but not restraining. His face is tilted toward you with that particular focus he gets when he's listening to everything - your heartbeat, your breathing, the catch in your voice.
“I don't know.” You pull back slightly, wiping at your face with shaking hands. “Maybe I just need a break. From this. From both of you.”
You try to read his reaction, but he doesn’t give anything away. Just keeps stroking your back in those same soothing motions.
“Bucky's going back to DC on Sunday anyway,” you continue, and your voice sounds raw even to your own ears. “Maybe I just need some time. To figure myself out. Figure out what I actually want instead of just—” You gesture helplessly at the general disaster that is currently your life. “This.”
You expect him to argue. To push back. To do something other than what he does, which is nod slowly.
“Okay,” he says quietly, and his thumb comes up to brush away a tear from your cheek. “Yeah. We can do that. You need time, I'll give you time.”
The agreement should feel like relief but instead it just makes you want to cry harder. Because of course he's not fighting this either. Of course he's just agreeing, just stepping back, just giving you exactly what you asked for in a way that somehow feels like losing anyway.
“But—” He hesitates, and something in his tone shifts. Gets more careful. “You might need to explain this all to Bucky too. Since, you know. He thinks you're working things out.”
Your head snaps up, tears still wet on your cheeks. “What?”
Matt's lips purse slightly, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase it. “He asked me to back off. Said you two were working through things. That you needed space to figure out your marriage without complications.” His mouth twists slightly on the last word. “Meaning me.”
The humiliation of thirty seconds ago transmutes instantly into something else. The tears stop. Everything stops. For a moment you just stare at Matt, trying to process what he's telling you, and then the rage hits like a freight train. “He told you we were getting back together?”
“Not in those exact words, but yes,” he confirms quietly. “He tried to make it seem like he knew where things stood between you. Made it pretty clear he considered me a temporary blip in your relationship.”
“That fucking—” You can't even finish the sentence, fury choking the words in your throat. Your hands are shaking again, but this time with anger.
“We had one lunch,” you say, and your voice has gone cold. “One. Where he apologised for being absent and I agreed to give him one week to prove he could actually show up. That's it. We never—I never said we were working things out.”
Matt's very quiet.
“He told you we were reconciling.” You're not asking. You're clarifying. Making sure you understand the full scope of what Bucky's done. “He told you to back off because we were fixing our marriage.”
“Yeah.”
“And then he filled my entire calendar. And slept in my bed. And touched me like I belonged to him in front of half of diplomatic London.” The pieces are clicking together with horrible clarity. “He decided. Again. He just fucking decided without me that we're working things out and told my—told you to back off like he gets to make those calls for me.”
You're already moving, grabbing your bag, your phone, not even sure what you're doing but you need to move, need to do something with this rage before it burns you alive from the inside.
“Where are you going?” Matt asks carefully.
“Home.” The word comes out sharp and final. “I'm going home and I'm ending this shit right now.”
── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹
The click of your heels echoes through the residence, each step a punctuation mark to the fury coiling tighter in your chest. You stride through the hallway, past Thomas who takes one look at your face and wisely says nothing, and straight to the study where you know Bucky's working.
He's at the desk - your desk, because apparently he's just moved back into every corner of your life without asking - looking at some papers with a confused scrunch of his nose that would be endearing if you weren't currently fantasizing about throwing something heavy at his head.
The papers hit the mahogany with a slap that makes him jolt upright. For half a second there's just confusion - eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted on a question that hasn’t formed yet - and then his eyes drop to what you’ve thrown down. ‘Petition for Dissolution of Marriage’ printed across the top in black and white. You watch his face change as he reads the header. Watch the colour drain slightly. Watch his throat work as he swallows.
“What—” He starts to speak, stops to compose himself, and when the words finally come they’re careful, like he already knows the answer and is hoping he's wrong “What’s this?”
“Take a wild fucking guess, Congressman.”
His hand moves slowly toward the papers like they might burn him, fingers hovering before he finally touches them. He flips through, and you know the exact moment he finds the signature page because his whole body goes rigid.
Your finger jabs down at the signature line. “Sign them.”
“What?” He's standing now, the chair scraping back, and there's something raw starting to crack through the careful composure on his face. Something that looks like panic and grief all at once. “Baby—”
“Don't.” You hold up a hand and he actually freezes mid-step. “Don't 'baby' me. Don't use that voice. Don't act like you can smooth this over if you just find the right words.”
“That's not—I'm not—” His hands spread wide in a helpless gesture. “Please, just talk to me. What happened? This morning we were fine, we were—”
“We were what, exactly?” You cut him off, arms crossing over your chest. “Working things out? Getting back together? Reconciling our marriage?”
Bucky's quiet for a moment, and you can practically see him running through possibilities, trying to figure out which particular mine he's stepped on. And then the guilt stats to flicker across his face.
“Oh good,” you say flatly. “You know exactly what I'm talking about.”
His whole posture changes, that familiar stubborn set coming into his jaw that tells you he's not going to back down easy. “If this is about Matt—”
“If this is about Matt?” You actually laugh, and it sounds wrong even to your own ears. “This is about you, Bucky! The fact that you lied and said we were working things out. That you said to back off because apparently we needed space to fix our marriage.”
He's quiet. Won't meet your eyes.
“When exactly were you planning to mention that to me?” Fury makes your voice shake despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Before or after you finished orchestrating my entire fucking life?”
“I was trying to—”
“I don't care what you were trying to do!” It comes out too loud, echoing off the study walls. “You know, I've had these papers for two months. Two months of looking at them in my drawer, too much of a coward to sign them, because some pathetic part of me still hoped we could fix this.”
Your voice cracks and you have to stop, have to breathe through the anger and hurt tangling in your throat.
“But we can't. Because you don't know how to be in a partnership. You only know how to run operations and make strategic decisions and manipulate variables, and I'm so fucking tired of being a variable in your life instead of your fucking wife.”
“That's not what you are to me! I swear, please—” He runs a hand through his hair, and he’s scrambling, trying to find the words that will fix this. His gaze drifts back to the papers like they might rearrange themselves into something different if he looks hard enough. “Wait, you drew these up two months ago?”
You watch him do the maths. Watch the realization settle across his features, his jaw going tight.
“When you started seeing him.” It's not a question.
“Stop making this about Matt! Stop deflecting. Stop trying to make this about jealousy when this is about you making decisions about my life without me!”
You're pacing before you realise it, unable to stand still. Three steps to the window and back.
“It seems very much to be about him though, doesn't it?” Bucky's voice has gone rough at the edges. He pushes off the desk, takes a step toward you. “You draw up divorce papers the second you start sleeping with him, this whole week goes perfectly fine until you see him again, and now you're in here ready to end our marriage—”
“This week was a lie!” You shout, beyond caring who might hear. “This week was you orchestrating my entire life, filling my calendar, telling people we were reconciling without ever actually asking me if that's what I wanted! Don't you dare act like things were fine when the whole thing was built on you manipulating—”
“—I wasn’t manipulating—”
“—our marriage, making a decision about my relationships without saying word to me!” Your voice rises to stay above his. “I actually had those papers drawn up two months ago because I’d spent the previous six months unable to have a single fucking conversation with my own husband!”
The words are coming faster now, angrier, everything you've been holding in for 8 months spilling out. “Every time I called I got 'he's in a meeting' or 'he'll call you back' and he never, ever did. Because somewhere along the line I stopped being your wife and became an item on your assistant's to-do list that never made it to the top of the pile!”
His head comes up. His eyes are wet with unshed tears when they find yours, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He's trying desperately to hold it together but you watch him start to lose the fight in the way his face crumples, in the painful swallow working down his throat. His hand lifts toward you before he seems to remember himself and lets it drop uselessly back to his side.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I know I fucked up, I know I wasn't there, and I'm trying to fix it now—”
“By doing the same thing! By making decisions without me!” Your nails dig into your palms hard enough to hurt, arms rigid at your sides. “Do you not see that? You’re still doing it, Bucky, you're still shutting me out and deciding what's best for us without ever asking me what I want!”
“So what do you want from me?” His desperation bleeds through every word, but it’s far too little, and far too late. “Tell me what you want and I'll do it.”
For a moment you just stand there, looking at him across the desk that's covered in his work, in this life he built without consulting you. You should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Some echo of the love that used to live in your chest when you looked at him like this. But you just feel exhausted.
When you finally speak, the answer comes out quieter than anything else you've said tonight.
“I want you to sign the papers.”
Your words seem to suck the air out of the room, leaving nothing but the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears.
“No.” He's shaking his head slowly at first, then faster, like he can physically deny what's happening if he just refuses hard enough. “No, I'm not—I can't—”
“You don't get to say no.”
“Just talk to me!” He begs. “Just talk to me instead of throwing divorce papers on my desk and expecting me to—”
“Talk to you?” You can hear the bitter edge bleeding through your voice, feel it scraping against your throat. “Wow, okay. Like you talked to me before telling Matt to back off? Like you talked to me before orchestrating my entire week? Like you talked to me every time I called and got your pretty little assistant instead?”
“I told you I didn’t sleep with her.”
“Oh my fucking god, congratulations!” Your arms fly up in exasperation. “You want a medal for not fucking your assistant? You want me to applaud your restraint? Let’s not act like you were alone, pining away for me this whole time.”
“At least I didn't parade it in front of you!” The accusation explodes out of him like it's been festering, his face flushing with pain and frustration mixing together.
“We were separated! That was the whole fucking point of the agreement!” Even though your throat is becoming raw from shouting, you can’t seem to stop, months of resentment pouring out of you. “Married in public, free to see other people privately - that’s what we agreed to. Except clearly, neither of us can act normally about it!”
Your voice cracks.
“We're just destroying each other. And I can't do it anymore.”
Your words hang in the air between you. You're both breathing hard, and the study feels simultaneously too small and too vast, like the space can't quite contain what's happening. Then something shifts in his expression as he seems to finally hear what he’s been saying, how he sounds. His shoulders sag inward. The voice that comes out next is barely recognisable.
“I'm sorry.” He drags a hand over his face. “You're right. I'm making this worse. I'm making everything worse. But please, don’t do this, just give me a chance too—”
“I've been giving you chances for eight months. I gave you a chance when you became Congressman without talking to me about it. I gave you a chance this week when you showed up and I let you back in even though you were already making decisions for me. And every time you fucked it up!”
Bucky just stands there, breathing hard, staring at you like you’ve gutted him. His eyes are still wet, tears clinging to his lashes but refusing to fall.
“I love you,” he whispers. “And I know you might not have felt it, and i know it’s not enough, but I have loved you through every stupid mistake I've made, including running for Congress.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest for months.
“I thought… I thought if I could be someone important, someone legitimate, maybe I'd finally be worthy of you. You've spent your whole career saving lives, negotiating peace, actually helping people. And I'm just—” His voice cracks. “I'm still just the Winter Soldier trying to prove I'm more than that. So I ran for Congress because I thought it might fix me, might fill the hole where my humanity used to be. But instead I just broke us and I’m still as damaged as before. And now I can't—”
His voice fractures completely.
“I can't lose you.”
The confession lands entirely wrong, because this is what you've wanted to hear for months - years, maybe. This vulnerability, this honesty, this real version of Bucky you’ve only ever glimpsed in stolen moments. And it’s too late. Your throat tightens. You have to look away from him because seeing him like this, broken open and bleeding out in front of you, makes something in you want to take it all back. Want to cross the room and hold him and tell him he's not damaged, that he's never been unworthy, that you've loved him through every version of himself he hasn’t.
But loving him has never been the problem.
“You already did, Bucky.” The words hurt coming out. “You can't put that on me - your sense of self-worth, your identity, fixing yourself. That was never my job. I loved you. I loved you exactly as you were, and you never believed me. And now you're telling me you destroyed our marriage trying to become someone you thought I wanted, when all I ever wanted was you.”
Somehow his face crumples further. You have to look away again. When you speak next, your voice is barely above a whisper. Tired and sad and so heavy you can barely get the words out.
“So yes, you're right. You did break us. But not because you weren't good enough, Bucky. Because you never let me love the person you actually are.”
For a moment he just stands there, and you watch all the fight drain out of him like someone pulled a plug. His eyes go distant, almost glassy, and his breathing deepens, like he's shutting something down inside himself. The desperation from moments ago has been replaced by something far more terrifying: quiet resignation. He's finally stopped trying to hold on.
He picks up the pen. His hand trembles badly enough that you wonder if he'll even be able to write, but he manages to grip it, staring down at the signature line for what feels like an eternity. When the pen finally touches paper, the scratch of it against the silence is deafening.
He signs his name. Dates it. Slides the papers across the desk toward you without meeting your eyes.
“There.” His voice is completely destroyed. “If that's what you need.”
You pick up the papers with numb fingers. Stare at his signature like you can't quite believe it's real.
“I'm sorry.” He hasn't moved. Just stands there with wet cheeks and empty hands. “I'm so sorry. For every way I failed you. For not being what you needed.”
“Thank you.” It comes out barely audible. “For the apology. For signing.”
You fold the papers slowly, creasing each edge with deliberate precision because if you think about the mechanics of folding paper you don't have to think about what you're holding.
“I want you to catch the next flight back to DC. Tonight, if you can. I'll have Thomas help you pack.”
“Okay.” He looks lost standing there, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, with his body, with any of this. “Okay, yeah.”
“And Bucky—” Your voice is steadier now, or at least you're doing a better job of faking it. “Don't call. Don't text. Don't send flowers or letters or try to fix anything. We're done. Let it be done.”
He nods, even though it looks like it's killing him. “Okay.”
There should be something else to say. Some final words that would make this less awful, less final. But you can't think of anything that won't make it worse. So you just turn and walk toward the door, papers pressed against your chest like you need the reminder of why you’re doing this.
“For what it's worth,” His voice stops you at the threshold, and it comes out quiet and defeated. “You're the best thing that ever happened to me. The best thing I've ever had and the worst thing I've ever lost, and I know that's my fault. I know I did that.” The silence hangs for a moment. “I'm sorry. For all of it.”
You don't turn around, can't let him see your face right now.
“Goodbye, Bucky.”
Then you walk out, leaving your husband standing alone in the study, and you don't look back.
── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹
The wind off the Potomac is sharp enough to sting, cutting through your coat. March in Washington hasn't gotten any more pleasant since you left - still grey, still biting, still full of men in expensive suits having conversations that matter to nobody outside this ten-block radius.
You've been back for two days. Meetings, briefings, a reception last night where you smiled until your face hurt and deflected questions about London with the practised ease of someone who's done this too many times to count. It's fine. Exhausting, but fine. You can do this job in your sleep at this point.
What you can't do, apparently, is stop yourself from scanning every room you enter for a familiar face. Your heart has been doing this annoying thing ever since you landed at Dulles where it kicks up at unexpected moments - half anticipation, half dread. Walking past a coffee shop that he used to go to. Hearing someone laugh in a way that's almost but not quite his register. Seeing a tall, dark-haired man in a suit who makes your stupid heart stutter before you realise it's not him.
You're not looking for him. You're absolutely not looking for him. You're just aware. Hyper-aware, maybe. Of the absence. Of the space where he should be and isn't.
Because Bucky's on Foreign Relations. He should have been at yesterday's hearing. Definitely should have been at the NATO briefing this morning where you spent two hours making small talk with people who absolutely knew you were divorced and were definitely trying not to bring it up.
But he's not here. And the unease that started yesterday has metastasized into something closer to worry, which is absurd because you're divorced and it's none of your business anymore where he is or what he's doing or why he's apparently missing every major political event this week.
Except now it's your last day in DC and you're walking out of your final meeting, and you still haven't seen him. Which is good. That's good. That's what you wanted - to get through this trip without the inevitable awkward encounter, without having to figure out what you're supposed to say to your ex-husband in a professional setting.
He's probably just busy. He's always busy. That's the whole problem, isn't it? Was. Was the whole problem.
You tell yourself it's none of your business. You tell yourself he’s probably had scheduling conflicts, or dozen other reasonable explanations that have nothing to do with you. You tell yourself to get in the car waiting to take you to the hotel and get a good nights sleep before your flight tomorrow morning.
Instead, you hear yourself giving the driver a different address.
You watch DC slide past the window. Familiar streets, familiar monuments, a city you used to know as well as London but feels foreign now. It's been three months since you signed those papers. Six weeks since the divorce was finalised. And he gave you the silence that you asked for, that you needed, that was supposed to make this easier.
It did make some things easier, in a way. You can think about him now without that sharp twist of anger in your chest. Can acknowledge the good parts of your marriage without immediately cataloguing all the ways it fell apart. You've stopped checking your phone obsessively, stopped writing texts you never sent, stopped having imaginary arguments with him at two in the morning.
You've started sleeping through the night again. Started saying “my ex-husband” without your voice catching. Started believing that maybe you could actually do this - be divorced, be separate, be okay.
But you still can't be in this city without needing to know he's alright. Because Bucky Barnes gets under your skin and doesn’t leave. Not really. Not even after divorce papers and three months of silence and all the ways you've tried to extract him from your chest. He's just there, permanent as a scar, and you've apparently made peace with the fact that he always will be.
His apartment is close enough to the Capitol that he could walk if he wanted to, far enough that it didn't feel like living at the office. You'd picked it out together four years ago, back when you thought his Congressional run was temporary and you'd be back in New York within a term. The doorman doesn't recognise you, but he calls up anyway when you give him your name.
The elevator ride to the eighth floor feels longer than the entire flight from London. Your heart is doing that kicking thing again but worse now, harder, because this is stupid and inappropriate and you have no right to be here. But what if something's wrong? Or maybe nothing's wrong and you're being ridiculous. Both options feel equally terrible.
You walk down the hallway on muscle memory, and before you can overthink it anymore, you’re standing in from of 8F. The door opens before your knuckles even make contact with the wood.
Bucky's standing there in jeans and a Henley that's seen better days, hair slightly too long and falling into his eyes. The permanent tension he used to carry in his shoulders has eased, and there's no tie strangling him, no suit jacket making him look like a politician action figure. He looks comfortable in a way you've never seen him look in DC.
He also looks completely shocked to see you.
His eyes go wide, lips parting on what might be your name but doesn't quite make it out.
“Hi,” you manage.
For a second he just stares at you like you might be a hallucination, hand still on the doorframe, body frozen mid-breath. “Hi.”
And then silence. Awful, stretching silence where you're both just looking at each other and you're realizing with creeping horror that you came all the way here without any plan for what you were actually going to say. Now you're just standing here like an idiot while he stares at you and oh god you need to say something, anything—
“I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't just show up, I was in town for meetings and I wasn't going to bother you—” And suddenly you're talking too fast, words tumbling over each other in a way that would be mortifying if you could stop long enough to be mortified. “But you weren't at the Foreign Relations hearing yesterday—which isn't my business, obviously, you don't owe me your schedule…”
Your hand comes up to your neck, fingers pressing against the tension there like that might somehow stop the word vomit. “But then you also weren't at the NATO briefing this morning and I know you're always at those because it's your thing, and I know I have no right to just show up here, and this is probably completely inappropriate—”
Shit, you're babbling. You're fully babbling at your ex-husband who you haven't spoken to in three months while he stands there looking increasingly bewildered. Stop talking. Stop talking right now.
“—but I was getting in the car to go to my hotel and I just kept thinking about how you weren't there and what if something was wrong, and I know I asked for space and this is definitely not space, this is the opposite of space, this is me showing up at your apartment like a complete—”
“I left Congress.”
The words cut through your spiral, stopping you mid-sentence with your mouth still open. Your brain completely flat-lines for a moment and then reboots, and for a second you just stare at him while the information tries to process.
“What?”
“Congress. I left.” He says it simply, like he's commenting on the weather. “About three weeks ago.”
“Oh.”
The word comes out flat and stupid. You blink at him. Process his words. Try to figure out what expression your face is making and whether it's appropriate.
“Oh,” you repeat dumbly, because apparently that's all your brain can produce. “I didn't—I didn't know.”
The silence that follows is excruciating. And you're suddenly extremely aware that you're standing in his hallway, that he's looking at you with an expression you can't parse, and how you've just made a complete fool of yourself by showing up here based on incorrect assumptions about his schedule.
This was a mistake. This was such a mistake.
“Right. Of course.” You take a step back toward the elevator, face hot with embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—this was inappropriate, I'll just—”
“Do you want to come in?” The question comes out slightly strangled, like it surprised him as much as it surprises you.
It stops you mid-retreat. You look at him and he's watching you with something that might be hope or might be caution or might be both.
“I don't want to intrude…”
“You're not.” He steps back from the doorway, making space. “I mean, you're already here. And I'd like to talk to you, if that's okay.”
You should say no. Should absolutely say no. Should get back in that car and go to your hotel and let this remain a awkward three-minute interaction you can both pretend never happened.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say instead.
You step inside and it hits you how familiar everything still is. Same layout you could navigate blind, same view of the street you used to watch on sleepless nights, same couch you both used to fall asleep on after long nights reading political documents.
But the congressional briefings that used to bleed across every flat surface are gone. In their place are books on the side table - actual books that look read, spines creased, pages dog-eared. The kitchen looks like someone's actually been using it instead of just microwaving leftovers at midnight. It's still the same apartment, but it feels different. Like someone actually exists here instead of just sleeping between eighteen-hour days.
You're standing there trying to process it when you realise Bucky's closed the door and now you're both just awkwardly existing in the same space, six feet apart, neither of you sure what to do with your hands.
But damn, he looks good. That's the thing you keep getting stuck on. The permanent furrow between his brows has smoothed out. His shoulders sit easier. Even the way he's standing is looser, less like a man braced for impact. And he's looking at you like he's trying very hard to be normal about this and failing completely. Like you're something he's not allowed to want anymore but can't quite help it.
You clear your throat, grasping for something to say that isn't we got divorced and you look good and I don't know what to do with that.
“So… Not Congressman Barnes anymore.”
He actually cringes, then huffs out a surprised laugh. “Yeah. Thank god.”
“What happened?” You're trying to keep your voice neutral, conversational, but it definitely comes out more loaded than you intended. “I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I don't have a right to—”
“You have a right,” he interrupts quietly, then seems to reconsider. “Or, I don't know if you have a right, but I want to tell you anyway.”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He runs a hand through his hair, and you watch him gather his thoughts. That little exhale he does when he's trying to figure out how to be honest about something difficult.
“After the divorce—” He stops on the word, like it physically hurts to say. He swallows, tries again. “I did a lot of thinking. About why I ran for Congress in the first place, what I was trying to prove. And I realised I hated it. Hated the politics, the performance, the constant posturing. I was terrible at it, you know I was terrible at it. The only reason I didn't completely implode was because you were there coaching me through it, and once you weren't...” He trails off, shaking his head. “I kept going anyway because I thought that's what I was supposed to do. That quitting would mean I'd failed, or that I was giving up.”
He's looking at his hands now, the flesh one fidgeting against the metal one.
“But you were right. I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. Trying to be someone I thought deserved you instead of figuring out who I actually am.” He lets out a breath. “Not for you, not to prove anything to anyone. Just for me. I'd never done that before.”
He shifts his weight, suddenly looking uncomfortable with how honest that came out, and you have to swallow past the tightness in your throat because that might be the most vulnerable thing he's ever admitted to you.
“So I quit.” He shrugs like it's no big deal, trying to play it off. “And then I started thinking about what I actually wanted to do if I wasn't trying to prove I was more than what Hydra made me.”
He glances up at you then, and there's something almost hesitant in it, like he's trying to gauge your reaction. Like he can’t help that some part of him still wants you to be proud of him even though he's doing this for himself. “Sam's been building something with the Avengers. A new team—”
And he must catch the concern that flickers across your face because he quickly adds, “I'm not fighting; I'm done with that. But I’m going to help with training programs, support systems, trying to make sure the next generation doesn't get chewed up the way we did. Sam suggested it. And for the first time in years something just... clicked.”
You're staring at him, trying to process all of it. The growth. The self-awareness. The fact that he actually heard you, actually sat with it, actually made changes not to win you back but because he needed to be better for himself.
“That's—” Your voice comes out rough and you have to clear your throat. “That's really good, Bucky. I'm happy for you.”
And you are. You are genuinely happy for him. But there's something bittersweet lodged behind your ribs too, something that tastes like why now and why couldn't you have done this when we were still trying and this is exactly what I wanted from you.
“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” he adds quietly. “I wasn't sure if it was my place anymore, or if you'd want to know. You asked for silence and I was trying to respect that, trying to give you the peace you deserved after everything I put you through.”
God. He's doing exactly what you asked him to do. Respecting your boundaries, not inserting himself into your life, letting you move on. And apparently getting what you want feels a lot like getting punched in the chest, which seems cosmically unfair.
“You're allowed to tell me things,” you manage. “Just because we're divorced doesn't mean I don't care about what happens to you.”
He nods slowly, but doesn't say anything, and the quiet that settles between you is thick with all the things neither of you knows how to say.
You're both still just standing there and you have no idea what you're supposed to do now. No idea what the protocol is for this situation. No idea how to be around him when he looks this good and this different and this much like what you'd needed him to be.
That's when you hear it. A small, inquiring “mrrp” from somewhere behind the couch. A white cat emerges, one blue eye and one green, tail high and confident as she saunters into the middle of the room and sits down to observe you both with feline judgment.
“You got a cat,” you remark, grateful for a distraction.
“Yeah.” Bucky says, and there's something almost embarrassed in his voice. “Her name's Alpine. I got her about a month after the divorce. The apartment was too quiet and I—” He trails off, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “She was at a shelter and she looked at me like she knew I needed someone around and I guess I did.”
The apartment was too quiet because you weren't in it anymore, is the thing he doesn't say. But it hangs there anyway.
Alpine pads over to you with the confidence of a cat who knows she's in charge, and you crouch down automatically, extending your hand for her to sniff.
“Hi there, sweet girl,” you murmur, and she immediately butts her head against your palm, purring like a small motor. Within seconds she's winding between your legs, tail curling around your calf with clear ownership.
“Well, that's it then,” Bucky teases, small smile tugging at his lips. “She's decided you're hers. Good luck leaving, she's very persistent when she wants something.”
The words hang in the air for a second, and you watch his expression shift as he seems to hear what he just said. Like he's just remembered that you leaving is exactly what's supposed to happen. That you have a life that doesn't include him or his cat.
“So, how are things with....” He clears his throat, and you can practically feel him trying to make his voice sound casual and normal. It doesn't work. “How's the boyfriend?”
Your hand stills on Alpine's fur. You look up to find him studiously examining a spot on the wall like it's the most fascinating piece of architecture he's ever seen.
“Matt moved back to New York a few months ago.” You straighten up slowly, Alpine protesting the loss of attention with a small trill. “We ended things. Wanted different things from the relationship.”
“Oh.” Bucky's eyes finally land on you, and there's something complicated happening in his expression. “I'm sorry.”
“No you're not.”
It comes out before you can stop it, and for a second you think you've made it weird again, but then Bucky laughs. It's surprised out of him, genuine and a little helpless, and god you've missed that sound.
“No,” he admits, smile going crooked. “I'm really not.”
The honesty of it sits between you for a moment. Then something changes in his face, the amusement fading into something more vulnerable.
“But I should be sorry,” he continues quietly. “It shouldn't matter what I think. You deserve to move on, to be happy with someone who—” He cuts himself off, looking down at his hands. “Someone who can actually be what you need. And I'll deal with that eventually. I will. I'm just—” Another pause. “I'm sorry that I played a part in screwing that up for you, with Matt. And I’m sorry if the divorce or the complications or just... me... if any of that made it harder for you to have something good.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tight. Here he is, your ex-husband, apologising for potentially ruining your other relationship while also admitting he's not sorry it ended, and somehow it's the most honest you've been with each other in months.
“It wasn't you,” you hear yourself say. “Not directly, anyway. Matt and I… we wanted different things. He wanted easy and uncomplicated, and I'm apparently incapable of either of those things.”
“That's not true—”
“Bucky.” You raise a brow. “I showed up at my ex-husband's apartment unannounced because I got worried when he didn't show up to committee meetings. I think we can agree that 'easy and uncomplicated' is not really my strong suit.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair point.”
“But,” he adds, “you deserve someone who doesn't want easy. Someone who wants all of it - the complicated, the messy, the hard parts. Someone who wants you exactly as you are. Because you show up. Even when you shouldn't, even when it's inconvenient, even when you have every reason not to. You came here today because you were worried about me, because that's just who you are. You care so completely, so deeply, even when it costs you. And you deserve someone who loves you enough to show up for you the way you've always shown up for everyone else.”
The words land like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. Your eyes start to sting and you have to look away, blinking hard against the sudden heat behind them because you're not going to cry in his apartment, you're not.
Except apparently you are, because your vision's already blurring and there's a tightness in your chest that won't ease and when you try to speak nothing comes out but a slightly choked sound that you immediately wish you could take back.
“Hey,” Bucky moves toward you immediately, concern flooding his face. “Shit, no, I didn't mean to upset you.”
You try and recover the situation, aiming for light, but it cracks halfway through. “No, I’m fine, that’s a very—that's nice, that's a really nice thing to say, thank you for the—”
You stop because you're not making sense, because the whole thing is so mortifying you want to sink through the floor.
“Sweetheart, what’s happening?” His hand comes up immediately, thumb brushing across your cheek with a gentleness that makes it worse. He’s so close now that you can see the flecks of grey starting to thread through his hair at his temples. Close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne - the same one you bought him three years ago for his birthday. Close enough that your body remembers what it feels like to fit against his before your brain can stop it.
And god, he still feels like home. Still looks at you like you're something precious. And it's too much, all of it is too much, and the tears that have been threatening finally spill over.
“Don't call me that,” you choke out, but there's no heat in it. “And don't—you can't just—”
The words are getting tangled up with the crying, which is humiliating, but now that you've started you can't seem to stop.
“You don't get to do this,” you manage, and it comes out accusatory and broken at the same time. “You don't get to make all these changes and become this better version of yourself after we're divorced. You don't get to quit the job you hated and figure out what you actually want and get a cat and look at me like that when we're not—”
You stop, pressing your palms against your eyes because maybe if you can't see him this will be easier.
“You're doing everything right and it's too late. And god, I'm here being pathetic, showing up at your apartment because I couldn't handle not seeing you at a meeting. You've moved on, you're this whole new person, and I'm still—”
“You think I could ever move on from you?”
The question stops you mid-sentence. You lower your hands and look up at him, and his face has gone soft and raw and heartbroken in a way that makes your chest cave in.
“I haven't moved on.” His voice drops to barely more than a whisper. “I couldn't move on from you if I tried. You think I got a cat because I moved on? I got a cat because I was so fucking lonely and every time I tried to date, I couldn’t. I couldn’t let anyone else in here. Couldn't stand the thought of someone in this space who wasn’t you.”
He takes a breath that shudders slightly on the exhale, and you can see him fighting to hold himself together.
“I'm not a better person because I moved on. I'm a better person because losing you destroyed me and I had to either figure out who I actually was without you or let it kill me. So I figured it out, because I owed it to myself to be more than just the wreckage of our marriage.”
His thumb continues to trace slow paths across your cheekbone, catching each tear as it falls. The space between you has shrunk to almost nothing. You don't remember either of you moving but suddenly you can count his eyelashes, can see his eyes are wet too.
Your eyes drop to his mouth. His lips are slightly parted, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your skin, and you watch him notice where you're looking. Watch the way his pupils blow wider, the way his grip on your face tightens just slightly.
“But god, I’m sorry,” he continues, and his forehead drops to rest against yours. “I'm so fucking sorry for all of it. For running for Congress without talking to you first. For shutting you out instead of letting you help me. For making you feel like you weren't enough when you were always everything.”
“Bucky—”
“I'm sorry for manipulating your calendar and lying to Matt and thinking I could orchestrate our marriage back together instead of just talking to you like a fucking adult.” His other hand comes up to cup your face, both palms cradling you as his thumb brushes your bottom lip “I'm sorry for taking you for granted and not fighting for us until it was too late. I'm sorry—”
You kiss him.
You can't help it. Can't wait another second, can't stand anymore distance between you when he's been standing there saying everything you'd needed to hear for months and he's finally, finally letting you all the way in and you need him closer. Need his mouth on yours more than you need air right now.
He makes this startled sound against your lips, like he didn't dare let himself believe this was actually happening. But then his hands tighten on your face and he's kissing you back, desperate and messy, your face still wet with tears.
“Keep going,” you gasp against his lips between kisses. “Don't stop.”
“I'm sorry for every time I chose my pride over our marriage.” The words tumble out between kisses as he walks you backward, one hand now gripping your waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of your head. “For every time I made you feel small or unimportant or like you were the problem when it was always me.”
You hit the wall with a soft thud, his palm deliberately taking the impact for your head, and his mouth finds your throat immediately, hot and desperate, teeth grazing your pulse point before his lips soothe over it.
“I'm sorry for wasting so much time,” he breathes against your neck, hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling back just enough to drag it over your head. “For not appreciating every second I had with you. For not telling you every single day that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Bucky—” You plead, fingers tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan against your skin.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes blown completely dark, and the desperation on his face mirrors everything coiling tight in your stomach.
“Let me make it up to you,” he pants, mouth already trailing lower, kissing down your throat, your collarbone, your sternum. “Please. Let me get on my knees and show you exactly how sorry I am, sweetheart.”
“Fuck—please, Bucky. Yes!”
His mouth keeps moving lower as he sinks down, lips pressing hot and wet over your stomach. When he reaches the waistband of your skirt his hands slide around to find the zip, tugging it down over your hips.
He peels it down slowly, mouth following the same path, pressing open kisses down your hip, the outside of your thigh, your knee, helping you step out of it carefully but making absolutely no move to take your heels off. For a moment he just stays there, looking up at you from the floor with blown dark eyes.
The sight of him down there looking at you like that makes your breath come out shaky.
“Missed you so fucking much,” he breathes against your inner thigh, lips dragging higher again. “Missed this.” His fingers find the waistband of your panties, peeling them down slowly, and when they're gone his right hand lingers on your calf, squeezing.
“Missed the way you sound when I do this—” He presses his mouth to your clit, barely anything, just enough to make you whine and your hips jerk forward chasing more. “Missed the way you taste. Been so fucking long, sweetheart, I'm gonna make sure you feel every single apology.”
Then he hooks your leg over his shoulder, spreading you wider, the stiletto of your heel digging into his back. He groans against you like he's been waiting months for exactly this, tongue dragging through your folds, tasting every inch of you, before his mouth closes around your clit and sucks.
You're already soaked, embarrassingly so, slick and swollen and desperate, and the obscene sounds he's making against you make your face flush hot. Like he's enjoying this more than you are, which makes the heat pooling in your stomach coil tighter and more urgent.
Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, gripping hard, and the moan that rumbles out of him against your folds is immediate, hips shifting like he can't help it. You tug again, twisting tighter, and he groans louder, like he'd let you pull as hard as you wanted as long as you kept him right there.
His tongue curls and your back arches off the wall with a broken, high little sound, thighs trembling against his shoulders. The heel of your stiletto presses harder into his back as your leg tightens around him.
He teases you mercilessly, knows exactly how to make you chase it. Tongue circling your clit until your hips roll forward without shame, grinding against his face, chasing friction with a desperation that would be humiliating if you had any capacity left to feel embarrassed. Every time you get close he pulls back, mouthing at your inner thigh or the crease of your hip, until you whine with frustration.
“Please—” It comes out wrecked, barely recognisable as your own voice. “Bucky, please—”
He makes this low, pleased chuckle against your folds that you feel everywhere, clearly delighted with himself, and the vibration of it makes you desperately clench around nothing and moan so shamelessly that he does it again on purpose.
His tongue fucks into you and the world goes soft at the edges, thoughts dissolving one by one until there's nothing left but the wet heat of his mouth and the needy little moans you can’t seem to stop making. His nose bumps your clit with every movement, pressure building so deep and overwhelming that you've stopped being capable of anything as complex as forming words.
Just fingers buried in his hair, back arched, existing entirely at the mercy of his mouth.
Then his left hand closes around your standing thigh, metal fingers wrapping around soft flesh. He pulls his mouth away just far enough to speak, his breath hot and damp against your soaked, swollen folds.
“Up,” he rumbles directly into your cunt, breath hot, and you hear it somewhere distant and unimportant.
Your legs aren't really receiving instructions anymore - you're not capable of much of anything right now, every nerve ending in your body shorting out under his mouth. Too far gone already to manage something as complicated as lifting a leg.
The crack of his metal hand against your ass brings the world back in one sharp snap.
“Up, pretty girl. C'mon.” His voice is rough, amused, unbearably fond. “Can't have gone dumb on my tongue already, sweetheart. I’ve barely even started.”
“Fuck,” you manage.
“There we go,” he murmurs, the deep warmth in his voice is devastatingly attractive. “Good girl. Up.”
His hand guides you this time, helping you move your other leg up and over his shoulder so both thighs bracket his head. Before you can process what’s happening, he rises, straightening to his full height with an ease that makes it obvious how little you weigh to him. How effortless this is. How completely in control he is of the situation. And it makes your stomach swoop.
Your fingers yank his hair on instinct, panic and want tangled together, and the moan that drags out of him reverberates directly against your pussy in a way that makes your whole body shudder.
The wall catches your back. His hands lock around the backs of your thighs, one warm, one cool metal, fingers pressing into your flesh as he pins you exactly where he wants you. His face is buried between your legs and there's nothing below you but six feet of immovable super soldier who has absolutely no intention of letting you go anywhere. The realization of how thoroughly he has you, how completely helpless you are right now, sends a fresh rush of arousal flooding against his mouth that makes him moan his encouragement.
“Fuck— please—Bucky.”
The answering groan he makes against you says he heard it just fine. And then he gets greedy.
His tongue finds your clit and doesn't leave, licking and sucking with a focused relentlessness that has you sobbing. You're soaked, dripping down his chin. Every careful, deliberate stroke of his tongue pulls another helpless mewl from your throat while his hands keep you pinned exactly where he wants you, going nowhere, taking everything he decides to give you.
He learns you all over again like he has all the time in the world. Finds every spot that makes your thighs clench around his head and returns to them, again and again, cataloguing your reactions with the focused intensity of someone who has missed this more than they can articulate and intends to make up for every lost month tonight.
“Taste so fucking good,” he groans into you, the words vibrating against your clit, hips grinding forward against nothing. “Missed this pussy so much. Missed how wet she gets for me. Could eat her all night and never get enough.”
The knowledge that he's this worked up just from going down on you makes another rush of arousal flood against his tongue. Heat spreads through you in waves, the orgasm building each time he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, each time he groans against your folds like he's the one being taken apart. Your thighs are shaking around his head, his name spilling out of you in a broken, continuous stream that you can't stop.
“That's my girl,” he rasps into you, fingers digging into your thighs. “Feel her getting close. Gonna give me what I want.”
You come with a wail, clenching so hard around his tongue that he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt. His hands remain steady around your thighs as he licks you through every shuddering wave, greedy for every last pulse of it, not pulling back until you're twitching and whimpering and completely wrecked above him.
He pulls back with one last filthy, open mouthed kiss to your cunt that makes you mewl, and then his hands shift, sliding you down his body until your legs wrap around his waist. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, thick and insistent against where you're still throbbing, and your hips roll forward instinctively.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your throat, hands gripping your ass, holding you up effortlessly. “So pretty when you cum for me. Did so good.”
You make some soft, wrecked sound against his neck that might be his name.
Then one hand comes up to grip your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His chin is slick with you, lips swollen and pink and kissable. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, dragging it down. “Open that pretty mouth.”
Dazed and pliant, you open your mouth without thinking, too gone to do anything but comply. He leans in and lets a slow string of spit drop onto your tongue, mixed with the slick mess of you.
“Atta girl,” he rumbles, watching your face with a primal satisfaction. “You taste so fucking good, sweetheart - had to let you have some.”
You swallow and he groans his approval, crashing his mouth back to yours before you can breathe. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you dizzy, fingers twisting in his Henley. Your brain several steps behind your body as he starts moving, carrying you through the dark hallway without breaking the kiss, navigating entirely on muscle memory.
The bedroom is dark. He lays you out across his bed, stepping back to look at you. Spread across his sheets still in nothing but your heels and bra, chest heaving, thighs slick, eyes blown completely dumb. The look on his face makes your stomach flip all over again.
“Been dreaming about seeing you in this bed again,” he says, crawling over you, caging you in with those unfairly big biceps. “Not done with you yet, pretty girl. Not even close.”
Your hands find the hem of his top immediately, fisting the fabric, and he helps you drag it over his head. His dog tags fall forward as the shirt comes off, swinging between you both as he dips back down to your mouth.
Already your fingers are at his belt, clumsy and impatient, fumbling with the buckle while he kisses down your jaw and unhooks your bra before tossing it aside. His mouth finds your nipple immediately, greedy,tongue curling around it, and your hands stutter.
“Bucky—” You're swearing under your breath, hands shaking as you try and fail to get the buckle undone. “Come on, fuck, come on!”
He grazes his teeth against your nipple and your fingers slip entirely.
“Shit, please,” you whine, utterly shameless.
Bucky just laughs against your tits, warm and low, not even slightly helpful. Finally, though, the belt gives, button pops, zip drags down, and you're shoving everything down his hips in one desperate motion as his cock springs free. Thick and hard and heavy between his legs, and your mouth goes dry.
It’s been almost a year since you’ve seen him like this and your eyes drag down his body with a hunger you can't even pretend to hide. You reach for him immediately, needing to touch, needing to feel the weight of him in your hand, but he catches both wrists before you get there, pinning them above your head against the pillow.
“Patience, pretty girl,” he murmurs, hips settling between your thighs, cock heavy against your folds but not where you need him. “We've got time. Not rushing this.”
You whimper, hips lifting, trying to find friction, finding nothing.
He slides his cock through your folds, dragging through how obscenely wet you are, and the feeling of it pulls a broken noise from both of you simultaneously. Slow and deliberate, he teases the swollen head through your slick, catching your clit on the way, and your whole body jerks underneath him.
“Bucky,” you mewl. Your wrists flex against his grip, not really trying to get free, just needing somewhere to put the desperation flooding through you. He drags his cock back through your heat while you clench desperately around nothing, watching your face fall apart with an expression of filthy satisfaction.
“There it is. Look at that pretty little cunt begging for it.” Another slow roll of his hips, cock dragging through the mess of you. “Gonna give it to you. Just want you to ask nice price.”
“Please,” you manage, and it comes out so small and wrecked and needy that his hips stutter. “Please, Bucky, I need—I can't—please—”
He releases your wrists and your hands fly to his shoulders instantly, nails digging in hard, needing to touch him, needing to anchor yourself to something solid while his cock nudges your entrance, barely breaching, just enough to make you clench desperately around nothing.
“Shh,” he coos, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wants you even as your hips try to roll forward chasing more. “I've got you, baby.” The head of his cock presses a little deeper, teasing, and your nails drag down his shoulders as your back arches off the bed. “Always gonna take care of you. You know that.”
He pushes in slowly, and the stretch of him makes your whole body go rigid, nails carving lines down his shoulders that make him hiss as you take him inch by inch. Your walls flutter around him, clenching, trying to pull him deeper even as your body relearns the thickness of him, the weight, the specific fullness that you'd spent three months trying to forget and never quite managed.
“Fuck,” he grits out, hips stilling when he's buried completely, forehead dropping to yours, breathing ragged. “Always so fucking tight. Feel that? Feel how well this pretty cunt fits me?” His hips roll, just slightly, and you cry out. “Feel so perfect around my cock, pretty girl.”
You can't form words. Can only moan and dig your nails deeper into his back and breathe through it, through the overwhelming stretch and heat and the fact that it's him, it's Bucky, it's finally Bucky again after everything.
Then he starts to move.
Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive place inside you, his cock splitting you open over and over until you can't remember what it felt like to be empty. The cold metal of his dog tags brushes your chest with every thrust. His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the dual sensation pulls a needy little wail from you, toes curling in your heels
“That's it,” he breathes against your lips. “That's my girl. Take all of it.”
You drag him back down into the kiss, desperate, one hand tangling in his hair and the other still clawing down his back, needing more of him, needing every part of him pressed against every part of you. He gives it to you, kissing you filthy and deep, hips rolling into a rhythm that's making coherent thought impossible.
“Missed you,” you gasp between kisses, and once it starts coming out you can't stop it. “Missed you so much, I missed you every single day, I tried not to but I couldn't stop, I missed you, I missed you—”
“I know.” His voice breaks on it. “Missed you too, baby. I'm here. I've got you.”
“Don't stop,” you sob against his mouth. “Please don't stop.”
“Not stopping.” His thumb keeps circling your clit and his hips snap forward harder, the wet obscene sounds of him fucking into you filling the dark bedroom. “Not going anywhere ever again.”
The pleasure and the grief and the overwhelming relief of having him back crash into each other all at once and the tears come again without warning, spilling hot down your cheeks. You're coming and crying at the same time, clenching so hard around him that he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
Instinctively you hide your face against his neck with a mewling, broken little sound, as the waves keep crashing through you. His hand finds your jaw immediately, fingers gentle but certain, tilting your face back to his.
When he sees you - eyes wet and glassy, tears tracking freely down your cheeks, kiss-bitten bottom lip caught between your teeth - his expression cracks wide open. His thumb drags slowly through the wetness on your cheek, just looking at you, chest heaving, cock still buried deep inside you.
“Fuck,” he rasps, hips driving deeper, mouth dragging across your wet cheeks, licking away the tears. “Don’t hide from me. Not this. So beautiful when you cry for me like this.”
Another deep thrust punctuates his words and your sob breaks against his throat. The orgasm is almost too much, pleasure cresting so sharp and overwhelming that you're squirming beneath him, trying to get away from it and chase it at the same time. Your hips buck uselessly as his thumb keeps bullying your swollen clit , wringing every last shuddering wave out of you whether your oversensitive body can handle it or not.
“Made you cry too many times for the wrong reasons.” His mouth moves to your other cheek, kissing the wetness away gently even as his hips keep pounding into you. “Never fucking again. Only time you cry because of me now is when I've got you so full of cock you can't fucking think straight.”
Then he pulls back to look at you, pupils blown, taking in your wet lashes, your ruined expression. “That's the only reason I ever put tears on this pretty face again. On my fucking life.”
You're trying to say his name but it keeps breaking apart every time his hips drive forward, dissolving into breathless, helpless sounds against his mouth. But you can’t stop them, can’t control it, can’t do anything other than moan because he just keeps fucking you through every shuddering wave of your orgasm until you’re trembling under him.
You whimper, oversensitive and shaking, hips trying to shy away from his thumb even as your walls keep fluttering around him.
“Can feel her gripping me,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself, hips still rolling slow and deep. “Feel that? Still so greedy even when you're all fucked out.” His thumb lifts and you exhale in relief, but his cock is still thick and heavy inside you, every slight movement magnified by how sensitive you are. “Got one more in there for me, baby. I know you do.”
Turning your face into his neck, you make a sound that's half-protest, half-desperate agreement.
“C’mon pretty girl,” His voice drops to something low and coaxing, lips brushing your ear. “You gonna give it to me?”
You nod weakly, barely managing it, pliant and soft and entirely his to do whatever he wants with. You'd agree to anything right now. Give him anything. You just want whatever he'll give you, want to stay exactly like this forever, warm and full and completely undone.
The rumble that comes out of him is deep and satisfied. “Good fucking girl.”
The words land low in your stomach even before his hands are moving, even before he pulls out with a groan that you both feel everywhere, even before the cool air hits the slick mess between your thighs. The empty whine that escapes you is involuntary and embarrassing and he hears every second of it.
His hands find your hips, turning you with that easy, devastating strength, flipping you over like you weigh nothing. Your face finds the mattress, and before you can process the change in position his palm is pressing warm between your shoulder blades, urging you down while his other hand slides under your hips, pulling them up to meet him.
You go pliant without resistance, body soft and utterly compliant beneath his hands, brain several steps behind everything. Your cheek presses into his sheets and you can smell him on the fabric, sending a fresh pulse of want through you.
He leans over you, his chest warm against your back for just a moment, and then his hand slides into your hair. Gathers it gently, sweeping it away from your face with a tenderness that's completely at odds with how thoroughly he just fucked you apart. His fingers are careful, unhurried, and you turn your face slightly into his palm like a cat.
“There you are,” he murmurs, low and warm, and you can feel the smile in it. His lips press to the nape of your neck, the top of your spine, each vertebra down between your shoulder blades.
He stays there for a moment, just looking at you. Taking in the slack, cock-drunk softness of your expression. The way your eyes have gone heavy and distant, lashes still wet, lips parted and swollen.
Then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance again and you keen into the sheets.
He pushes in slowly, achingly slowly, and the stretch of him at this angle is deeper, fuller, hitting every nerve ending at once. You're so wet and so oversensitive that every inch of him dragging inside you pulls sounds from your throat that you couldn't muffle if you tried.
“Fuck,” he gasps, hands locked around your hips, pulling you back onto him as his last inch disappears inside you. “Look at that. Taking every fucking inch. Good girl.”
He starts to move and your eyes roll back.
It's different like this. Harder, deeper, each thrust rocking you forward into the mattress, his hips snapping against your ass with a sound that fills the dark room, punctuated by his own rough exhales. One hand is splayed across your lower back to keep your hips tilted exactly where he wants them, the other gripping the curve of your hip hard enough you'll have fingerprints tomorrow.
You fist the sheets. It's all you can do. Knuckles white, face pressed into his pillow, breathing in desperate gasps because he keeps knocking the air out of your lungs with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby. Listen to how pretty you are like this.” His voice has gone rough, stripped of everything except want. His cock drags out slow and thrusts back hard, knocking another moan from you. “Hear that?”
You hear it. The wet, filthy sounds of him fucking into you, the slap of skin, the helpless little mewls you can't stop making. His dog tags swing forward with every thrust, cold metal grazing your back. Your face burns hot in the dark.
“C’mon, use your words,” he murmurs, hand smoothing up your spine. “You hear how good this pussy sounds taking me?”
“Yes,” You moan agreement, barely recognizing as your own voice. “Yes, fuck, yes”
His hand snakes around your throat, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing at all. And god, to him you don't. You’re so light in his hands that he barely has to think about it, and the ease of it sends a sharp pulse through you. You gasp as your back hits his chest, Bucky’s free arm secure around you, while his cock keeps driving up into you, the new angle hitting deeper.
He groans softly against your ear when you clenches hard around him. “Fuck. Knew you’d like that.”
You can’t respond. All that comes out is another needy little sound while your hands scramble desperately for purchase, one gripping his forearm where it rests against your throat, the other reaching back blindly for him. Bucky catches your hand immediately and presses it flat against his lower stomach, holding it there so you can feel every thrust, every flex of muscle as he fucks into you.
“That’s it, good girl. Hold on,” he murmurs approvingly, feeling you squeeze around him again. “Feel what you do to me?”
His free hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip, fingers finding your clit once more. You jolt at his touch, a high broken sound tearing out of you, hips lurching forward despite yourself.
“Shh.” His lips brush your ear. “I've got you. Stay still for me.”
You try. You genuinely try. But he's fucking up into you and rubbing your swollen clit simultaneously and the combination is devastating, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make it impossible to do anything except squirm against him and make sounds you'll be embarrassed about later. Your fingers dig into his forearm, nails pressing crescents into his skin, and his breath hitches against your neck.
“Fuck, good girl,” he hisses. “Scratch me up, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”
His fingers work faster and your head drops back against his shoulder, completely gone. Everything is his hands, his cock, his voice in your ear saying things that dissolve into heat before you can parse the words. You're making these desperate mewling sounds with every thrust, fingers scrabbling at his arm, his hip, any part of him you can reach, just needing to touch him, needing to feel him everywhere at once.
“Feel how wet she is,” he murmurs, fingers slipping through the absolute mess between your thighs. “Dripping down my hand. Making a mess of me.” His cock drives deeper and you sob. “So fucking perfect.”
His hand shifts from your throat to your jaw, turning your face toward his, and then he's kissing you.
It’s messy and overwhelming, his tongue sliding against yours while he keeps fucking you hard enough to make you moan helplessly into his mouth. Bucky swallows every needy little sound you make, kissing you deeper every time you squirm against him.
You can barely keep up with it. Head fuzzy, heavy with pleasure, especially with the way he’s still rubbing your clit in relentless slow circles that make your whole body shake harder every second.
“Come for me,” he breathes against your lips. “Want to feel that pretty pussy squeeze my cock again, baby. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, Bucky, please.”
“So fucking good for me.” The hand at your jaw slides back to your throat, tilting your head back against his shoulder, baring your neck. His mouth finds your pulse point immediately. “Best thing I've ever had. Best thing I've ever touched.” His teeth graze your throat and you whimper, thighs shaking. “The only thing I ever want.”
His fingers press harder against your clit, hips rolling forward in a way that make you tremble in his grip, knees threatening to buckle, the only thing keeping you upright the arm locked around you.
“Fuck—I love you,” he grits out against the back of your neck, and it sounds like it's been tearing at him from the inside for months. “I love you. I love you.” Each repetition punctuated by a thrust that makes you cry out. “Loved you every single day I was without you. Never stopped for a second.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than anything else. Deeper than his hands or his mouth or any of it. Something cracks open in your chest, warm and enormous, and you’re coming again. Harder than before, your whole body seizing as you clench around him so completely that your knees do give out entirely. Just ragdoll weight caught entirely in his arms.
“Bucky,” you cry name in a needy a sob. “I love you too—fuck—I love you so much.”
The confession tears out of you and follows you over with a groan that shakes through his whole body. He buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing in deep, spilling inside you with your name on his lips.
You’re both breathing in ragged pulls, and if it weren’t for his arms still locked around you, you’d have collapsed onto the bed. His chest heaves against your back, lips pressed somewhere near your temple, and neither of you speaks for a moment.
Eventually, carefully, he lowers you both down to the mattress, turning you over and pulling you against his chest. You lay boneless against him as his hand strokes slowly up your side, over and over, like he can't stop touching you now that he's allowed to again.
“I've got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I've got you. You're okay. I've got you.”
And for the first time in almost a year, you actually believe it.
You stay like that for a while, neither of you moving, his hand still stroking slowly up your side. The room has gone quiet and warm around you, just his heartbeat under your ear and the city humming distantly outside.
But eventually he shifts, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Stay there.”
A weak sound of protest escapes you when he moves but he's already up, disappearing into the en-suite. You hear water running. When he comes back he sits beside you on the bed, warm cloth in hand.
“I can—” you start.
“I know you can,” he agrees simply, but he does it anyway, cleaning you up with gentle, unhurried hands. Then his free hand strokes down your leg, gently tugging one heel off, then the other, puts them both on the floor.
When he's done he disappears briefly, and then the mattress dips and he's pulling you into him, tucking you against his chest. The duvet settles warm around you both, and his hand starts moving slowly through your hair in soothing strokes.
“Sleep,” he murmurs against your temple, lips barely moving. “I've got you.”
You don't have much choice. Your body is already pulling you under, warm and safe and held in a way you'd spent months trying to convince yourself you didn't miss. His heartbeat is slow and steady under your ear, his chest rising and falling with a deep, even calm that pulls you further under with every breath.
His hand keeps moving through your hair, and the city outside feels very far away, and sleep takes you before you even feel it coming.
── ⟢ ₊ ☁️ ˚・🖋️ ⊹
The blaring of you alarm pulls you up from the deepest sleep you've had in months, and for one blissful, unthinking moment you're just warm. Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly beneath your cheek. Reality hovers at the edges of your consciousness, waiting to be let in, and you squeeze your eyes shut against it, burrowing deeper into the duvet like that might keep it at bay.
Alpine is curled heavy and purring against the backs of your knees, warm and certain, like she's been there all night. Like you belong here. The thought sits in your chest, complicated and tender.
But your phone doesn’t stop shrilling from the nightstand.
You reach over and fumble for it, managing to silence before Bucky stirs. His arm tightens around you, pulling you back into him with a sleepy, wordless sound of protest, lips pressing somewhere near your hair. But then he goes still.
“…Was that your alarm for your flight?” His voice is rough with sleep, and underneath the grogginess you can here the carefulness.
“Yes,” you reply quietly, but make no effort to move.
The city hums distantly outside the window. Somewhere below, DC is already going about its morning. Up here, in the warm dark of his bedroom, time feels suspended, neither of you quite willing to be the one to break it.
You turn over. His eyes scan your face with an intensity that's so nakedly desperate it makes your chest ache. Like he's trying to memorize your face in case this is the last time he's allowed to be this close. Like he hasn't yet let himself believe last night was real.
“Stay.” The word comes out before he can stop it, blurted and slightly wrecked. His jaw tightens immediately afterwards, like he's bracing for it to land wrong. “Could you stay? I want you to stay. Just—a little longer, or—I know we haven't talked about anything properly yet, I just—” He exhales, slightly pained. “Please stay.”
You look at him for a moment. Let him sit with it a moment longer than necessary, watching the soft, desperate hope on his face exist exist without rushing to meet it, because you find you want to keep looking at him like this for just another few seconds. This new version of him that doesn't hide behind composure when something matters.
It's devastating and wonderful in equal measure, and you want to hold onto the sight of it for a second before you say anything.
“I suppose,” you begin slowly, watching his expression flicker, “I could probably stay a little longer. Get to know this version of you that coaches Avengers and has a cat and apparently owns cookbooks he's actually used.”
The exhale that comes out of him is enormous. Pure relief, pure joy, and the smile that follows it - wide and unguarded and slightly incredulous - is the most beautiful thing you've seen in a very long time. He pulls you in and presses his lips to your forehead, warm and certain.
You let him. Then you pull back gently, hand finding his jaw, tilting his face down to yours.
“But slowly,” you add, and mean it. “We do this slowly. No grand gestures, no orchestrating, no deciding things on my behalf. We actually talk. We work through all of it - the things we broke and the reasons we broke them. We make real effort this time, not just falling back into old patterns because it's easy and it feels good short term.”
He nods. Immediately, earnestly, like every word is being carefully filed away. “Slowly,” he repeats. “Yeah. I can do slowly.”
You raise a brow.
He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “I can learn slowly.”
You're both quiet for a moment, considering this. You are not, historically, two people who do anything slowly. Your entire relationship has been characterized by intensity and momentum and grand gestures and catastrophic miscommunications. The idea of slow is almost comically foreign to you both.
“I'll come to London more,” he offers after a moment. “My schedule is flexible. I can make it work—I want to make it work. And I know the distance is real, and I know it won't always be easy, but I'd rather figure it out than spend another year without you.”
“And I'll come here too,” you add quietly. “I should've done that more. Made the effort in both directions instead of letting the Atlantic become an excuse.”
“Okay,” he says. “We start there.”
“We start there,” you agree.
And maybe it’s foolish. Maybe you'll look back on this morning and recognise it as just another impulsive decision in a marriage that's always run on chemistry and stubbornness and the particular madness of two people who can't seem to leave each other alone. Maybe the distance will be hard and the conversations will be harder and somewhere down the line you'll hit another wall neither of you knows how to climb.
But when he looks at you like that - open and unhidden in a way he spent years not knowing how to be - it doesn't feel like a mistake. It feels like something you've been working toward through every wrong turn and bad decision and midnight argument. Like the mess of the last year was just the long way round to something you were always going to find your way back to.
“Come here,” he murmurs, and you let him turn you back over, let him pull you into his chest where you fit so perfectly.
The relief of not having a flight to catch settles over you like the duvet itself.
His lips find the curve of your neck, lazy and warm, just the occasional soft press of his mouth against your skin. Just enjoying the fact that he can. That you're here and not leaving and there's nowhere either of you need to be.
Your eyes drift closed, hovering in that soft place between sleep and waking again. Alpine purrs against your feet. You feel more at peace than you have in longer than you can remember. And then, through your sleepy haze, you gradually become aware of his hand.
It's moved without him seeming to notice, fingers drifting down your arm, over your wrist, settling at your left hand. His thumb brushes absently over your ring finger, back and forth, over the bare skin where your ring used to sit. Slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
Your right hand moves to cover his, and he still immediately. A slight tension moving through his chest, like he's been caught at something, like he's about to pull back.
“Ask me again someday,” you murmur into the pillow, half-conscious. “When we're ready.”
The tension bleeds out of him all at once, his whole body exhaling like he's been holding that breath for months. His arms tighten around you and his mouth presses to the back of your neck again.
“I will,” he affirms quietly, against your skin. “I promise you, one day, I will.”
His thumb resumes its slow path over your ring finger, gentle and deliberate now. A quiet promise being made in the dark.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair, lips barely moving. “Missed saying that. Missed you hearing it. I love you so much.”
You sink deeper into his arms, into the warmth of him, into the love in his voice, into the particular peace of being somewhere you belong after a very long time of being without it.
You fall back asleep before you can answer. But that's okay, you have time now.
more mads: that's all folks! I really, really hope you enjoyed, like seriously. this fic has both been the bane of my existence and a precious little baby because i do really love these idiots. i hope i gave them a satisfactory ending and that it was worth the wait, and i would absolutely love to know your thoughts via any comments or reblogs! thank you so much for reading :)
taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll @gilwm @venigrantrogers @mrsevans90 @rainyapricotcreatorparty @midnightramyeoncravings @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @krisstyu @itsalltaken - if you would like to join my taglist, please send me an inbox or leave a comment here!
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it.
As if he could ever say “no” to you.
“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer.
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.
“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.
“Not at all,” his best friend replied.
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
You and Sprout.
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”
Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect.
The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
“Jerk.”
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”
The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.
That wouldn’t happen again.
“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”
…He’s fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low.
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.
This was his fight.
“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you.
But he wasn’t going to stay silent.
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.
“Hey, man! You-”
“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.
The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.
“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.
“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”
“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”
“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.
He wasn’t.
“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play.
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
“I-I really didn’t mean-”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.
“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.
“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”
“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.”
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze.
“Move.”
The prick didn’t need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too.
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.
“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.
“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”
“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.
“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.
Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The idiot practically ran to his car.
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.
“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”
Bucky stared at you in awe.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.
“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly.
Always thinking of me.
“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to.
“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed.
Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.
“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully.
It was true.
Chet was trash.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.
“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.
He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.
And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.
I love you both so much.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
