Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworker are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: it’s been forever since I wrote literally anything. I’ve decided to crawl out of my hole and share a little something something as I warm my fingies. I have a mild praise kink so reblog, like it, and comment. Thanks!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Perhaps it’s the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.
You’ve seen the videos — the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.
If ever given the chance.
But Gods work on mysterious ways…
It’s a buzzing Friday night in New York—bars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.
Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someone’s promotion, you don’t even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.
The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.
About you.
The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.
“It must be hard shopping for your style in your size.” Dani had drunkenly mocked.
“Summers have got to be hard on you.” Tiffany chimed in.
“Oh be nice to her. She just has more to love.” Frank laughed.
You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.
You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.
Slamming the last of your drink, you didn’t even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.
The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.
Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.
Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.
The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.
But it’s the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.
You can’t help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, who—even through his helmet—looks over the conversation.
Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels it’s going to drop out your pussy.
You take a step forward and then freeze. He’s huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?
Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.
Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.
You’re frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.
“You’re still here? We thought you left!” Dani pokes your arm.
You snatch it out of reach, glaring, “I was getting an uber.”
Frank materializes on the other side of you, “why are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Don’t be so sensitive.” He nudges Tiffany. “Right? We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”
The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, “yeah!”
You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.
He’s swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.
The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, “Need a ride?”
Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.
He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.
Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.
His eyes shift to the three people by you, “You know them?” His left index finger wiggles between them.
You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you don’t know these people. They’re just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, “No. I don’t know them.”
They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.
Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, “She’s with me.”
You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize he’s leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.
Mystery Man climbs on the bike, “I don’t have an extra helmet on me. I wasn’t expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,” and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.
You’ve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good you’ve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.
He’s hot. Not as in oh he’s hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.
Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.
When you don’t take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, “You can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.”
Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and can’t stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.
He licks his lower lip, “How’s it fit?”
“A bit big, but feels good.” You wink.
The man groans, “Jesus Christ.”
His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, “Actually, it’s-“ you give your name.
He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, “Bucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.”
wrapped in ribbon, wrapped in love ⸝⸝ galentines event
summary: a soft confession about steve’s arms turns into a valentine’s promise he fully intends to keep—complete with satin ribbon, bashful smiles, and kisses. some gifts are meant to be held… and slowly undone.
pairing: steve rogers x female reader
content warnings: ⌞18+ MDNI⌝ fluff, boyfriend steve rogers, big arms steve rogers, kissing, i love cute steve okay, quick smut, plot what plot/porn with plot, p in v, cowgirl, praise kink, soft dom!steve, consent checks, hickies, missionary, soft sex, not beta read we die like men.
w/c: 2.6k (literal porn on paper)
a/n: my humble contribution to the adorable galentines event, i saw this swap out option and literally laughed out loud bc ive done the exact same thing to my man 😭 credits to him for the picture
prompt(s): 🌶️ "Is this okay?" + Wrapping their biceps with cute ribbon. (swap)
The sheets are warm, twisted around your legs, sunlight barely peeking through the curtains as Steve lies on his back beside you. One of his arms is stretched out, instinctively curved around you like it was made for this, made for you.
You’re half on top of him, cheek pressed to his bicep, nose nuzzling into the solid warmth there. It’s ridiculous, really, how comfortable it is. How safe. Your fingers trace lazy lines over his skin, thumb brushing back and forth like you’re petting a very patient, very handsome cat.
“Steve,” you murmur, voice muffled against him.
“Mm?” He’s already smiling, you can hear it.
“You ever think about how unfair your arms are?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight into your cheek. “Unfair how?”
Instead of answering, you nip at his bicep, just a quick, teasing bite then immediately press a kiss there like an apology. And then another. And another.
“They’re perfect,” you gush shamelessly. “Like… dangerously perfect. I could lay here forever. I want to lay here forever.”
Steve’s ears go pink. Then his cheeks. You feel the muscle beneath you tense, not pulling away, just reacting, bashful and pleased in equal measure.
“You’re exaggerating,” he says, but his voice is softer now, fond and a little flustered.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, chin still resting on his arm. “If I could only have one gift for the rest of my life,” you say seriously, eyes bright, “it would be this. Laying on your arms. That’s it. That’s the gift.”
He swallows.
The arm beneath you tightens slightly, careful not to squish you but unwilling to let you go. His free hand comes up to brush your hair back, thumb grazing your temple.
“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”
You grin and settle back down, hugging his bicep like a prized possession.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
You hum, content, and rub your cheek against his bicep like a cat. “M’perfect.”
He smiles at the ceiling. You can feel it. A few seconds pass before you tilt your head, eyes half-lidded, and say, “You know you’re very boyfriend-shaped, right?”
There’s a pause.
“I—what does that mean?” he asks, already suspicious.
“It means,” you say thoughtfully, tracing the faint vein along his arm with your finger, “you’re built exactly the right way for holding someone. Like, this?” You squeeze him gently. “This is ideal. Ten out of ten. No notes.”
His ears go pink. Immediately.
“That’s… that’s not—” He clears his throat. “You don’t have to rate me.”
“I absolutely do,” you insist. “And you’re doing amazing.”
You lift your head just enough to look at his face. He’s staring very intently at the opposite wall now, jaw tight, lips pressed together like he’s trying not to smile too hard.
“You’re blushing,” you sing softly.
“I am not.”
“Steve.”
“I’m warm,” he huffs weakly.
You grin and press a kiss to the curve of his bicep. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
That does it. His face goes fully pink, freckles standing out more against his skin. He lets out a breathy laugh, helpless.
“You can’t just say stuff like that,” he murmurs.
“Why not?”
“Because then I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I just—” He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Short-circuits me.”
You soften instantly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Oh. I like that.”
He finally looks down at you then, expression gentle and open in that way that always makes your chest ache a little.
“You make me feel… good,” he says, quietly sincere. “Like I’m doing something right.”
“You are,” you say without hesitation. “All the time.”
You kiss his arm again, then his shoulder, then the corner of his mouth. He turns his head instinctively, catching you in a real kiss this time—slow, sweet, unhurried. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
“You know,” he hums softly, “if you keep talking about my arms like that, I’m never gonna leave this bed.”
You smile. “Promise?”
He chuckles, nose brushing yours. “Yeah. I think that’s one I can keep.”
The next afternoon, you’re curled on the couch with a book when you hear the door open.
“Hey,” Steve calls.
“In here,” you answer, not looking up.
There’s a pause. Then the unmistakable sound of a paper bag crinkling.
He appears in the doorway looking… suspiciously pleased with himself.
“I, uh,” he hesitates, holding the bag out, “got something for you.”
You blink. “Steve, you didn’t have to—”
“It’s not for you,” he interrupts, suddenly shy again. “It’s… for me. Sort of. For you. I mean—just open it.”
You peek inside.
Ribbon.
Soft, satiny ribbon. Purple. Pink. White. Enough to wrap an entire department store.
You look up at him. He looks back at you, hopeful and a little proud.
“For… wrapping your gift,” he states with a small smile, quoting you.
It takes exactly half a second before you burst into giggles, laughter spilling out of you uncontrollably. “Oh my god,” you laugh, “you’re ridiculous.”
“But you’ll do it,” he says, already sitting down and rolling up his sleeves.
You absolutely will.
You take your time, looping the ribbon carefully around one bicep, tying it into a neat little bow. Then the other. You sit back to admire your work.
Steve lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Okay,” you gleam, eyes sparkling, “flex.”
He does—and the ribbon strains immediately.
“Steve—!” you laugh. “Okay, Hercules, maybe don't do that. You’re gonna rip it.”
He relaxes, chuckling, but before either of you can say anything else, you’re already leaning in, fingers curling into his shirt as you kiss him.
The kiss deepens fast—warm, familiar, full of all the things you never need to say out loud. His hands slide to your waist, strong and sure, and then suddenly you’re being lifted like you weigh nothing at all.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You don’t argue.
He carries you there, sets you down gently, following you onto the bed as the ribbons twist under your curious hands. You kiss along his arms, slow and lovingly, teeth tugging at the satin until the bows unravel and slip away.
Your body moves on instinct with his, falling into the familiar rhythm that you both love, your hips rolling on top of his grinding down onto his already hard cock. His tongue licks the seam of your lips open and you part them with a hum, melting into his touch.
His hands roam up your sides and splay at your back, pulling you down flush against him.
"Steve," you mewl weakly, body already keyed up to the max for him as you paw at his sweatpants.
"I know baby," he purrs against your lips, silencing your whine with another kiss. "I got you, lemme just—"
You moan when he pushes the hem of his sweatpants down, just enough for his cock to spring free and tap your tummy. You both quickly scramble to get enough clothes off before he's pulling you into a kiss again.
Lost in his lips a soft gasp escapes them when you feel the ridge of his tip sliding against you.
"Is this okay?" he mutters as he pull away, those sea green eyes boring into yours with such love it makes your heart swell. You nod and kiss him again, your hand slipping down between your bodies.
You breathe in and out together as you slide down, Steve lets you set the pace but its not long before his hands are on your waist, fingers digging it with that grip you love so much. Never too hard but always enough to know how much he needs you. You love Steve for endless reasons, but when its just the two of you mixed in the heat of your bodies you can get enough. He's blushing one moment, reassuring his respect for you, then he's snapping his hips up into you like he doesn't.
One of his hands snake up your spine, fisting your hair and tilting your head back to expose the skin of your neck, he runs his mouth up the column, biting and licking pink and purple marks all along it.
You croon into him, your hands running down to his biceps and digging your nails into the skin, both of you marking the other in your favorite way.
"So good for me," he murmurs against your skin, his voice gentle while his body isn't. "My sweet pretty girl."
Your mind is a blurry haze you hardly register him taking hold of you and rolling you over until his weight is settling on your chest. The angel change makes your eyes flutter, the way he grabs the backs of your thighs and holds you open for him, sinking even deeper as his thrusts pick up speed.
He keeps you flat against the bed, those arms that you love so much caging you in under him as he plows into you as if he wasn't afraid to tear you in half. You'd let him too, your body in his arms, soul in his hands tying you two together like a ribbon.
You pull his lips to yours, needing every inch of his body against yours, needing to be and feel like one.
"Come on baby," he whispered in your ear, nipping at the lobe, thrusts hitting you so perfectly at that sweet spot inside you. "I can feel you getting so sweet n' tight for me, let me have it."
You fall over the edge with ease from his words, pleasure dripping down your spine like warm honey, drenching you from head to toe as your cunt leaks and contracts around him. Steve leaned in to pepper a line of kisses down your body, warm and pliant under his.
"Steve," you whine, letting your legs fall from his hold. "Please."
He doesn't make you beg any further, you don't need to, he leaned back and ran his hands down your chest. Fingers running over every budding bruise and mark on your skin with wicked grin. With a slow swivel of his hips he pushed back into you, his thick cock splitting you open like a log, hard concentrated strokes that melted at your core.
You held on tight as every deliberate thrust left you weeping, shooting bursts of ecstasy through every inch of your body. You couldn’t ever get enough of him, hands clawing at his arms and finding the muscled flesh once more. It didn't take long for another pool of heat to seep into your center, licking up your spine and threatening to send you over the edge.
“Mm, please, Steve, please cum, I need it, need to feel you” you whimper shamelessly, body taught and on the edge of pleasure but refusing to go over without him.
“I will pretty girl,” he grunts back. “I’ll cum for you, honey, so close, you feel so good, just need you to cum one more time, can you do that for me pretty?”
He wrapped his hand around you throat, not tightly, just enough to hold you in one spot, his lips mated to yours. Three final strokes was all it took, the friction of his pelvis on your clit catapulted you over the edge, dragging you into the undertow of ecstasy. Steve rutted against you as he filled you up, spilling deep inside of you pleasure burning bright and hot through your veins.
"Fuck baby," he groans, slowing to a gentle stop before collapsing over you, still careful not to put his entire weight on you, unwilling to separate from you he rolls you both to the side, keeping you nestled against him.
Steve notices them when you shift, faint marks blooming along your collarbone, a little darker where his mouth had lingered longer than he meant to. His brows knit instantly.
“Oh—” he says, guilt rushing in all at once. His hand hovers, not touching yet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I mean, I got carried away and I should’ve been more careful.”
You glance down, then back up at him, amused.
“Steve,” you say gently.
He presses his lips together, already spiraling. “I can get makeup. Or a scarf. Or— I don’t know, I just, I don’t want you uncomfortable or thinking I—”
You reach up and cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint crease between his brows.
“I love them.”
He blinks. “You… what?”
You smile, warm and unapologetic. “I love them. I love that you wanted me that much. I love that they’re from you.”
The blush hits him full force, spreading from his cheeks all the way down his neck.
“Oh,” he breathes, a little stunned.
You trail your fingers down his chest, teasing. “Besides, they make me feel… taken care of. Wanted.”
His eyes soften instantly, something tender and reverent settling in his expression.
“I always want you,” he says quietly. “I just… I never want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you whisper. “And you didn’t.”
Relief floods him. He leans in, pressing a careful kiss just below one of the marks, feather-light this time, like an apology and a promise wrapped into one.
“Still,” he murmurs, “I’ll be gentler.”
You laugh softly. “We’ll see.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, and pulls you back into his arms, kissing you again, slow, sweet, and a little breathless until you’re both smiling too much to keep it going.
“God,” he mutters fondly against your lips, “I’m really lucky.”
You rest your forehead against his. “Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
He’s still hovering over you, braced on one arm, the other tucked securely around your back like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold even a little. His hair is mussed, cheeks still pink, eyes soft in that open, unguarded way he only ever lets you see.
“You okay?” he asks, quiet and earnest, thumb brushing slow circles against your side.
You nod, breath a little shaky but smiling. “More than okay.”
Relief floods his face instantly. He exhales, shoulders dropping, and then he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Your cheek. Your nose. Like he can’t help himself, like he needs to make sure you feel it.
“You’re so good,” he murmurs, words pressed into your skin. “You did great. I’ve got you.”
You laugh softly. “Steve… I’m the one who should be saying that.”
He shakes his head, smiling shyly, and kisses you again, longer this time, slower, unhurried. Not heated now, just deep and affectionate, the kind that leaves you a little dizzy anyway. When you pull back, he chases you, stealing another kiss, and then another.
“You’re kissing me senseless,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he admits, unapologetic. “Kinda the point.”
You grin and curl closer, tucking your face into his neck. He immediately adjusts, wrapping both arms around you fully now, palms warm and steady against your back.
He rocks you just slightly, absentminded, like it’s instinct. Like his body knows exactly what to do when you’re here.
“Need water?” he asks. “Blanket? Snacks? I can—”
You tilt your head up and kiss him again, cutting him off. He freezes for half a second, then melts right back into it, smiling into your mouth.
“I just need you,” you say softly.
That blush is back immediately.
“Oh,” he says, voice a little rough. “Okay. I can do that.”
He settles you against his chest, chin resting on the top of your head, arms firm and protective around you. Every few seconds, he drops a gentle kiss into your hair, your forehead, wherever he can reach, like he’s grounding himself as much as he’s soothing you.
You sigh, content, fingers idly tracing his arm.
“Best Valentine’s gift ever,” you murmur.
He smiles, eyes closing as he holds you closer. “Yeah,” Steve agrees quietly. “Mine too.”
warnings: smut, anal sex, oral, mention of scars and nightmares
word count: 1.6k
authors note: this idea was mostly @love-stucky and i simply wrote it out! MARVEL ROBBED US so here you go, this is definitely not my best!
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It's been years since the last fight, the last mission, the last time Steve cried over losing a part of Bucky. It hadn't come easy—the normal life, the simple life. It came with restless hands and heads turned over shoulders at the tiniest sounds.
It comes with nights spent holding Bucky through his nightmares, when he wakes up in terror and Steve has to slowly soothe him, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s to ground him while he pushes the hair back that had stuck to his forehead with sweat.
But time slows eventually and Steve learns how to exist without waiting for the next mission. Bucky without the next fight, the next hurt. They move to a run down property in the Hudson Valley—stretches of greenery as far as the eye can see, a small house with a porch that needs fixing, stables out the back and a small pond off to the side. There’s a firepit out the front and a white cat sitting on the mailbox like she owns the place, licking her paw.
Bucky feeds her and she becomes his.
He names her Alpine.
Steve fixes the porch first because Bucky’s always wanted one. He remembers him saying it back in the 40s before the war—two rocking chairs and a place to look up at the stars, he’d said—and Steve was more than happy to make Bucky’s dream come true.
He finds Bucky asleep out there one night, Alpine sitting on his lap, shivering slightly from the cold. Steve wraps a blanket around him, kissing his forehead and Bucky smiles in his sleep, stirring only slightly. Steve takes a shaky breath like he can’t believe this is their life now. That they get to have everything they dreamed of 80 years ago.
“I love you Bucky,” he whispers shakily against his skin.
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They have a small wedding right there on their little farm—flower petals spread across the grass, folded chairs lined up on either side of the aisle, an archway Bucky had built himself made of tree branches and flowers Steve had picked by the river. They walk down the aisle together, hand in hand—Bucky shaking when he places Steve’s ring on his finger, kissing his knuckles, eyes teary and full of love.
And when they kiss as husbands, barely able to contain their smiles, laughing into each other’s mouths—it’s like the first time all over again. It’s every moment they had ever been apart, all the pain Bucky had been through. It’s the two boys from Brooklyn barely scraping by, nothing but bruised knuckles and each other to keep them going. It’s Steve, small and frail, before the serum. It’s Bucky before he fell off the train. It’s Bucky pulling Steve from the river. It’s ‘I’m with you till the end of the line, pal,’ and every other moment in between.
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Bucky starts to try new things, something to fill his time, something that isn’t based on survival, simply for him. He discovers he likes gardening—likes working with his hands and watching something grow—something he can share with Steve. When his first strawberries finally make it without any worms or birds picking at them, he runs inside with a handful, presenting them to Steve with a smile.
“Look they finally grew.” He can barely contain his excitement, eyes sparkling and grinning ear to ear. Steve beams, heart squeezing at the sight of Bucky like this—carefree, slightly breathless, dirt behind his nails, hair messy and shirt unbuttoned at the top.
Steve puts down the wooden spoon he’d been holding, turning off the stove, before walking over to Bucky and cupping his face in his hands, kissing his cheek.
“You did it, baby. They for me?” Steve’s thumb brushes over Bucky’s cheekbone.
Bucky nods, biting down on his lip, still in awe of the way Steve can make him nervous after all these years. He turns to place the berries in a bowl before settling into Steve’s arms, placing his hands on Steve’s waist. The air thickens and Bucky takes a trembling breath when Steve’s thumb traces over his bottom lip. He lets the anticipation build, feeling the way Bucky’s grip tightens on his waist, the way his breath gets heavier, eyes full of want.
Steve leans in, brushing his lips over Bucky’s, one hand resting on the back of his neck, the other cupping his jaw. Bucky lets out a soft sound, barely there, and Steve pulls him in, lips parting against his, tasting him. The kiss quickly turns desperate, breathless—hands pulling at clothes until Bucky’s crowded against the foot of the bed. Steve mouths at Bucky’s neck, leaving hot open mouthed kisses down his skin. Bucky moans, the sound rumbling through his chest.
“All this for strawberries?” He teases, voice laced with affection, hands tugging gently at Steve’s hair.
“For you baby. Want to take care of you.”
He pulls Bucky’s shirt off, hands trailing up his stomach, slightly softer now than he used to be—and Steve loves it, pressing his fingers into the flesh, smiling at the soft give of it, at what it represents—Bucky slowly letting go. Bucky sheds his pants and boxers, the hard length of his cock brushing against Steve’s stomach.
Steve takes off his shirt, pushing Bucky down onto the bed until he’s sitting, moving between his legs. His hand reaches for Bucky’s cock—thick and flushed and leaking. He wraps his fingers around the length, stroking slowly as Bucky’s eyes flutter shut, letting out a loud moan.
Steve places a kiss to Bucky’s chest, trailing his mouth down to the junction of his vibranium arm, kissing the scars there.
“Stevie.” Bucky sounds wrecked, voice small and broken, eyes welling at the devotion in his husband’s eyes, his lips—tracing along every scar, murmuring praise into his skin, continuing to stroke his cock, thumb brushing over the tip.
Bucky’s hips jerk up, gasping at the pleasure rolling through him and Steve pins his hips down with one strong hand, rubbing soothing circles into his right hip.
“Easy baby, let me take care of you. I’ve got you sweetheart.” Steve kisses down Bucky’s stomach, kneeling in front of him. He looks up at Bucky—lips parted around a gasp, pupils dilated, almost drowning out the blue.
Steve’s lips close around Bucky’s cock, tongue swirling around the tip, taking him further into his mouth. When Bucky cums, its fast and messy, gasping and pulling at Steve’s hair while he sucks him through it.
Steve pulls back then, lips swollen and glistening with Bucky’s release, standing up and pulling Bucky with him.
Bucky’s breathing heavy, broad chest rising and falling quickly, already seeking out Steve’s touch—his mind gone soft and pliant in that way it only does for his husband.
Steve’s hands trail down Bucky’s sides, leaning in to kiss him, letting him taste himself on his tongue before pulling back.
“Turn around. Bend over for me sweetheart.”
Bucky gulps, obeying immediately, breathing heavy as he bends himself over the bed, feeling so exposed yet so safe all at once. Steve sheds his pants and boxers, hand wrapping around his length, the other resting on Bucky’s hip, admiring the curve of his ass, ready and waiting for him.
“So pretty for me. Look at you, already leaking for me again.” He reaches around and strokes Bucky’s cock once, twice before pulling away.
“Stevie, please.” Bucky whines, head turned over his shoulder, eyes begging for Steve to please, please touch him, fuck him the way he needs.
Steve chuckles, reaching for a bottle of lube, spreading some over his fingers before pressing against Bucky’s ass, fingertip breaching the opening just slightly and Bucky gasps, head falling forward at the sensation.
Steve stretches him slowly, fingers pushing in—slow, controlled—adding another while Bucky fists his hands in the sheets. Steve fucks him then—deep, measured thrusts that have Bucky whining Steve’s name—Steve praising him through it, kissing along his spine, hands digging firmly into Bucky’s hips, keeping him right where he wants him. Bucky almost cries as he comes—the feeling of being so full, so loved, so taken care of, overwhelming in the best way. Steve follows, coming inside him, grunting into Bucky’s neck as he rides out his high.
“Fuck, I love you.” Steve gasps into Bucky’s neck as he slowly pulls himself out.
Bucky turns in Steve’s arms, kissing him soft and sweet, like he hadn’t just been taken apart completely.
“I love you Steve, y'so beautiful.” He says between kisses.
Steve cups Bucky’s face, kissing him lazily like they have all the time in the world—because they do.
----------
Steve’s sitting on the armchair in the living room, sketch book in his lap, pencils sprawled out next to him, hair still damp from the shower. He traces another line, the soft curve of Bucky’s cheeks before shading over his jaw, adding small lines to the stubble he’s drawing along Bucky’s jaw.
He looks up at Bucky—damp hair sticking to his forehead, the afternoon sunlight hitting his face just right. His brow is furrowed slightly as he reads, completely oblivious to his husband drawing him, one hand resting on Alpine’s head, petting her softly where she’s curled on his lap.
Steve’s heart swells at the sight—Bucky; safe, loved, content, bathed in sunlight like it exists just to frame his beautiful jaw, glinting off the dog tags around his neck.
Bucky looks up then, while Steve is concentrated on a particular spot of his sketch, tongue peeking out between his lips as he angles the book just right. He smiles, wondering how he got this lucky—married to the man he’s loved since he was 13, tucked away in their small home, filled with mismatched furniture and homemade items and so, so much love.
taglist: @quantumbarnes @daydreamgoddess14 @matchaenthusiast1111 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @skxawngg @heldbybarnes @epiphanyrogers @sassandscribbles @thisismysafeescape @mandoloriancookie @vmprektty @daddysbitchybaby @punkrockrr @buckysdecaflove @kileyking @singulartoast (if you'd like to be added, please leave a comment on this post)
Summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?
Tags/Warnings: strangers to lovers, smut (unprotected p in v, oral (m and f receiving), one spank, egregious use of a wooden fence), Bucky in a Stetson, no use of y/n, petnames (darlin’ and honey, Sarge and cowboy), alcohol consumption but no drunkenness, maybe vague implied animal farming, shifting POVs, yer
Note: Written for my darling @buckysdecaflove for the Dear My Darling Reader Valentine Fic Exchange hosted by the delightful @salty-tang. As promised because of our little matchmaking trio, the barest hint of a TSwift reference lolol
Word Count: 17k
Currently Listening: “Come In With the Rain” by Taylor Swift & “Good Directions” by Billy Currington 🎵
I’ll leave my window open
‘Cause I’m too tired tonight to call your name
Just know I’m right here hoping
That you’ll come in with the rain …
Event Masterlist | AO3 | Read the sequel
His harmonica wailed out a lonely tune into the stormy night.
He’d watched the dark clouds blow in early afternoon, his small herd already crowding against the outer barn wall, bawling and mooing, making their agitation known. He’d pushed open the doors, letting his best girls amble into the barn for their safety while he cleared up for the day. Even Alpine, the fiercest prissy barn cat he’d ever met, had disappeared into the top rafters of the hay loft. Her bunker for the night ahead.
He stored the four-wheeler in the shed, the tractor already put away that morning, stowed his tools, and shut up for the night.
And he did it all alone.
When the sun disappeared, he didn’t know, the sky already painted black and blue with clouds.
Now, sitting out on the sheltered verandah, Stetson tilted low and bending notes on the blues harp as fast wind and heavy rain tore through his property, he didn’t bother to lament the devastation the storm was causing to his crops. Couldn’t think now about the old northern fence line that might not hold up in this weather. Instead Bucky found his mind wandering, craving the kind of company a cold, wet night like this always demanded.
What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body in his bed tonight. Someone desperate beneath him, their cries and warmth chasing off the chill of the storm. Someone to fall asleep to, to hold tight as the night cooled, and to pull closer as the morning filtered in.
A flash of lightening to the east broke his reverie and drew his gaze, and in the distance he saw it.
Two beams of light recklessly arcing over his field as some tiny car made its way down his property drive.
His hands dropped to his lap with the harmonica and he cursed, grumbling about idiots getting lost on country roads, taking the wrong turn-offs, disturbing his peace.
He hauled himself to his feet when the car ambled into his yard, a tiny thing not suited to long country drives, and watched until the engine cut and the figure inside peered up at him.
He walked back into the house.
You bit your lip as you approached the house slowly. A lone light shone in one window but the rain was crashing so hard against your windscreen you couldn’t make out anything else.
With every bump in the road as you rolled over uneven ground, you cursed the weather, the poor cell service, the shoddy country signage, and even your childhood friend who you had driven out to see in your precious spare time.
Your twenty-three-city-sixty-two-show tour of the US was over, most of the major music awards done with just one to go. You’d agreed to see your darling friend in her third trimester who was, as she said, in dire need of civilised company.
Inching along this wet dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the rain battering your poor car, desperately trying to reach the only buildings you had seen for miles, you were feeling rather un-civilised about the whole endeavour.
And what would you even say when you pulled up? The truth made you feel so foolish. Assuming whoever lived in this house didn’t abduct you or worse upon recognising you instantly.
You weren’t egotistical, but as the number one pop singer in the country regularly topping the charts, you were thoroughly aware of the cursed enormity of fame that dogged you like this storm chased your tailpipe.
Your headlights ambled hesitantly past the last posts flanking the dirt drive. Passing the final fence line you entered the bare bones yard, open grass to one side and an old rusted wreck to the other. The tracks you followed led further on to a parked beaten truck, but you halted directly in front of the house.
The windscreen wipers ticked frantically and the shadow of a person obscured by the rain stepped forward out of the dark, making you gasp.
At least now you were sure there was life out here.
You switched off the car but the roar of the rain was louder, unceasing noise as it battered your car with the wind.
A sign hanging from the verandah roofline swung in the wind and caught your eye. There was some word burned into the wood that you squinted to see in the low light…
J. B. BARNES
The stranger, whose shrouded figure you could barely see, promptly turned and headed back indoors.
Probably to fetch a shotgun to tell you to get off their property.
You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but a door in the face before you’d even stepped a foot out was a bit much.
Gathering your things that had scattered during the drive into your handbag, you pulled yourself together and prepared to run for your life.
You opened the car door, the rain barrelling in immediately. Scrambling, your sandalled foot dropping straight into a muddy puddle, you clutched your handbag close, not even needing to close the door behind you—it slammed shut with the force of the wind. You hurried through grass and mud up to the verandah, hands uselessly trying to shield your face from the rain that soaked through your thin cardigan in seconds.
Climbing the wooden steps to shelter you halted, panting, looking back out at the blustery weather you’d braved, and gulped. The wood farmhouse broke the storm about you, wind and rain held at bay by its warm old bones, and you were grateful for the reprieve.
The farmhouse door opened, and you weren’t sure if the man that stepped out was a killer or not.
In that moment you didn’t care.
He was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen.
Hollywood was full of models, men groomed and primed to polished perfection, but this rugged man before you drew your attention in the most primal way. His chiseled jaw was shadowed by a few days worth of scruff. His button-down shirt sat taught across his broad chest and arms, the top few buttons undone revealing a hint of chest hair and a chain that disappeared beneath where your hands itched to follow, the fabric hugging down his body to jeans that barely contained his strong thighs.
But when he tilted his head to look at you out from under his dark brimmed hat, it was his eyes, pools of stormy blue boring into you with barely held frustration, that had you swaying closer toward him.
“You lost.”
You tried to blink away your stupor. “Yes. I’m so sorry, my phone dropped reception and—“
“Wasn’t a question.”
Taken aback by his abrupt response, the words died in your throat.
Oh he was definitely going to murder you and bury you in a field somewhere. Maybe throw you in a pig pen like those documentaries. No one would ever know, they would never find you, you would be—
“There’s bad weather,” he said matter of fact, like you were stupid enough to miss it. “Come inside.”
And he walked back in without another word.
You hesitated by the door, looking down at your muddy sandals and feet. Gingerly you toed them off, swiping your feet on the doormat to try to remove the grime, before stepping inside.
The house smelled earthy, of lingering smoke and wood from the lit fireplace which closely warmed a couch and solid wood coffee table. A bureau sat disused in the corner surrounded by shelves, and the remaining open space was dwarfed with a heavy rustic dining table. The kitchen was surprisingly modern, still country but in a magazine-chic way, and your hero-slash-murderer rounded the counter, his presence filling the room and leaving a delightfully male scent in his wake.
Finally, in the soft light overhead, you caught the glimmer of a metal prosthetic as he palmed his phone and dialled out a number without saying another word to you
“Yeah, Sam. You still open?” Cold blue eyes settled on you. “Had a stray blow in with the storm.”
His face clouded over, eyes flashing, and he cursed to himself.
Obviously Sam didnt provide the answer he was looking for.
You inched forward, clutching your handbag tightly to you, knowing you should say something but not sure what.
He turned his back to you, leaning back against the counter, and you felt your mouth hang slack at the sight. He might as well be naked with how perfectly his shirt hugged every ripple of his back and shoulders.
A long ago conversation about not wanting country boys flew in your face. This man before you broke every rule you’d ever thought to set.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, and you tucked your wet hair behind your ear to listen in closer.
“… yeah, whole crops gonna be drowned come mornin’. Nothin’ I can do now.” A pause. “You sittin’ pretty out there?” Another pause. “And Sara?”
You found yourself smiling at the way his chuckle turned wickedly cheeky, barely hearing the agitated ear-bashing this Sam was giving him over the din of the rain. “Just being neighbourly is all. A’ight, man. Later.”
He turned back, tossing the phone onto the counter, and stared at you. His face was more relaxed now than it had been before, the laughter having eased the hard lines, but you still found yourself caught under his steady gaze.
“What’s yer name?”
You tensed. Eyes narrowing on him you hesitated to answer, looking for some kind of trick or prank. Did he not recognise you after all? Finding no reason in his openly bored expression not to respond, you told him your first name only.
No flash of recognition. No reaction at all really.
So you asked, “What’s yours?”
“Bucky,” he said instantly. Then— “James.” His faced twisted like he was annoyed at himself. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”
He cleared his throat.
“Want a beer?”
You nod.
“Bathroom’s down on the right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and you stood still for a moment longer, unsure why he was offering up that information.
But curiosity about your reluctant host spiked, and you decide to investigate the bathroom. If that’s where he wanted you to go.
Floorboards creaked between flashes of lightening and you lightly traced your path down the hall with your fingertips against the faded yellow wallpaper.
A door at the end of the hall, cracked open, revealed the barest outline of a bed from the light from the hall. Quietly, you turn to the door on your right.
When you stepped foot in the bathroom, you realised exactly why he sent you.
Your hair, soaked from your dash in the rain, was still dripping and plastered to your head. Your makeup, not waterproof, had half dried again in ghostly trails across your cheeks, mascara now smudged in an unintentional smoky eye. Your cardigan was doing more harm than good, soaked as it was and making you colder. With a grimace you made for the sink, grabbing a fluffy towel for your hair, and tried to make yourself presentable again.
All the while you marvelled that for all his gruff behaviour he hadn’t said a thing about your messy appearance.
Back in the kitchen, Bucky was still staring off down the hallway, gaze unfocused as he awaited your return.
The sight of your sleek form, clothes rain-plastered around your gorgeous curves, seared like hot iron across his brain.
His streak was as dry as a dusty dirt road and you swanned into his farmhouse like a wet dream, all prim and proper. Just begging to be ridden dirty for a country mile ‘til you were stained with it.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his now too-tight jeans, trying to ease the rise you got out of him.
He’d retreated behind the kitchen counter to not scare away the poor city girl looking for a rescue.
And he had no doubt you weren’t from around here. No where near. Your doe-eyed expression was one thing, but you were too shiny. Too perfect. From the Big Apple license plate on your fancy car to your clothes and the way you held yourself, you were too good for where you found yourself stranded.
Maybe the devil himself had heard him and delivered temptation right to his door.
Hearing the water shut off, Bucky shook his head to temper his racing thoughts and cracked opened two beer bottles as you walked back into the room.
But he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes raked over you from head to toe when you reemerged.
Fresh faced and drier than before, you looked far too pretty standing in his living room, clutching your bag and soaking wet jumper nervously.
So he pushed a bottle at you and took your jumper without a word, walking around to drag a chair away from the dining table toward the fireplace. He draped your piece of clothing over the chair back, arranging it so it would dry quick as a whip by the firelight, wondering what you thought that scrap of fabric was going to keep at bay in this weather.
Finally he dropped onto the couch, feet kicking up to rest on the solid wood coffee table and arm draping over the back cushions.
“Might as well get comfortable. Storm won’t clear ‘til mornin’.”
Only then did you move, placing your bag on the floor.
“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” you began, rounding the couch and your eyes darting to the open space on the couch next to him. Though you still wouldn’t sit down. “I lost reception and my navigation dropped out. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Bucky sighed, taking a long drag from the bottle. Didn’t anyone keep maps anymore?
“In clearer weather you’d best have backtracked to somewhere you knew. But out here in this—“ he sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, “— roads this far out of town might wash away if the rain keeps up. Yer better off here than out there.”
You don’t look relieved by his statement and he wanted to laugh. So skittish. Probably never had a bad day in your life before now.
Poor city girl.
“Where you headed?”
Wrong question. Your expression shuttered and body tensed, same as before when he’d asked your name.
He held up a hand to stay the answer you weren’t going to give anyway. “Nevermind. Not my business.”
Your eyes softened and he felt strangely elated at having read you so easily.
“Who is Sam?” You inched closer, still no intention to sit, the beer bottle turning in your hands as nervous fingers sought to ease your tension. “That you called earlier? About me.”
“Owns the bar in town. Has a couple rooms upstairs.” Bucky shrugged, taking another sip. “But he’d locked up and left already.”
He eyed you over again and you shivered under his gaze. It definitely wasn’t from the cold— you were warm all over every time he looked at you.
Lightening flashed so brightly it illuminated everything outside the wide windows, and seconds later a crack of thunder nearby made you jump.
Bucky cursed under his breath. “Sit down already so I don’t gotta crane my neck to look at you.”
With another apology you quickly sat down next to him, the warmth in your body ticking up a notch higher as you feel the brush of his fingers against your shoulder where his arm resting on the back of the couch. Directly behind you.
Doing your best to ignore it, you twisted in the seat to better talk with him—and immediately regretted it. Only you didn’t, not really.
If you thought he looked delicious before, here before the fire, shadows and dancing light making the angles of his face harder and his eyes glow ocean-blue, he was absolutely sinful.
You bit your lip and desperately told yourself to ignore the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Ain’t got much by way of lodgings, but you can crash here on the couch for the night.” His mouth pulled to one side in a not-quite smile. “Guest room ain’t prepped for guests, and wouldn’t be right f’me to let you head back out in this.“ Thunder rolled overhead, ominous and low, lending weight to his words.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” you murmured, the guilt mounting again at appearing on his doorstep like this. “I appreciate the kindness. Yours was the only place I could see around.”
He took another swig of beer instead of replying, and your gaze lingered on his prosthetic, fascinated. The firelight made its inset gold turn molten, the dark metal surrounds inky black as the night sky. It was a work of art.
Much like its wearer.
“So, what do you do, city girl?”
You shifted, still uncomfortable with his questions, but where was the harm? You were sure by now he either didn’t know who you were, or was a skilled liar. Based on his blatant honesty so far, that seemed unlikely. “I’m a singer.”
His brow raised, eyes showing nothing but interest — and not just in your answer. “Oh yeah? Have I ever heard yer stuff?”
“What do you listen to?”
You watched the way his mouth twisted as he mused on that for a moment. “Forties and fifties, mostly.”
“Then probably not.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. He motioned with his beer toward the shelves you’d spied earlier, saying, “Got grandmama’s old gramophone over there.”
You glanced back, spotting it nestled amongst the books and papers, and though you were fascinated it didn’t quite draw your attention the same way Bucky did.
“That’s neat,” you say politely. “I’ve never heard one play before.”
He nodded, his thumb gently gathering the condensation on the side of the bottle he held. Your eyes followed as one rivulet formed and rolled down, down, catching the bottom rung as a droplet before falling to his jeans clothed thigh.
In your mind, it hissed on contact.
“Ma used to love playing it on nights like this.”
You hummed a response, forgetting the conversation entirely, your mouth parched in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.
You took a swig of beer anyway.
He watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.
“You live alone out here?”
He nodded slow, his eyes locking on your mouth. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and you tracked the movement, bottom lip dragging between your teeth as you wondered what his lips taste like.
Thunder cracked directly overhead, the booming sound shaking the old walls of the farmhouse, and a strangled shriek escaped you.
Much to Bucky’s amusement. As his soft chuckle soothed your frayed nerves, you felt his fingertips at your shoulder again, touching burning into your skin, his arm on the back of the couch curving into you.
“Yer a flighty filly, hm?”
You realised you had plastered yourself to his side, clutching at his shirt, and yet you didn’t want to let go.
He took your beer bottle and his, placing them on the coffee table, and turned back to you.
“C’mere.” The low rumble of his voice tore through your body just like the storm raging outside. Your eyes dragged up to his. “I’ve got you.”
The last thing you saw was the blue of his eyes almost completely black, pupils blown wide.
Then his mouth was on yours.
You gasped into the kiss and he immediately swooped in, tongue tangling with yours in a groan.
You were kissing a complete stranger. Maybe possibly your future murderer.
And it was good.
You broke away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Your eyes met his again and your voice grew small. “I don’t even know you.”
His lips slowly curved into the first real smile you’ve seen, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. It transformed his whole face and your lips parted on a small breath.
You forgot why you stopped kissing him.
“Wanna know me?”
With a nod you fisted your hands in his shirt and fell into his chest, lips crashing against his and smothering the low groan he let out. His arm snaked around you, drawing you impossibly closer, metal hand sliding up the back of your neck and into your hair.
He tilted you in his grasp, deepening the kiss, and you were lost. Lost in the taste of him, in the way his hands held you steady even as you came apart.
And that was just his kiss.
So when he turned your body, pressing you back into the couch and pulling away, your hands scramble to pull him back, your lips seeking his.
“Trust me.”
You fell back limply against the couch, pouting just a little. “You can’t go kissing a girl like that then leave her.”
But Bucky’s chuckle was wickedly low as he slid from the couch and kneeled on the floor before you. “Not leavin’ you, darlin’.”
His eyes, hooded and dark, drag from your pouty mouth down your neck, scored red from his stubble, over your heaving chest and to your legs.
“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you hangin’.”
His hands clasped your knees, slowly, slowly, sliding up your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper, mind finally catching up. With his help you unbuttoned your pants, peeling the slightly rain-damp fabric from your legs, a few giggles and chuckles from each of you slowing the process.
Your panties quickly followed.
You think you should feel cold, but with the fire burning before you and Bucky’s hands swiftly acquainting themselves with your bare skin, your temperature was soaring.
His touch drove you wild. His calloused hand on your bare thigh in stark contrast to the smooth metal of his other hand, both gripping and rubbing your skin as he watched you intently. Your breaths sped up with every inch he climbed higher.
Where he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, your stomach clenched and your hips rolled, and there was that low chuckle again, a rumble you felt resonate within you.
“C’mere.”
He encouraged you to hook your legs over his shoulders, opening you wide to his gaze, his stubble grazing against the soft skin of your inner thighs.
“You said yer a singer?”
You could do nothing else but nod frantically.
“Let me hear you high pitched then, honey.”
You held your breath.
With the fire behind him you couldn’t see his face, shadowed between your legs, but even in the contrasting dark you didn’t miss the determined glint in his eye when his tongue licked that first achingly slow stripe between your folds.
No warning, no gentling you through it. You couldn’t control how your jerked against him, you were so shocked at the molten touch.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you down, holding you apart.
You watched, mouth open, as he licked his lips and leaned in again, tongue flat as he lapped at you real slow.
His groan matched yours.
“Taste like sugar.”
Then he devoured you. Tongue delving deep or swirling with earth-shattering accuracy. One hand left your thigh to plunge one finger in, then two, stretching you wide, curling just right, soothing and building an ache within you all at once.
There’s a noise, louder than the rain and the wind, louder than the howling storm outside, and you slowly realise it’s you. Your keening cries as you bucked against his tongue, as your thighs tried to close around his head— but he ruthlessly held your legs apart with his metal hand, holding you down, making you take his fingers and his tongue until your thighs shook and you couldn’t think anymore.
His fingers crooked and you shattered.
Heels of your feet digging into his back, hands clutching desperately at his hair, you arched as you came hard against his tongue and around his fingers, his name a broken prayer on your lips.
Fitting since sin incarnate knelt before you, hair tousled and chin wet with you. He pressed soft kisses to your inner thigh, beard scratching gently and making you shiver.
He shrugged your legs off his shoulders.
“Hold on.”
Wrapping your legs around his waist and arms behind his neck, Bucky lifted you easily, metal arm under your ass to keep you steady.
He covered the length of the house in a handful of strides, toeing open the door you had spied earlier into his bedroom.
Shuffling you in his grasp he sat on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap, mouth seeking yours over and over again as his hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt. Finally he slid off your shirt and bra, baring you completely to his gaze.
He was still fully clothed.
Shivering, not from the cold but the sheer force of desire running through you, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He gave way, laying down on the bed, staring up at you with those hypnotising eyes that drank you in as you got to work on his shirt.
Unbuttoning slowly, you marvelled at every perfect inch of skin you revealed. Spreading the halves wide you stared down at him, not knowing your hips rocked a needy rhythm as you took in the sight of his chiselled body, honed from years of hard work, his dog tags and chain bright in the dark.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and this ain’t gonna last long.”
Palm pressed flat he ran his hand from your navel up your stomach and between your breasts before grasping the back of your neck and pulling you down for a searing kiss. You writhed against him, his skin scorching hot under yours.
“I have to have you,” you mumbled into his lips, body arching with the way his palms travelled the planes of your back.
“Top drawer.” His hands dropped to clasp your hips and ground you down on him.
But with a whine you shook your head. “I’m on the pill. And clean. Please?”
A guttural groan tore from him and his head dropped back onto the bed.
“Lord, this woman might kill me yet.”
And you’d thought him the murderer.
You couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting back you started on his belt and buckle, fingers fumbling in their haste, the straining heat of him making his jeans impossibly tight.
The button popped and he toed off his boots, helping you shove down his jeans and briefs until he finally sprang free.
A sharp breath escaped at the sight of him, thick and full, pearl glistening at the tip.
Bucky swore when he caught your stare.
“C’mere.”
A word had never held so much power over you before, but if you heard him say it one more time—
Dragging you forward he slid between your slick folds, tearing a moan from you both as he rutted up into your heat.
With one hand between you he palmed himself, settling you over his thick bulge, and eased himself in.
You sank down slowly, hand braced against his chest, taking him inch by delicious inch. He stretched you, filled you, until finally, fully seated, your name escaped his lips in a guttural groan.
The fullness of him choked you, your hips already rocking with the need to ease the ache and chase more of it.
Lips parting on a breathless moan, you began to ride, his hands like a brand against you, guiding your hips, grasp steady as he showed you how to take him. A sheen of sweat over your thighs made you shine in the dim light.
Bucky watched you, devoured you with his eyes, fucking up into you with a strength that had you gasping and moaning and begging for more.
His hand pressed between you, rubbing against that perfect spot right where you joined that hurtled you quickly to the edge.
Your head rolled back, thighs shaking, grinding down against him.
With a grunt Bucky sat up and flipped you onto your back. Settling between your thighs he entered you again with one devastating slow roll of his hips, sinking so fully inside you saw stars. Legs hooked around his waist, and hands clawing at his shoulders, you took it all as he pounded into you again and again. You could feel every inch, every drag of him against your walls, driving into you, quickly bringing you to the edge and sending you soaring.
His name left your lips over and over in a broken sob. It’s raw, unguarded, so precious it’s holy, and you hear how it affects him, his ragged breaths ripping through the air.
He comes with a sound that starts with your name but devolves into a ragged groan, hips slowing, thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.
Until he slumped over you, weight caught on his arms, face pressed against the hollow of your neck.
You don’t know how long you lay there, hands gentle against the planes of his back, feeling every ripple as your breath slowed to match his.
It’s quiet.
The storm still raged outside, wind and rain and lightening battling it out across the fields, but here in this house all you listen for is the sound of his breath.
Eventually he pushed away, brushing a kiss against your cheek and padding out of the room. His naked silhouette in the dim light of the night burnt into your memory.
There’s the sound of running water, then he’s back, wordlessly handing you a damp cloth to clean yourself up.
He fell into bed beside you with a sigh, arm slung up over his head and eyes closing.
Clean, you dropped the cloth to the floor, drawing the covers over you.
Quiet descends again.
“I don’t normally do this,” you whispered into the room.
Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep, his words slurring when he answered, “‘S alright. Can be a dream y’had once.”
You didn’t quite understand what he meant, though it sounded sweet.
“Girl came in with the rain …”
But when you propped yourself up on an elbow to question him further you could see his chest rose and fell slowly, eyelashes pillowed in perfect crescents against his cheek.
And when you laid down again, resting against his open side, he grunted something inaudible and snaked his arm around you, drawing you in closer.
The morning brought aching muscles and an empty space beside you. You sat up, wincing at the way your body protested the movement, and looked around for your discarded clothes.
They were neatly folding in a pile on the end of the bed. Dry.
You stared at the pile for a long time, taking in the kindness of the gesture, before eventually getting up and dressing.
Decent, you peered out into the living area only to find it, too, empty. Your heart sank.
A crumpled scrap of paper sat on the wooden dining table. Glancing around again you walked over to read.
Neighbours fence down with the storm. Won’t be back before you’re gone. -B.
Beneath was a rough drawn map to get you back to the main road.
His words the night before drifted back to you, and your fingers ghosted across your lips as you remembered the way he kissed you. Your body still ached with how he’d had you.
A dream indeed.
With a nod to yourself, you gathered your things and left quietly, the scrawled paper tucked away in your pocket.
And when he got back late that afternoon, the sun sitting low on the horizon and your departing tyre marks the only trace of you, Bucky sighed, staring off down the long dirt road out of this place.
The next time he saw your headlights he was mildly surprised, to say the least. It was only days later. His lips kicked up in a half smile as your boots swung out first.
“You lost?”
“Nope. Maps go both ways.”
There’s a familiar scrap of paper held in your hand.
A bark of laughter escaped him, and he turned for the door, shaking his head as he stomped inside.
He left the flyscreen wide open for you.
Bucky had half a mind to offer you another round of beer, but the moment you stepped inside you dropped your bag on the floor and wound your arms around his neck, pressing your sweet little mouth to his in a kiss that sent a bolt of lightening straight to his cock.
“Hmm still taste like rain.”
Since you asked so nicely, he laid you down right there on the kitchen counter, pressing your thighs apart and eating at you nice and slow like, then turned and fucked you on the dining table for dessert.
And in the aftermath, with his spent body sweaty and deliciously heavy pressing you down into the wooden surface, you felt laughter bubble up.
You were happy.
“What you laughin’ at?” He murmured against your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin with every word.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get second time around.”
You felt him exhale, then slowly he pushed up and away from you, finally pulling out of your body, and you sucked in a breath at the loss of him.
There was a decidedly smug lilt to his voice when he said, “We ain’t strangers and I don’t mind greetin’ you nice and proper.”
You’d walked in with such bravado, climbing those three steps of his porch under the swinging sign with his name like you knew them by heart, kissing him like you had every right to. But your insecurities and self-doubts crashed back to earth in the soft, emotional aftermath of sleeping with this unknown person. Again.
“I’m sorry for barging in—“
“I let you.”
“—and accosting you like a madwoman—“
“Can you accost me a few more times?”
“Bucky, please. I’m just trying to say—“
He shut you up the best way he knew how, with a slow, tender kiss that left you dazed and speechless when he pulled away again.
“‘S fine. You always this scared o’ yer own actions?”
He pressed his mouth to the valley between your breasts before hauling himself up, dog tags jangling, and he disappeared down the hall. Distantly you heard the sound of water running.
Were you always this scared?
You tried to lower your legs again and hissed at the way your hips protested the movement.
Your body was not used to being snapped in half this often in only so many days.
Bucky returned wearing a new pair of boxer briefs and with a damp towel in his hand.
“Here.”
With a tenderness you found surprising and endearing, he carefully helped clean your body.
There was a strange moment of bashful domesticity as you both hunted for your scattered clothing.
“Hungry?”
Dressed, silently musing all the while about whether Hollywood had taught you to never seize what you truly wanted, you perched on a stool at the counter and watched as he collected bread from the tin and fresh eggs from the pantry.
“Were you in the army?” You asked, motioning to his dog tags when he glanced your way.
“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Barnes.”
“Ooh Sarge,” you teased, and laughed at the withering stare he threw you that didn’t quite land, not when the smile that tugged at his lips gave him away.
“Me and my buddy, he was a Captain. Until I did this.” Bucky rotated his metal prosthetic. “Now it’s farm life for the rest of my days.”
You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the counter. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He nodded firmly. “That’s the truth of it.”
You looked down as your phone buzzed with a text from your friend, whose house you’d stayed at for the last two nights as planned, asking if you were making it home in good time. You felt your cheeks heat and decided not to answer right away.
Bucky hummed a tune quietly as he cooked, and your eyes flew up to watch him.
You knew that tune.
It was yours.
“Thought you didn’t know any of my music.”
“I didn’t.”
“And now?”
He shrugged casually but you caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink. “It’s not all bad.”
“You looked me up,” you accused him, and the embarrassed flush spread down his cheeks and neck.
You snickered softly, watching for the little glances he shot your way.
“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said finally, flipping the egg battered bread in the pan. He pinned you with a stare then, and you hoped you didn’t imagine the admiration you spied in it. “Turns out yer quite somethin’, huh?”
Your last album was recently lauded as the fastest album of the decade to reach five times platinum in the US, barely beating your previous album which had broke that same record. This following the sensational performance of your third tour that just wrapped up—You dropped your gaze, shrugging at the reality of his question. “I do alright.”
Bucky snorted. “No, honey, I do alright. Ain’t got much but what I earn from the crops and animals. You?” He whistled, impressed.
“Okay,” you began, squaring your shoulders. “You’re right. I’ve accomplished a lot. But it’s not hard work, not when I love it so much.”
He cocked his head, gesturing with the spatula for you to go on.
“I love to craft my own melodies, my own lyrics. Or have the producers send me a sample of something new and my mind run away with ideas. I’m just lucky people seem to like what I make.”
Bucky nodded along, his gaze focussed on cooking.
“All yer songs, they always this boppy?“
“Pop.”
“That.”
You laughed. “Yes, Sarge.”
He hummed another melody and with another laugh you half-sung the words, sliding off the stool and running your hand along the kitchen counter as you rounded it to stand with him.
Helping him collect plates and toppings he requested from the fridge, you smiled when he presented you with a plate.
“Egg bread.”
“This is French toast.”
Bucky looked down at the plates, then the sauces and vegetables from the fridge. “But it’s savoury.”
“Still French toast.”
“Egg bread,” he insisted, with a finality to his tone that had you cocking a brow at him. “‘S what my Ma called it.”
“Well, I’d never argue with Mama Barnes.”
“She would’a liked you,” he said, offhand, and you wondered at the way joy swept your body and curled your toes.
So you ate, talked, stared into his eyes far too long to be polite, and grinned more than once at the way you kept catching him doing the same. But this was a working farm, and this farmer had to get to it.
It was difficult to convince both of you of that when, after clearing up, he’d lifted you into the counter again, stepped between your legs, and kissed you senseless.
“I’d love to stay and …” he trailed off, gaze slowly dropping to where his hands squeezed your thighs, “… chat.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to chat. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole. Again.
“But I got some girls in the bottom paddock that need seein’ to.”
“Can I help?”
“Doubt it.”
No malice, just honesty.
“Yer welcome to stay,” donning his hat, his smile turned down at the corners, “But I imagine you got plenty important places to be.”
He was right. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t.
He jerked his head toward the dining table. “Left a present for you.”
And with one last kiss he was gone.
You lazily watched his figure cross the yard, admiring the way his jeans hugged tight, and his corded, tanned arm and stunningly designed prosthetic looked with his sleeves rolled up just so.
You’d stumbled on a diamond in the rough. In a storm, no less.
Finally dragging your gaze away you searched for his supposed present.
A scrawled note sat on the sturdy wooden table. Same place as before.
Next time doesn’t have to be a surprise - B.
And his phone number.
All you saw in your mind’s eye was blue. That pretty horizon over rolling hills. The colour rain clouds turned before lightening had its way. The covers on the cushions of a rusty swing chair on the porch. The faded paint of a old beat up Ford that saw better days long before he drove it.
And those eyes. Eyes deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Eyes that saw right through you and saw all of you at the same time.
Eyes you’d only seen twice and already you hoped you could keep staring into them for the rest of your life.
You stepped inside the door of your New York townhouse, shutting it quickly behind you, blocking out the sound of camera shutters and probing questions of the paparazzi and fans lurking outside.
With a deep, fortifying breath, you carried your bags through to the living area and dropped them onto your couch with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scents.
It was good to be home.
But you grabbed your phone and snapped a quick picture right there in the room, your eyes tired and hair still tousled from the long drive. You sent it without overthinking too much, typing out ‘Home safe but thinking of rain and dirt roads’.
A reply came almost instantly.
‘When can you get lost again?’
Several visits later, there’s a tension to your shoulders he realised he’s seen before but hadn’t recognised. Your eyes were tired, skin flawless and beautiful as always but lacking the light that usually glowed from within.
You were exhausted.
“What’re they doing to you up in the city, huh?”
Your mumbled response was lost against his chest as he enveloped you in his arms. He could feel the way you sagged against him, clinging like only he could give you what you need.
He decides he can.
Hands under your thighs he lifts you easily, ignoring your shrill gasp as he tucked your body against his, and carried you into the farmhouse, kicking the door shut behind him.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of hay, sweat, and something uniquely him.
You pressed closer to breathe in more.
He carried you through the house, old floorboards creaking their telltale tune all the way to the bathroom where he gently set you down until your feet touched the tiles. The huge clawed bathtub, generally unused, became your salvation as he begins to let it fill with piping hot water. You perched on its cold edge while you wait.
When it’s full he wordlessly accepts your clothes, the banked heat in his eyes as they sweep your body a mere promise of what’s to come.
Later.
First, you step gingerly into the bathtub, hissing at the blissful heat, and you sink in with a long drawn out sigh.
You were exhausted, and you hated that he saw it.
But you couldn’t hate this.
Eyes closing, you let yourself drift. Let the smells of the farmhouse envelop you, let the warmth of the water ease everything else away.
There had been contract questions. An interview. Some papers about the new project you were working on, and a bunch of people who decided their time with you was more important than everything else.
And you loved it. That was the hardest part; you relished every second of it. Of fitting so much into one day, of the balancing act. Sometimes the games too, because right now you were on a winning streak.
But as you drove and the roads turned rougher, the tiredness overwhelmed you. It was regrettably stronger than your excitement at seeing Bucky again.
So when he’d opened that door and you’d collapsed in his arms, you’d trusted him to catch you.
It was nice.
Even with the window propped open for the steam, it’s quiet. Just the fresh breeze outside, the far off sound of animals, and Bucky quietly moving through the house.
You doze in and out, mindful of slipping beneath the water, tension and worries leaching away as this house, this place, and the care of this farmer lulled you into an ease you had only ever found here.
Your whole body felt languid when you eventually stepped out, steam rising off your skin, colour darker with the heat. Humming, you dried off, dipping into your bag for fresh clothes, and ventured back into the house.
A wailing soulful tune lured you to the verandah.
Bucky sat on the wooden edge, afternoon sun burnishing his hair a deep brown, metal arm gleaming as he riffed a blues melody on his harmonica.
Eyes trailing from him out to gold and green fields specked with cattle, to the old barn and the endless open horizon beyond, you breathed it all in.
Without a word you sat beside him on the verandah, legs dangling off the edge as he bends notes on the harp, playing any kind of tune as it comes to him like he would on any other night.
When you learn his key and catch the beat, you hum along whatever melody comes to you first, and he places his free hand on your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth until the sun sets.
He’s up before you. When you see him, leaning against the wall by the hallway, arms crossed and staring right at you, you smile. The same one you always have when you set eyes on him.
A smile that grows larger when his face softens and his eyes crinkle just so. What he wears isn’t quite a smile, but it warms you like one just the same.
He pushed off and stalked toward you, heavy boots thudding loud in the room. Taking your shoulders in his hands, he drew you in to press a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes.
“I got some friends stopping by for lunch,” he told you, voice a low rumble and his breath fanning over your hair. “Steve and his missus. You gonna be right with that?”
Your heart thumped so loud you were sure he could hear it in the quiet of the day. Wrapping your arms around his waist and spreading your legs to pull him in, you nodded. “I’ll be alright.”
His lips brushed your skin. “Can I ask a favour?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly drawing away you looked up at him. “What kind of favour?”
“I need a couple things in town. Will you drive us in?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, but there was something about his gaze that had yours narrowing, skeptical.
“A couple things? My car’s not built to carry much.”
“Nah, that’s why you’ll be in my truck.”
Brow raised you looked at him wide eyed. “I’ve never driven one that big.”
The smirk on his face said it all. “Sure you have, darlin’.”
It’s a challenge to ignore the rush of heat pooling low within you.
“You want me to drive your truck?”
“Maybe I want you to be seen drivin’ my truck.”
“This feels like some kind of next step business,” you muse, heart fluttering. He wants you to meet his friends and be seen with him, it was enough giddiness to make you feel like a high schooler.
He shrugged, and you kissed the small smile playing across his lips.
The trip was eye opening, and not just because of the truck. The turning circle was wider than you’re used to, but you puttered along the tracks and road just fine.
No, what kept you entertained was discovering a new facet of the man you were still getting to know.
Bucky is even more tight-lipped here than in his own home, and no sooner had you jumped out of the truck, Sam Wilson was by the bumper welcoming you to town and slinging his arm around your shoulder like you were the oldest of friends.
The tic in Bucky’s jaw could not jump higher as he ground his teeth.
But when he asks if the stockfeed is open and if Sarah was working today, Sam is immediately stony faced and grumbling, telling him to stay in his lane. You learn quickly that not only can Sam Wilson get under his skin but Bucky lets him; a mutually aggravating camaraderie you don’t understand.
It’s in stark difference to the polite, gentlemanly way he speaks to Sarah at the stockfeed and hardware store, which makes you all the more curious to find out she and Sam are siblings.
Except when Bucky plops his Stetson on your head as you head back out onto the street, and you watch the identical way they cross their arms and watch him with matching eyes sharper than all the paparazzi in the city. You just know he’s gonna hear an earful when they get him alone next.
The meaning of wearing his hat is lost on you, but it gleams in both their eyes and everyone else’s on the street that day as you lug two bags of fence clips back to his vehicle.
You’re tempted to record the way he loads feed bags in the back of the truck like they weigh nothing. You imagine you’re one of them, slung over his shoulder until he grabs your waist with two hands and swings you down onto your back—
“Ready to go?”
With a gulp you nod and climb in.
Many eyes fervently follow your dust trail down the road.
You watch through the window as a flatbed truck pulls up the drive, and busy yourself setting out plates on the dining table.
Two doors slam and there’s a murmur of voices coming closer up the steps.
“What happened to the wagon?”
“On the fritz. Plus I’m picking up some hay when we leave.”
Wait a minute.
You knew that voice.
A tall blonde swung open the flyscreen, politely removing his hat and nodding hello before freezing in place.
“Steve?”
He paused in the doorway, looking at you slack jawed, when—
“Don’t block the door, I’m in dire need of a sit-down.”
“Peggy!”
In waddled your very dear, very pregnant and very surprised friend.
She blinked, mouth forming a delighted oh as you rushed in to hug her.
“Long time no see!” She says in a daze, clutching you close before holding you out at arms length, head shaking incredulously. “But how is it that you’re here?”
You helped her to a seat at the table, her eyes darting between you and Bucky who looked equally bewildered. Steve moved to his side, murmuring something low at his friend you couldn’t hear, and Bucky shrugged his response.
“Remember when I was delayed a day coming to see you? With the storm?”
“Yes,” Peggy said, hand covering yours on the table. “You had us worried sick. I had images of you lost in a ditch somewhere.”
She’d said as much the next day when you eventually turned up.
Ducking your head you admitted, “I didn’t stop at a motel like I said.” Your gaze rose and met hers. “I ended up here.”
“You’re the girl that blew in with the storm,” Steve said, his voice tinged with laughter. You looked over and Bucky was a delightful shade of pink, the flush high in his cheeks and running all the way down beneath the vee of his shirt.
Peggy regarded you warmly, her eyes gleaming with a new wealth of knowledge that put you on edge.
“I’m sure he took great care of you.”
“Alright, Peg,” Bucky interrupted with a grumble. “Steve? Want to take a look at that gear?”
When the men walked outside to the barn, gesturing animatedly and discussing farming things you had no idea about, Peggy followed you out and sat back into Bucky’s verandah swing chair with a sigh.
“I’ve loved every moment of this pregnancy,” she said through gritted teeth. “But my feet may never recover.”
You laughed, settling on the cushion next to her and helping her twist in the seat until she could lay back with her legs across your lap.
“I’ve wanted to set the two of you up for years now, you know.”
“The two of—“ Something clicked in your brain, several long-ago conversations crowding in all at once of a young feller with a rough exterior but a kind heart. “—This is James?”
He’d asked you to call him Bucky, you’d completely forgotten. Your eyes glanced up to the sign swinging gently in the breeze, emblazoned with his initials.
And Steve was a Captain! From the moment he was off active duty he and Peggy had tried for a baby, this pregnancy being the magic one that finally took.
A pregnancy that brought you out of the city for the first time in years to see your dear friend that you hadn’t visited in so long, only to end up on this very porch with Bucky Barnes sweeping you off your feet.
There was no way to know this could happen, but the threads were there. Your mind whirled, unable to consider the odds.
“And you said you’d never date a country boy.” Her voice was so smug you could do nothing but shrug.
“He’s no boy,” you whispered, and Peggy’s laughter peeled out across the yard, drawing Steve’s attention who smiled indulgently at his wife and gave you both a little wave.
Bucky was staring, face unreadable at this distance, but you could feel his eyes like a brand.
He watched you sitting there, so comfortable in his home, friends with his friends, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen you.
Steve made a noise next to him, and he turned to see his best friend smirking and shaking his head.
“You got something to say, Rogers?”
“She’ll make an honest man outta you.”
Bucky scowled. “How would you know that?”
“I know you’ve never looked this happy since your folks passed and Becca moved away.”
Kicking at a weed tuft in the gravel, Bucky grumbled, “Yeah, well, you never mentioned you had a damn famous person as a friend.”
“Why would I?” Steve laughed. “Had you even heard of her before she fell in your lap?”
Bucky shrugged a non-answer.
“Besides, she’s not like that with us. And Peggy knew her from before all that anyhow.” As if that settled that matter.
He watched you there with Peggy, giggling like schoolgirls and all the while cradling her legs, making sure she was comfortable. In his house.
His voice was quiet but sure when he told Steve, “I got a good feeling about this one, Cap.”
“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, me too.”
It was late at night. The house was still alive with boisterous conversations and delightful reminiscing. Lunch had turned into card games which had turned into dinner and sitting by the fire. Peggy regaled you with the worst kind of stories about the boys, who had the decency to look bashful before sharing a few tales of their own.
You’d hugged your dear friend close, wishing her well for the last weeks of her pregnancy, Bucky promising over your shoulder he’d live up to his godfathering duties if they ever needed a hand.
The moment they’d left, disappearing down the dirt drive into the dark of night, Bucky took your hand and drew you back to the fireplace, showing you in the most delicious way possible how happy he was with the day.
“So.”
Pillowed in his arm amongst blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, you dragged your eyes away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to meet his steady gaze.
“When do I get to return the favour?”
Even after the last hour of pleasure your body clenched at his words, heat sweeping from your cheeks down your neck and chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered, scandalised. “I already came three times, you don’t—“
His bark of laughter surprised you.
“‘M flattered, darlin’, but not what I meant.”
He rolled then, body curving into yours and his metal arm snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“When can I come to New York?”
Nothing about him changed, there was no shift in tone, but something in the question appeared so small and earnest, so hopeful, that your heart doubled over.
“You want to come to the big smoke with me?”
You felt his nod against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin reverently.
“Wanna see your world, darlin’.”
You liked the escapism, that out here you’re just you, no watching over your shoulder or calculating the hidden meaning of every word spoken to you. With Bucky you could be yourself, and not consider the PR implications of an honest reaction.
But even out here in the calm, parts of your soul longed for home.
And one particular part buried in your chest swelled at the thought of showing off your gorgeous farmer to the world.
“What about the farm?”
“I got plenty o’ favours to call in.”
The first visit was a blur of motion.
The long miles faded quickly behind him, buildings piling up on the horizon as he drove his old truck steadily down the highway, but Bucky was unfazed.
When Becca left with her new husband he’d been into the cities a few times.
Turns out this was not like those times.
There was a country mile difference between walking the streets of New York and walking the streets of New York on your arm.
‘Be there in a song.’
When he arrived it was to the interested looks of people lurking outside your door, all who swiftly drew their cameras and phones when he walked up and knocked.
And there you were, thousand-watt smile and hands grabbing him, dragging him indoors to the sound of fast shutters as the photographers captured the moment. But how could he care about them when the second he was inside behind closed doors you squeaked a happy, ‘Hi Sarge,’ and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him like you needed his mouth to draw breath.
“You got gawkers outside,” he murmured to your lips, nudging his nose against yours.
“Nevermind them,” you said dismissively, taking his hand and showing him your expensive town house.
It’s big. Foot-for-square-foot it was bigger than his family home, but filled to the brim with life. Your life. Awards and photographs and music, so much music everywhere.
“So, this is where you spin yer tunes,” he said, pressing down the keys of your keyboard and frowning when they emitted no sound.
“It’s an electric keyboard,” you tell him, and his cheeks heat.
“Right. Of course.”
“Actually, it’s a workstation. It plays, but I also use it for sampling and recording when I’m struck by any new ideas.”
He plucks the silent keys a couple more times for good measure and lets you lead him on.
Through the tour he quietly takes note of how much money is invested around your house alone, and feels something within him tighten. No, strengthen.
You’re really something. He had an idea of it, of course, after searching you up online and learning. But it was a little different seeing the fruits of your labours here in person.
Bucky knew he’d better prove he’s worthy of you. That he could meet you halfway in all this.
“So, that’s everything!”
Your smile was brighter than the sun and hadn’t dimmed since the moment you set eyes on him.
“Ready for lunch?”
The little smile playing around Bucky’s lips, one that had his eyes softening and his head tilting just so, set your heart aflutter. He stared at you, simply taking you in.
“What?” You touched your cheek, then your nose. “You gave me pash rash with that kiss, didn’t you?”
He shook his head, slow and measured, and laughed to himself. You didn’t know the joke.
“You said lunch?” He collected his keys from his bag.
“Oh, um—“ you placed your hand over his, shaking your head, “—my driver is waiting to take us.”
His brow furrowed. “But my truck’s just out front.”
“And Happy is already waiting.” Embarrassment twisted inside you. What must he be thinking? This man who had seen war and managed a farm all on his own, while you have a driver for something as simple as lunch.
But Bucky gestured for you to lead the way, popping his Stetson back in place and tipping the brim low.
As promised, Happy Hogan and the black sedan sat just outside, beside Bucky’s beaten truck.
You took his hand, knowing yours was clammy as your nerves spiked with the onset of cameras and people calling your name.
You should’ve warned him.
Too late now.
The crowd pressed in, larger than when he had arrived, likely drawn in by the news of a stranger at your door. They surrounded the car, surround the two of you, and Bucky forcibly placed himself between you and them.
“Who’s your visitor?”
“Seeing someone new?”
“Sir, look this way!”
Keeping Bucky close down the stairs and the sidewalk, you smiled gratefully at Happy who hurried around to get your door.
“Welcome to New York, Mr Barnes,” he said as you both hopped into the car, and he promptly shut you away from prying eyes.
You turned to him immediately, watching the way his gaze lingered out the window at the gathered crowd as the car pulled away. “Was that a lot?”
“Do you have, uh—“ Bucky fumbled for words as he faced you, a deeply etched frown on his face. “A bodyguard? Or somethin’?”
“Yes.” You gestured beyond the privacy screen at the passenger side front seat where your bodyguard sat beside Happy. “Bruce? Say hello?”
Bruce Banner twisted in the seat and smiled brightly at Bucky, uttering a quiet hello before turning back.
Bucky’s face was all hard lines, a tic in his jaw jumping as he thought. Then his eyes met yours and you saw the concern etched there.
“They look after me,” you whisper. “I promise.”
He nods once, barely satisfied, and takes your hand in his. “Where we headed today?”
Twining your fingers in his, relishing the callouses that graze your palm, you tell him, “Burgers first. Then I wanted to take you to the studio.”
You smiled, watching the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. The way his eyes, weather worn, crinkled at the edges and the sun spots dusting his cheeks lifted with the apple of his smile matching yours.
And all the while he’s watching you back, unable to stop the way his lips curve as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes sparkling with something he hasn’t seen before.
This time when you step out the car, he’s prepared. Bruce opens the door first, helping you to your feet, and Bucky immediately follows behind. He has a hand around your waist, grasping your side firmly, but his eyes are up and out over the heads of people around them, guiding and shielding you in Bruce’s wake.
It’s not as pointed at last time, fewer people expecting your arrival, but there’s no mistaking the piqued interest at the company you brought. At him and the obvious connection between you.
Inside the restaurant in no time, Bucky politely slid off his Stetson. He blinked slowly, banishing the afterglow of camera flashes, his only tell that this wasn’t normal. Seeing your concerned face as you waited, he grinned at you, hand outstretched, gesturing to follow the server as they lead you to a table.
Bucky’s eyes flickered around, noting the stares and the phones sneaking photos of the two of you. He took it all in, cataloguing his surroundings. Keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of his neck at being watched so closely by so many complete strangers, he made sure you were comfortably seated before sitting.
Only once did he ask, “Is it always like this?” and you didn’t hesitate, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Yes. You get used to it.”
Even he was unsure if his grunted reply was agreement or not.
Frowning down at the menu, he took in his options.
“These ain’t gonna to be those tiny meals I see on TV, are they?” He murmured quietly.
A snort escaped before you could help yourself. “No!” Bucky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No, Bucky, I promise these burgers will fill up even a strapping lad like you.”
And when his eyes widened as your plates were delivered, you allowed yourself a moment to gloat as he gauged how best to eat the massive meal before him.
He thought he’d fed you hearty meals back on the farm, but there was a primal kind of satisfaction inside him at seeing you dig into a meaty burger that felt a little caveman-like.
He liked a woman that could eat, and he especially liked knowing you were taken care of.
Plus these burgers were darn tasty.
He kept his voice low over lunch, not for anyone else to hear, concerned for the other patrons and staff who are clearly listening in for a little celebrity gossip. A small part of him flinched at the idea of you being lumped in with a country hick, a regular ol’ redneck, and though he’s never been ashamed of his home he has a vague idea of what that might mean to these city folk.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say at one point, your expression so openly warm and pleased that he sits a little straighter.
“Darlin’, I’d follow you to the end of the earth if you keep smilin’ at me like that,” he told you gruffly.
His shoulders stiffen when he hears a faint collective ‘aww’ and sigh from the table over, but you’re oblivious, flushed from his compliment, hand snaking over the table to capture his prosthetic one and squeezing tight.
He risked a glance up and sees a table of women, friends hanging out he supposes, looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes. They made themselves look busy when they realised he was looking their way.
“Burger was good?”
He cleared his throat. “Ain’t as good as Sam’s brisket, let me tell you. But yeah.”
He looked between both your now-empty plates.
“Should we get goin’? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Hang on,” you said earnestly, waving over the server, “you have to try their pie.”
He placed a hand on his stomach. “Honey, I don’t think I got room.”
“Sure you do, cowboy.”
A slice was placed down on the table.
As you carved out a piece for yourself, Bucky’s spoon knocked yours. Deliberately. Giggling, you spared back, crossing his spoon with yours and making him drop the mouthful he had scooped up.
“It’s like that, is it?” He chuckled, holding up his spoon like a fencer before his face.
“Oh, Sarge.” You pointed your spoon directly at his chest. “It’s on.”
Your spoons clashed together in a loud twang and your laughter rang out through the restaurant, Bucky’s tenor underscoring it.
It wasn’t until you caught a server looking curiously at your spoon fight did you take in your surroundings, noticing the number of eyes and phones pointed toward your table. With a gentle cough you lowered your weaponised spoon.
“I yield. Even though you didn’t have room for it.”
Bucky chuckled, digging into the slice of pie, taking a large mouthful and grinning as he chewed.
“‘S real good.”
You lowered your gaze to the plate and carved out another piece for yourself, missing the charming smile and small salute Bucky gave the nosy table next to yours who continued to gawk.
You’re glad timing worked out the way it did, as you checked the text that just came in. You had a tiny surprise lined up for your dear farmer.
“Now we swing by the studio for five minutes,” you tell him in the car, Happy already making his way there. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Honey, I’m here for you. Whatever you got to do, I’m a foot behind you.”
Stark Studios was surprisingly busy for midday, people from all walks of life bustling through its doors. But there was one in particular who promised they’d be there, and as you twined your arm around Bucky’s you felt giddy knowing he would find this fun.
The main lobby run off into a little gallery, pictures, posters, album covers and exemplary statistics showing just what a powerhouse Stark Studios was in the music business.
You’d left Bucky there to talk a little business with your manager and record executive, and when you returned twenty minutes later with someone else on your arm, you found him standing in front of the wall dedicated to you and your work. Your career so far.
There was a blank space still to be filled, with a cheeky sign stating, ‘For her future hits.’ Tony had thought it was both motivating for you and a challenge declared to the other artists signed to the record label.
Bucky chuckled and nodded when he saw it.
“Hey, cowboy? I want to introduce you to someone.”
You indulged him in dragging his feet, wide eyes taking in all the signed memorabilia and photographs.
This would be a treat.
But when you stood in front of the red head and gave their introductions, you smirked knowingly at his slack-jawed expression.
No, he hadn’t known of you when you first met, but Natasha Romanoff?
You’d found not one but three of her albums by the Queen of country music in his home one visit, and some of his favourite tunes to play on the harmonica were harmonies from her songs.
His ears tinged pink as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Do I look that old, son?”
His gaze flickered to you, uncertainty clouding his baby blues, and you hip checked Natasha out of her pointed stare.
“‘Tasha, you’re scaring the poor boy.”
His eyes flashed. You smiled at him sweetly, knowingly.
You’d pay for that comment later.
And the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed. Natasha’s eyes were wickedly bright when she said, “I’m waiting for him to stomp around like an unbroken horse.”
He snorted out a breath heavily through his nose and that cracked her. She broke into a genuine smile, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”
You stepped away and he clasped your elbow firm enough to draw your complete attention.
“Call me boy again and I’ll remind you what this man can do.”
He felt the shiver that wracked your whole body.
Stood to one side while he spoke with Natasha, you mouthed a thank you to your friend when she gifted him a signed poster and kissed him on the cheek, lipstick stain lingering and all.
You weren’t jealous of the starry eyed expression on his face, nor the way he rambled like a schoolboy all the way back to the car. Honestly, you were pleased he’d liked the surprise so much.
You still felt a little reminder of how much you cared was in order.
Bucky motioned you into the car first, watchful eyes on the street and surrounds, ever vigilante.
But he didn’t see you coming.
Pulling him roughly to the backseat, you could barely wait for Happy to shut the door before you got to work on his belt.
“Christ, darlin’, what—“
Kissing him firmly, you pulled back only enough to tell him, “Let me.”
His jaw clenched hard but his eyes were already darkening. You felt him twitch beneath your hands.
Bucky’s eyes flickered to the front seat over the privacy partition where Happy climbed in to drive them home.
Biting your lip, you pressed the button for the privacy screen to close.
“Bye, Happy.”
You ignored the man’s knowing smile in the rear view mirror as the glass slid in place.
Belt undone and jeans quickly pried open, you delved in, humming happily as your hand closed around his cock, already thick and heavy in your grasp. He bucked up into your touch and his head thunked back against the seatrest.
“Yer a madwoman,” he muttered, watching from beneath hooded eyes as you knelt on the seat and lowered your mouth to him.
The first touch of your lips made him jerk again, smearing precum against your mouth. Licking your lips to the sound of his gasp, you twirled your tongue against the swollen head and took him in, inch by inch, all the way until your lips touched your hand at his base.
“Darlin’, you can’t. You—“ he choked on a guttural groan as you swallowed around him.
You pulled away with an audible pop.
“Ssh, Bucky.” You didn’t recognise your own voice, deep and husky with want for him. “You don’t want someone to hear you.”
His cock twitched in your hand, his fist clenching hard.
“Be a good boy and stay quiet for me, Sarge,” you whispered, and took him in your mouth again.
When he began to rut up into your mouth you hummed your approval, your eyes rolling back as you felt him hot and heavy at the back of your throat.
And when he came for you on a muffled groan as you swallowed everything he gave you, you delighted in how wrecked he looked sprawled out in the car seat, mouth parted with heavy breaths.
He stared at you, your lips swollen and lipstick smeared, and grit his teeth, sending out a silent prayer to whoever listened for dropping you in his path.
Awake long before you, farm hours never gifting him the luxury of a sleep in, Bucky lounged in bed. Arm slung behind his head, nothing better to do with his time, he browsed the internet for something he never thought he’d care for.
Gossip.
He searched your name, searched his, scrolled through social media and news blogs, unable to fathom how quickly the world moved up here.
Day one in New York and he could map it through these posts and stories almost to the minute.
Photos of his arrival at your door, of his guarding you from the onslaught of attention. Where the two of you ate, who you saw at the studio.
Even analysis of where to buy a hat just like his. That got his hackles raised.
He felt you stir next to him, gorgeous limbs flexing and stretching like they ached from hard work.
He knew his grin turned wolfish at the reminder of how thoroughly you’d welcomed him to the city late into the night.
“Good morning.”
And what a good morning it was. Your hair tousled on the pillow, smile languid and warm, hand pressed against his bare stomach.
“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice the only thing not yet woken from slumber. “Wanna know what the world thinks of your farmer debut?”
You huff out a laugh and shuffle closer, pressing your face against his side. “What do they say?”
“Mostly talk about how good-lookin’ I am.”
You thump him lightly with your fist.
Chuckling, he reads a passage from a particularly kind blog, one that called him rakishly handsome, softly spoken, and only drew on his military history. He chuckled reading it again.
“I gave ‘em nothing to talk about.”
“You can do that,” you pout. “If I don’t talk I’m labelled a snob.”
“That’s not quite what they say here.”
Interested, you pushed further up the bed, settling into the crook of his arm.
He kept his tone light while he read. “‘So smitten with her new beau, our pop princess barely spoke to anyone else, preferring to keep her attention — and her lips — on him.’”
He tilted his phone toward you, showing you the last photograph anyone had captured of the two of you yesterday.
A photo of you both stepping out of Happy’s sedan onto the sidewalk outside the townhouse, a close up of the red lipstick stains in his stubble and your perfect lip line all but disappeared, smudged around your swollen lips.
The bedsheets did nothing to hide his body’s reaction at the reminder of your gift to him in the car.
“They missed one thing,” he said, dropping his phone and rolling until he hovered over your body, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other tracing a line from the hollow of your neck down your chest.
You blinked up at him, eyes still sleepy but warming quickly to his line of thinking. “And what’s that?”
“That I can’t keep my hands off you either.”
His fingers found your side, tickling mercilessly.
With a shriek and a giggle you squirmed under his hands until the sounds devolved into moans, your body writhing in a different way as he settled between your legs.
The noise is constant. The texts, emails, calls. But also the voices, the cars, the underlying hum of everything.
He learns quickly that Happy and Bruce see you as a friend, a responsibility, not just a job, and he warms to them immediately.
He especially likes when your bodyguard hangs back because they know in Bucky’s hands you’re safer than you’ll ever be.
He doesn’t like the photographers and reporters in your face, urgent words and desperate requests jostling you when you’re only trying to get to the car, and he quickly becomes acquainted with how bodily the guarding of you keeps him occupied on every outing.
Until the day an arrogant paparazzo tries to get too close between him and your bodyguard.
“Get the fuck outta her way or I’ll bury you in a field where no one will find you.”
But somehow even that is brushed off, twisted into some heroic act, no mention of threats or an investigation.
The world is enamoured by the pop star and her farm boy, and for now you can’t go wrong.
He hates that whenever you step outside your home you’re no longer your own person, open to the whims of the paparazzi, fans on the street, demands on your time for stupid reasons like being seen in the right places and with the right people.
But he loves how you handle it all. Your grace and determination, especially when it’s your fans begging for a scrap of your attention, and you give it to them willingly because, as you say, who would you be without them?
He pictures you in his barn, hand gentle on his horse’s flank as he shows you how to whisper sweet words to his girl, and he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who you can be no matter where you are or who your audience is.
What he loves most are the evenings, the quiet hours nearing then passing midnight, when he can take you in his arms and soothe away the trials of the day. When he can make you tense and relax in the best way he knows how. And especially after, when you curl up against him like only he can hold the world at bay.
And for you he would.
There are days on the farm he wished he could say ‘no more’. Long, tiring days when the hard labour pulls too much and he entertains thoughts of throwing in the towel.
But watching you here in your giant plush king bed, the tension slowly leaching from your shoulders as you rest, your eyes still creased with the struggles you endure, he wonders how you push yourself through. No one works as hard as you.
“Yer guarded out here.”
His words made the hair on your head ruffle where he’s pressed his cheek to your crown.
You hummed. “I’m on display here.”
“‘S why yer so tired all’a time.” His accent thickened as he too felt tiredness set in.
Sighing, you buried your face closer, breathing him in. “It doesn’t help.”
“‘N why you question e’rythin’ you do.”
You felt for the seem of his prosthetic beneath his shirt, tracing the line over the fabric.
“Lucky I’ve got my own slice of paradise to escape to, huh?”
“Where’s that?”
Tilting your head back, you gave him a small smile. “Your place.”
“Hmm.”
He gazed down at you and you let yourself get lost in his big blue eyes.
“Can’t really keep chickens here anyhow.”
Scoffing, you pressed your face to his chest again.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Sergeant Idiot. And you picked me. In a storm no less.”
“Yeah,” you said, your hand resting over his fast bearing heart. “Yeah I did.”
You’re fussing over him, flitting through the townhouse like a whirlwind to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.
He knew he hadn’t, knew everything was inside the duffle bag at his feet, but he didn’t mind leaving you distracted as he carefully he noted down the name and make of your keyboard, taking a photo for good measure.
You’d lamented the missing of it on one visit, dragging the whole thing stand, cords and all on another. He thought to save you the trouble next time.
What he did mind was the pain you tried to hide as you kissed him goodbye. He didn’t always have the luxury of seeing your face when the two of you parted, the farm always ensuring he was up at the crack of dawn and leaving you sleeping soundly in his bed until you were ready to drive. It was bittersweet, but in some ways easier.
Then he wouldn’t have to feel the tremor in your hand as you held his, walking him to the door and promising you’d see him soon.
And as you watched him leave, watched his old truck peel away from the curb and take the sunshine with him, you felt a pang in your chest that never truly went away until you were in his arms again.
The drive back to the farm was the longest he’d ever driven. Not by miles, but by the road stretching behind him.
The growing distance between him and you.
He’d never felt it so succinctly, seeing your car amble away down the the dirt track. But this ached in his chest in a way he’d never felt before.
He knew the name of that feeling. Knew those four letters without a doubt. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to only think it once the dust began to kick up behind his truck.
Nevermind. He’d tell you next time.
When he found not one but three separate photographers slinking around on his property, sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t because this was private land, he called the sheriff.
He promptly installed two shining new signs on the outer gate at the property line, warning about private property, trespassing and prosecution.
He chuckled as he surveyed them, snapping a photo to send you because he knew you’d get a kick out of it. And he wondered how different his life would be right now if he’d had those signs up on that fateful stormy day.
Probably no different at all, not back then. Same ol’ country boy on his family farm, labouring away day in and day out. This was the different future he’d longed for. You were the difference.
He was glad you’d never been warned away. He was glad you came in with the rain.
Another month, another country drive.
Cutting the engine in what had become your parking spot, you stepped out onto the grass and dirt of Bucky’s front yard and looked around.
His old Ford was parked up, but in one of the distant fields you could see some dust on the horizon.
Looks like you had a wait on your hands.
You glanced at the swing chair on the verandah, but something behind you tugged hard. You turned, your eyes settling on the wood of the fence line, and started forward.
You step first onto the bottom beam, pulling yourself up by the top second beam, then you swung your leg up and over, hauling yourself up to straddle the fence line. You rested your ass on the fence post and surveyed everything around you.
Gently rolling meadows. Fields of greens. A clear sky as blue as the eyes of the man you waited for.
You bit your lip, an idea for lyrics slowly swirling and forming in your mind, and you dug out your phone to capture the moment of inspiration.
And that’s how Bucky found you, an hour later, humming a tune into the receiver end of your phone as it recorded.
You visibly gulped when you caught sight of him, and didn’t miss the unmistakeable way his walk turned swagger as he approached.
He knew what he looked like, shirt plastered against his body, hands, arms and jeans dusty and dirt smeared from hard work, sweat beading deliciously on his forehead under the wide brim of his Stetson that drove you utterly wild.
“Hey there, honey.”
There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he helped you down, hands clasping your hips firmly and not letting go when he set you on your feet.
“Turn around.”
A voice of steel, commanding, slicing through you and melting any thought of denying him.
You turned in his grasp.
“Hands on the fence.”
You rushed to obey, hands gripping the top wooden beam.
He made a tsk sound and you trembled.
“Bottom one.”
Your face flushed hot as his hands encouraged you to slowly hinge at the hips, to bend over and place your hands on the lower beam.
“Good girl.”
He ground himself against you then with a slow roll and you felt exactly how happy he was to see you from the hot, hard length of him pressing against your core.
His hands dipped around, roughly unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down in one swift motion. You gasped when your panties followed suit.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
You squirmed as the cool afternoon air breezed against the most sensitive parts of you, damp flesh tingling cold. A soft whimper escaped, unbidden, and his chuckle stung with a little cruelty.
“You need somethin’, honey?”
You felt your body sway back, searching for that press of him against you again, but instead you cried out as his hand came down in a stinging slap against the bare skin of your ass.
“Use your words.”
It hit you then that you hadn’t spoken since he appeared from the barn, struck dumb by the sight of him.
Turned even dumber by this.
When you could speak, it came out broken and breathy. “B-Bucky, please—“
“Please, what?”
You didn’t know. You had no clue what to expect let alone what you wanted most. All you knew was you didn’t want him to stop.
“Please, I need more. I need— n-need”
“Know exactly what you be needin’, darlin’. And I’m gonna give it to you.”
A booted foot pressed between yours, nudging your stance wider, and the soft whoosh of him dropping to his knees in the grass behind you had you dragging in a deep breath.
But you lost it again a second later when he buried his mouth against your slit.
A groan escaped him at the first taste, guttural and ragged, his hands clasping each cheek and spreading you apart. You moaned with him as his tongue plunged deep.
He ate at you fiercely, like you were the first meal he had all day and he was a man starved. His tongue lapped and laved, his lips and mouth sucking and sipping at your flesh, drinking you in. You tried hard to contain the sounds desperate to spill out of you, but Bucky would have none of it.
“Let me hear you, darlin’,” he rasped, hand replacing his tongue as he gathered the slick drooling out of you and used it to circle your entrance. “Tell the meadows yer mine.”
He pressed a single finger in, thick and deep inside you, and your strangled cry echoed throughout the yard. Slowly, a second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, curling just so until you clenched hard around him.
And when his mouth fastened around your clit, sucking hard as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, you devolved into a mess of babbled words and broken moans as your orgasm tore through you with lightening speed. Still his mouth stayed on you, fingers deep but gentling, easing you through the waves and keeping you on edge.
Your legs buckled, and he wrapped his metal arm around your thighs.
“Got you.”
But he didn’t lower you down, didn’t gather you into his arms. No, Bucky pushed forward, easily lifting you inches off the ground and pressing you up and over the wooden beam until you rested on it. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your still-shaking body burning where the hard edge of the wood pressed into your skin, your shirt hardly softening the edge.
“Bucky, wha—“
When the sound of his belt unbuckling hit your ears you twisted around.
The sight you beheld would never leave your memory for as long as you lived.
Bucky behind you, jeans shoved down around his thighs, palming his raging erection with the hand still slick from you, the tip of him angry red and leaking. His shirt pushed up out of the way, his lean stomach and abs on display for your needy gaze.
He rested his metal hand against the small of your back, lining himself up with you, and only then did he glance down and catch you watching him.
His eyes were dark, blue swallowed whole by black, arousal flushed high on his cheeks and mouth open in heated admiration. His damn Stetson was as crooked as the smile he gave you as he rasped, “Ready f’me?”
He didn’t give you time to answer.
His gaze held yours as he pressed in, the thick heat of him stretching you in a delicious burn as he pushed every inch.
Your ragged moan covered his grunt of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, filling you so completely your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut.
“Welcome back, honey.”
In one long breath he drew out again, then brutally drove home.
Your hips stung with every thrust as he pushed you against the fence beam over and over, and you knew come morning you’d be bruised and sore, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t, not when he fucked you so deeply, when he heaped praise and desperate grunts upon you in equal measure.
“So fuckin’ good,” he told you, each word panting out with a snap of his hips. “Missed this. Missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”
His words became lost in a series of groans as you clenched around him, your second orgasm drawing in, and his hips stuttered.
“Got another f’me?”
Your hips pressed back against him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that high only Bucky could give you. Your legs were shaking, your voice hoarse as you whined and moaned for him, your fingers white-knuckled where you clutched the fence.
He bent forward and thrust up into you, the angle driving the length of him against that sweet spot deep inside that had you bucking wildly in his grasp. His hand snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing with single minded determination.
You came with a strangled cry.
Bucky swore violently and fucked into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. You could feel every pulse, every bit of him as you clenched and fluttered around him in the aftermath.
The yard fell quiet, save for the sounds of both your soft panting breaths.
Bucky gently eased you back, gathering you into his arms as he lifted you and sat down on the ground against the fence post, folding you across his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat strong and rhythmic against you, and you sighed.
In the distance a cow mooed and you giggled helplessly.
“Who knew it could be like this,” you whispered, uncaring if there was an answer.
Bucky was quiet for a time, his cheek resting against your head and his hand idly tracing shapes against your thigh.
“I was ticked off when I saw headlights that night.”
Another laugh huffed out of you. “I thought you might murder me.”
You felt his chest shake with silent laughter.
“Now I get all melancholy when it rains and yer not here with me.”
“You mean that?” Your voice was small and you didn’t draw back to look at him, didn’t know how to handle whatever answer he gave you.
“‘M sittin’ bare-ass in the grass right now. Only f’ you.”
“Bucky.”
You felt his shrug, his lips pressing gently to your forehead.
“Fell in love with you when you ran up those there steps and kissed me. E’rythin’ else fell into place around that.”
That’s when you pulled back to look at him.
He met your gaze openly, no holding back, no doubt in his eyes. Only the surety of his feelings.
You didn’t say it then.
He didn’t need you to, kissing first the tip of your nose then pressing his lips to yours in an achingly soft kiss.
But later, when you winced as you climbed into bed beside him and he touched the line of bruises across your hips reverently, kissing your skin and apologising over and over for being so rough with you, it slipped out like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
He hummed agreement, his thumb rubbing soft circles against your skin, hoping to soothe the angry marks with touch alone.
“Yeah. I am.”
There was always something to do on the farm, and the animals always needed tending, but he felt a tug on his heart and an itch under his skin as the days stretched on.
So he texted you for another trip.
You called back that night, uncertain.
“I’m really busy with work,” you say, and it’s not an excuse to push him away, he knows that. It’s just your crazy schedule isn’t as routine as farm chores and country life.
He’s sitting in his truck, parked outside Sam’s bar, music and voices spilling out with the light from the door, and he knows there’s a cold beer waiting for him inside.
But he’d miss it all to keep talking with you.
“There’s an awards things coming up, and—“
“You gotta get dolled up?” That perked his interest. “Wear one of those slinky dresses, your hair all twisted up nice. Struttin’ down that red carpet like you already won?”
He pulls laughter from you, the tinkling sounds better than any song of yours he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t even mind when you chide him gently. He just laughs too.
Until your soft confession punches the breath out of him, setting his heart beating so hard his ribs would bruise. “I want to show everyone how in love with you I am.”
“Then I’ll come to the show,” he said gruffly. “You on my arm, the whole world knows who I belong to.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.” So cocky. So confident. Easiest thing in the world, to declare you were his. And he yours.
“Can I buy you a suit?”
“I got a suit.”
“Bucky.”
Ah, right. This was a fancy thing. “Not the right suit, hm?”
“I want to get you something tailored.” There’s a wistfulness to your voice that sends a bolt of heat straight through him. “Something that hugs you perfectly, shows off your shoulders and your arms—“
You broke off, letting out a soft sound he’s heard a million times before, and he wants to crawl through the phone to get at you.
“Yer gettin’ all wet just thinkin’ ‘bout me in those clothes. Wait ‘til you get ‘em off.” His accent comes out thick with a growl, and you whimper, actually whimper, making him curse and shift in his seat as his jeans grow too tight.
His voice is low and husky when he promises, “You can get me whatever you’d like, darlin’. Just let me be there with you.”
He doesn’t have a regular parking spot in New York, not like you do back home. There isn’t a growing bare patch in the concrete where his tyres sat while you were out and worked business all day.
Truth be told he kinda liked the way his dull paintwork stood out against the shiny black sedans, the stupid Teslas, and the little electric things. He liked that someone could glance down the street and see something different had arrived.
But he especially liked it when he got the spot right outside your building, those cold looking grey stairs leading from his rusty Ford door to the one that let him enter the one place in the big city that felt a little like entering heavens gates.
‘Cause they brought him to you.
And despite your hectic schedule, despite people vying for your attention all over town, you’re right there at the doorway every time he knocks to great him nice and proper with a kiss.
There’s a fitting at some snazzy building in the middle of the city, a private tailor upstairs from offices who go through more money in one day than he sees in a year.
It makes his head spin a little, but your pleased grin when he stands up on the podium wearing the suit you’d ordered is all he really needs to worry about.
“What do you think?”
The tailor is a lanky older gentleman, the type you see in all the old movies, and Bucky turns this way and that as he looks at himself.
If only his folks could see him now. They wouldn’t recognise him in all this.
“I don’t have a dog in this fight, sir.” He turned to you, sitting on the little couch by the window, looking pretty as a peach in a dress and smiling up at him. “Lady’s call.”
You stand, approaching him slow, your eyes telling him without a doubt exactly how good you think he looks.
“You’ll do,” you say on a sigh, and even the tailor chuckled. “Thank you, Jarvis.”
When Jarvis leaves the room, Bucky finds enough confidence to nod at his Stetson you carry in your hands. “Reckon they’ll let me wear it on the red carpet?”
You match his cheeky grin with one of your own, reaching up to place the hat on his head and turning him back to the mirror.
“Why do you think I picked this colour?”
You enjoy every moment of his surprise when he takes in the whole perfectly matching ensemble.
Time moved like an avalanche in New York. One minute he was sharing a light breakfast and early morning kisses with you, and the next you’re both in a hotel suite near Madison Square Garden. Hair and makeup stylists fussed over you in a seat before a mirror while wardrobe people and your management team talked logistics and the possibilities for the night ahead.
You sat in the middle of all the chaos, letting them paint your face and play with your hair, and all Bucky could do was stand to the side and let it all happen around him.
They’d already dressed him and messed with his hair and face an hour ago.
“Would you like us to shine your— um, your, uh…”
One of the poor wardrobe girls gestured hopelessly at his prosthetic and Bucky arched a brow at her. “What you gonna shine with? Shoe polish?”
She looked like the floor could’ve swallowed her whole.
“It’s a well-meaning thought, but not necessary,” you called out, your voice carefully measured. But when Bucky looked your way you seemed conflicted between rage on his behalf and the urge to laugh at the girl’s predicament.
He stepped forward to cool your temper, and put that fire to better use.
“All this pampering is, uh—“ he brushed his knuckles against his stubble and through his hair, peering at himself in the mirror over your shoulder. “It’s a fuss, but nice. Didn’t know it could sit like this.”
“Hmm a little clean for my liking.” You meet his gaze in the reflection.
“Yeah?”
“I like my farmer a little … rougher.”
“You like me dirty.”
There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind you both, but you didn’t care what they overheard. Not with the way Bucky’s eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to the soft robe you were wearing.
The robe with nothing beneath it.
“I have to dress,” you said quietly.
“Don’t need the robe to dress,” he said back, voice low enough for only you to hear.
Your eyes burned with the desire to give in, but you couldn’t. Not this time.
“If you let me dress in private now, I’ll let you take it off me later.”
He scoffed, lips curving in an entirely too-smug smile. “Let me?” He said, shaking his head and lifting your hand to brush a kiss against your knuckle. “Try to stop me.”
Because he hadn’t seen the dress before, having only arrived in town long enough to have his suit finished, but he knew whatever design they had cooked up for you was going to knock him dead.
Time ticked by as he stood in the other room with your management team, Tony explaining to him exactly how the red carpet and ceremony would run, when the wardrobe team returned to the room.
He felt his hands grew clammy as you called out, “Ready?”
This felt like it could be his damn wedding day with how nervous he found himself.
But when you stepped into the room, everything else faded away. You were a vision, glowing in your gown with your hair perfectly pinned and face painted just right. You were always gorgeous in his eyes, but the hours of work they put in now finally seemed justified.
They turned you into a goddess.
“Do you like it?”
He laughed because how could you not know?
“Yeah, darlin’, it’s—“
But then he looked.
Really looked.
And his mouth fell open.
The colour. The colour stopped his heart.
Inky dark and shimmering, the black fabric hugged your figure and swept down around you, the stark colour the perfect background for the spears of brilliant golden arcs crossing and flowing, like lightening slashing across your body
Your dress matched his prosthetic.
For a moment Bucky was speechless,his hand reaching out to hover over the lines of gold reverently, mapping your body like he was learning you all over again.
“I asked them to make it look like kintsugi and lightening,” you told him quietly.
He said your name on a broken whisper. You could see in his eyes his emotions choked him.
“I told you, Bucky. I want the world to know who my heart belongs to.”
He met your gaze then.
He knew how long it had taken to perfectly apply your foundation and makeup. He knew and he didn’t care.
He kissed you. With all the force of the love beating hard in his chest, he took your face in his hands and kissed you like he could infuse every ounce of his being into you in that moment.
He stole your breath but he gave you back so much more.
“Are you ready?”
They asked you, but the question was clearly directed at Bucky.
He flashed his most charming smile, donning his hat and turning to offer you his hand so you could step out the vehicle.
“I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll just stare at her.”
Like he could drag his eyes away.
Honestly the cameras were dazzling. He saw stars. He thought he was handling it well, expression stoic, steady hand at your back, thumb rubbing circles against your bare skin.
He stands where he’s told to stand, helps guide you where you’re told to go, only stepping away when your red carpet handler asked him to leave space for photos.
And when you looked at him, your thousand watt smile banishing any doubts as you murmur, “Eyes on me, Sarge,” he knew how much this mattered.
He’s here for you. He’ll do this right for you.
Later, in the grand open space full of hundreds of your peers, everyone seated according to who was who in the industry, you hold his hand and smile at him like he’s the only one there.
When your name is read from an envelope and you throw your arms around him in elation, he knows the two of you have got this thing right.
Until you steal his hat, hurrying away as you place it on your head to accept your award.
He doesn’t see the camera focussed on his face, capturing his wondrous laugh as he claps and beams with pride. He only has eyes for you up on stage, gushing with gratitude and thanking the world that helped you reach this pinnacle.
“And to the man that brought me here tonight—“
Your gaze locked with his from beneath his Stetson, eyes misty and smile shining brighter than the award in your hands.
“I do this for you,” you said, pointing through the fancy crowd right at him.
He thinks out of all the people here tonight, and for all these coveted awards, he might actually be the biggest winner of the evening.
a/n: this is officially the first smut I’ve ever written 🫣 only for you dear Decaf. Have a moodboard for Bucky’s farm to make up for it, and what I vaguely think the dress would look like
summary: you and bucky barnes were never meant to cross paths, yet a smoky kitchen mishap turned silence into friendship and friendship into something neither of you talked about. now, with your past still hidden from the world and your first mission pulling you straight into danger beside the one person you’ve been trying not to miss, the tension between you finally snaps. in the chaos of a high‑speed diversion and everything left unsaid, the truth you’ve both been avoiding refuses to stay buried.
warnings: MDNI, 18+, lots of emotional tension, high-speed action, guns, car chase, mentions of cartels, mentions and undertones of trauma, arguments under pressure, mission chaos, secret feelings, avoidance, plot for smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv (don’t be silly, cover your willy), creampie, no use of y/n
word count: 4.9k
song inspo: shut up and drive by rihanna
a/n: literally got the idea from CATWS when nat and steve are in the car. also, i yearn for stupid ahh plots so here you go :)
─˖· masterlist
the silence between you and bucky barnes had become a physical thing. it had weight and texture, a suffocating blanket that had been slowly smothering you for three weeks. three weeks of empty hallways, of him turning corners the moment he saw you, of meals eaten at opposite ends of a table that suddenly felt a mile long. it was a stark, brutal contrast to the months before, when his quiet presence had been the most comforting thing in your new life at the tower.
you remembered the beginning so clearly. you’d moved in, a ghost, a secret weapon the team had plucked from the clutches of a colombian cartel who trained you. years of your life, stolen and twisted, had turned you into something sharp and deadly. you’d refused them at first, the idea of being anyone’s soldier again leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, but you’d watched the news, seen the world teetering on a precipice, and knew your skills could do more good than harm hiding away in some remote corner of the globe.
the tower had been intimidating at first. all that glass and steel, filled with gods and super-soldiers and men who built their own personal flying suits. you’d kept to yourself, your past making you wary of forming connections. bucky had been the most intimidating of all, a silent shadow with a haunted look in his eyes that mirrored your own. for the first month, you didn’t speak a single word to each other. you’d share space in the common room, a careful distance between you, two broken things trying not to shatter the others.
the ice broke over a batch of burned pancakes. it was your turn to cook breakfast, a simple task you’d thought you could manage. you’d gotten distracted, lost in a memory, and the smell of acrid sugar and blackened batter had filled the kitchen. you’d been frantically waving a dish towel at the shrieking smoke detector when a low chuckle cut through the chaos. you turned to see bucky leaning against the doorframe, a genuine, unguarded smile on his face. the sight of it hit you like a physical blow, so unexpected and warm.
“need a hand there, pyro?” he’d asked, his voice raspy from disuse.
something in you broke. a hysterical giggle escaped your lips, and then another, until you were laughing so hard you had to brace yourself against the counter. it wasn’t even that funny, but the release, the sheer absurdity of it, was overwhelming. he laughed with you, a deep, rumbling sound that felt like the first thaw of spring. from that moment on, you were inseparable.
he was the only one who understood the nightmares, the phantom pains of a past that wouldn’t let go. you’d spend hours talking in hushed tones in the dead of night, sharing stories that were too heavy for the light of day. those talks led to other things. stolen kisses in the training room, his lips tasting of mint and sweat. nights spent tangled in your sheets, his metal arm a cool, comforting weight on your hip, his touch chasing away the demons that haunted your sleep. he never treated you like you were fragile, but he handled you like you were precious. it was the safest you’d ever felt.
and then, three weeks ago, it all just stopped. no explanation. no fight. just a sudden, cold distance that left you reeling and more alone than you’d felt since you first arrived.
now, you sat in the sterile conference room, the holographic display in the center of the table painting a tactical map of tokyo in blue light. your first mission. it should have felt like a victory, a culmination of all your hard work and training. instead, it felt like a punishment.
“as you know,” steve was saying, his voice calm and steady, “we’ve intercepted intel on a major weapons exchange. the buyers are a high-level terrorist cell, the sellers are dealing in a new chemical agent. the location is a warehouse in the shibuya district.”
tony swiped a hand through the air, bringing up a 3d model of the target building. “the exchange is scheduled for 2200 hours. our objective is to hit them during the transaction, secure the chemical agent, and neutralize all hostiles. but,” he added, zooming in on the surrounding streets, “their security is no joke. they’ve got multiple patrols circulating the perimeter. highly mobile, heavily armed. we can’t get the strike team in without drawing their attention.”
he looked directly at you and bucky, and your stomach plummeted. “so, we need a diversion. a loud, flashy, and highly mobile one.”
steve’s gaze followed tony’s. “we need a pair to draw the patrols on a high-speed chase through the city, leading them as far away from the exchange site as possible. it needs to be convincing, and it needs to last until we’ve secured the warehouse. thankfully, we sent an anonymous tip their way so they know your car might give them trouble.”
your heart hammered against your ribs. you knew what was coming. you were the best shot on the team, your aim honed by years of brutal, unforgiving training. and bucky… well, bucky had learned to drive in a war, and he’d never forgotten how to handle a car like it was an extension of his own body.
“bucky, you’ll be driving,” steve said, confirming your fear. “your skills are unmatched for this kind of evasive maneuvering.” he turned to you. “and you’ll be his gunner. we need someone who can disable those vehicles without destroying them completely, and your precision is exactly what we need.”
you couldn’t bring yourself to look at bucky. you could feel his stillness from across the table, a palpable tension that radiated from him. for weeks, he had been a void where your friend used to be, and now you were supposed to trust him with your life. you were supposed to be a seamless unit, a well-oiled machine. the irony was so bitter it almost made you laugh.
“any questions?” steve asked, his eyes scanning the room.
silence. you just stared at the glowing blue map, your jaw tight.
“great,” tony said, clapping his hands together. “wheels up in two hours. try not to wreck the car. I kind of like that one.”
the meeting adjourned, and you were out of your chair before anyone else, needing to escape, to breathe. you practically fled to the quinjet hangar, needing to feel the open space, to prepare your gear and your mind for the mission without his suffocating presence nearby.
the sleek, black sports car sat waiting in the cargo hold, a beautiful machine designed for speed and destruction. you ran your hands over the cool metal, checking the mounted gun on the passenger side, the custom modifications tony had made. it was perfect. deadly. just like you.
you heard his footsteps before you saw him, a familiar tread that made your shoulders tense. you didn’t turn around.
“hey,” he said, his voice quiet.
you continued checking the ammo clip, your movements sharp and precise as your fingers glided over the gun. “barnes.” you state flatly.
he flinched at the formality. “look… we should talk before we head out.”
“don’t,” you cut him off, your voice dangerously low. “you can’t be serious… you’ve been avoiding me for weeks and you choose now, right before a mission, to suddenly talk to me? let’s just do our job and go back to ignoring each other afterward, yeah?” you snapped.
you finally risked a glance at him. the hurt on his face was plain, but it was quickly masked by the familiar, stoic mask of the winter soldier. he deserved it. every bit of it.
“right,” he said, his voice flat. “the mission.”
you nodded curtly and turned back to the car. “just stay out of my way, and i’ll stay out of yours. we’ll get it done.”
the quinjet ride to tokyo was thick with unspoken words. you sat as far away from him as possible, cleaning your weapons, going over the mission specs in your head, anything to keep from looking at him. but you could feel him watching you, his gaze a heavy weight you couldn’t shrug off.
by the time the jet landed and you and bucky had driven the car off the large jet, night had fallen over tokyo. the city was a dazzling blur of neon and rain, the lights bleeding across the wet pavement. bucky drove with an unnerving calm, weaving through traffic with an effortless precision that was almost beautiful. you were supposed to be the bait, as you drove by the marked location, you’d found your tail almost immediately. two black suvs immediately recognized the car, their engines roaring as they closed in on you.
“here we go,” bucky murmured, his hands tightening on the wheel.
“let’s give them a show,” you replied, your voice all business.
he gunned the engine, and the car leaped forward, a surge of adrenaline shooting through your veins. the chase was on. he drove like a man possessed, taking corners on two wheels, threading through impossibly small gaps, using the cityscape as his personal playground. the suvs stayed with you, their headlights cutting through the rain.
“ready?” he called over the roar of the engine.
“born ready,” you shot back, rolling down your window.
the cold, wet air whipped past you as you climbed halfway out, bracing yourself against the door. you raised your rifle, the scope a familiar comfort against your eye. you found the lead suv, aimed for the engine block, and squeezed the trigger. the shot was true. the car swerved, smoke billowing from the hood, but it kept coming.
“nice shot,” bucky grunted, rolling his eyes at your near-perfect aim, all while swerving to avoid a taxi.
“you ain’t seen nothing yet,” you muttered under your breath, taking aim again.
you took out the second suv's radiator, a plume of steam erupting into the night. it fishtailed, slowing considerably, but the first one was still on you, relentless. the chase was a violent symphony of squealing tires, roaring engines, and the percussive beat of your rifle fire. you were a well-oiled machine, just as steve had wanted, but the silence between you was a grinding, dissonant chord.
“more coming up on your left!” bucky grunted, looking through his mirrors to see more cars joining the chase. he wrenched the wheel hard to the right. the car skidded, the back end sliding out in a controlled drift that sent you slamming against the door frame. “two of ‘em. i can’t shake them on this side.”
you swore under your breath, ducking back into the car to reload. your back was facing the dashboard as you glanced out his window, you saw them. a sleek sedan and another suv, flanking you, matching your speed. there was no clean shot from your side. you were exposed.
“hold on,” you said, your voice tight.
“what are you—”
you didn’t give him time to finish. you threw your rifle onto the back seat, ignoring his shocked look. in one fluid, practiced motion, you swung your leg over the center console, straddling his lap. the shift in weight made the car lurch, but he corrected it instantly, his hands steady on the wheel.
“what the hell are you doing?” he ground out, his eyes wide as you settled against him, your chest pressed to his. the position was intimate, explosive, and utterly insane.
“i can’t get a shot from my side,” you yelled, pulling your sidearm from its holster. you braced one hand on the top of his doorframe, the other on his shoulder, and leaned out his window. the wind and rain lashed at your face. Your eyes flickered down quickly to where he was driving, him looking straight at you, “eyes on the fucking road barnes!” you yelled as he swerved quickly to avoid hitting an object in the street. The car jutted, making you fall back onto his lap.
for a second, he was frozen beneath you, the heat of his body seeping through your tactical gear. then, with a low growl that was pure frustration and something else you couldn’t name, he complied. the car surged forward, and you took aim at the sedan.
the first shot shattered the driver’s side window. the second blew out a front tire. the car spun out, crashing into a barrier. one down. the suv, however, was more persistent. it swerved behind you, and you knew you couldn’t get a clean angle.
the anger you’d been bottling for three weeks finally erupted. “you know what, bucky? this is just like old times! except for the part where you actually talk to me!” you shouted over the wind, firing another shot that ricocheted harmlessly off the suv’s armored frame.
“i’m driving!” he yelled back, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he took a sharp turn down a narrow alley.
“no, you’re avoiding me! you’ve been avoiding me for weeks! what the hell did i do?” the words were torn from you, raw and painful. “was it bad? did i do something wrong? just tell me!” you said, trying to steady your aim on the car.
the suv rammed your bumper, and the car jolted hard. you were thrown back against his chest, his metal arm automatically coming up to brace your waist, holding you steady. the touch was electric, a painful reminder of what you’d lost.
“it’s not you!” he finally roared, the sound ripped from his throat. he swerved again, narrowly missing a stack of pallets. “it was never you!”
“then what?” you demanded, both frustrated that he wouldn’t give you an answer and annoyed that you couldn’t shoot the chasing suv. “what was it, bucky? you can’t just… you can’t just kiss me like you mean it and then vanish! you don’t get to do that to me!” you yelled quickly moving out of this lap, back onto your seat, now that the suv was directly behind yours.
“i was trying to keep you safe!” he blurted out, the words bursting from him like a dam breaking. he took a corner so hard you were sure the car would flip, his driving growing more erratic, more desperate. “from me!”
the confession hung in the air, stunning you into silence. you stared at him, his profile sharp and illuminated by the passing neon lights. he looked tormented, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might break.
“safe?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, laced with incredulity. a bitter, humorless laugh escaped your lips. “you were trying to keep me safe? by ignoring me? by acting like i don’t exist? that’s your grand plan for my safety?” you retorted as you took two shots out your window.
“i’m a monster!” he shot back, his voice cracking. “everything i touch, i ruin! my past… it’s not just history, it’s a goddamn curse. and then this mission… your first one… i knew they’d pair us together. i knew i’d have to watch you walk into danger, and i couldn’t… i can’t be the reason you get hurt. i can’t be the weakness that gets you killed.”
the suv was still there, a relentless predator. you raised your gun, your hands shaking now for an entirely different reason. “you think i don’t know what it’s like to have a past?” you yelled, your body half out the window. your voice thick with emotion. “you think my hands are clean? i was a child soldier for a cartel, bucky! i was trained to be a weapon before i could even drive! i have done… things… that will haunt me forever. don’t you dare stand there and tell me you’re protecting me from your darkness. i’ve been living in the dark my whole fucking life!”
you finally got your shot. the suv swerved, exposing its fuel tank. you fired three rounds in quick succession. the car exploded in a ball of fire, the force of it pushing your car forward. bucky slammed on the brakes, as you sunk back into your seat, the tires screaming as the car skidded to a halt in the middle of the empty alley.
silence descended, broken only by the sound of your ragged breaths and the crackle of flames from the wrecked vehicle. the adrenaline was fading, leaving a raw, trembling ache in its place.
he looked at you, really looked at you, and the mask of the winter soldier was gone. all that was left was bucky. broken, beautiful, bucky. his blue eyes were swimming with regret, shining with unshed tears.
“fuck” he whispered, his voice hoarse. running a shaky hand through his hair. “i’m fucking idiot. i was so scared of my past hurting you, i didn’t stop to think about how i was hurting you myself.” his metal hand tightened around the wheel, the car still completely stopped. “i’m so, so sorry, doll. i pushed away the best thing in my life because i was a coward.” he said looking down towards the steady wheel.
the fight drained out of you, leaving you feeling hollowed out and exhausted. “don’t do that again,” you murmured. “don’t ever push me away again. we face our demons together, remember? that was the deal.”
“i remember,” he said softly. his eyes finally looking up to meet yours “i won’t. i promise.”
he leaned in, across the center console and this time, the kiss wasn’t like the others. it wasn’t stolen or secret. it wasn’t born of desperation or comfort. it was a declaration. it was messy and desperate and full of the rain and the smoke and the taste of apology. it was a kiss that said ‘i’m here’ and ‘i’m not leaving’.
when you finally pulled apart, your foreheads resting together, the comms in your ear crackled to life.
“diversion team, what’s your status?” steve’s voice was crisp and professional. “the exchange is secured.”
bucky looked at you, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. he keyed the comms. “sorry, cap. had a little car trouble. we’re en route now. five minutes out.”
the ride back to the quinjet was different. the silence was no longer a void; it was filled with unspoken understanding. his hand found yours, his fingers lacing with yours, a silent, steadfast promise.
the debriefing was a blur of congratulations and back-slapping. tony was already gloating about his car’s performance, sam was making jokes about bucky’s driving, and steve was giving you both a proud nod but you and bucky only had eyes for each other.
as the team dispersed, heading towards the common room for celebratory drinks and the rest of the debriefing, bucky caught your arm. he didn’t say a word, just tilted his head towards the service elevator. you knew exactly what he meant. you slipped away from the group, unnoticed in the post-mission excitement, and stepped into the empty elevator.
the moment the doors closed, he was on you. he pushed you against the wall, his body pressing into yours, his mouth finding yours in a hungry, desperate kiss. all the weeks of pent-up longing, all the fear and regret, poured into it. his hands were everywhere, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip, pulling you closer.
“bucky,” you gasped as his lips moved to your neck, his teeth scraping your sensitive skin. “not here.”
“my room,” he growled against your skin. “now.”
the elevator doors opened on his floor, and you two practically ran down the hall, him fumbling with the keycard to his room. the door clicked open, and you both stumbled inside, kicking it shut behind you. his room was dark and sparse, a mirror of the man himself but right now, it was the only place you wanted to be in.
Once the door clicked shut, the sound echoed in the quiet room. before you could even register the darkness, his hands were on you again, turning you, pressing you back against the cool wood of the door. his mouth claimed yours with a ferocity that stole your breath, a desperate, hungry kiss that was three weeks of silence and longing given form. there was no gentleness here, only a raw, primal need to close the distance he had so cruelly created.
“bucky,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tac suit, pulling him impossibly closer. you needed to feel him, all of him, to erase the memory of the cold emptiness he had left you with.
“god, i missed you,” he groaned against your lips, the words a ragged confession. his metal hand was cool against your heated skin as he slid it under your shirt, his fingers splaying across the small of your back, holding you flush against him. “every second. i was so stupid.”
“yeah, you were,” you breathed, but there was no heat in it, only a desperate relief. you arched into him, a silent invitation he didn’t hesitate to accept.
he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you away from the door. the world became a blur of motion, his mouth never leaving yours, a frantic, messy dance of lips and teeth and tongue. he didn’t bother with the lights. the only illumination came from the city skyline bleeding through his massive window, painting the room in strokes of silver and blue. he laid you down on his bed, the sheets cool against your back, and finally, finally, pulled back just enough to look at you.
his eyes were dark, the blue almost completely swallowed by the black of his pupils. he looked at you like he was starving, and you were the only thing that could satisfy him. “i’m going to make it up to you,” he promised, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through you. “let me show you.”
you just nodded, your throat too tight to speak. he knelt over you, his movements deliberate now, a stark contrast to the frantic energy from moments before. he reached for the zipper of your tac suit, his fingers brushing against your collarbone. the sound of the metal teeth parting was obscenely loud in the quiet room. he peeled the heavy fabric away, his gaze following his hands, feeling every inch of skin he exposed.
he took his time, mapping the landscape of your body with his lips and tongue. he kissed the scars on your arms, the ones you were so self-conscious of, his touch so gentle it made your eyes burn. he traced the line of your ribs, the curve of your hips, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. he wasn’t just touching you; he was relearning you, committing you to memory all over again.
when his mouth finally closed over your breast, you cried out, your back arching off the bed. your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to you as he lavished attention on you, his tongue swirling around your peaked nipple before he gently bit down. the pleasure was sharp, exquisite, a jolt of electricity that shot straight to your core.
“bucky, please,” you begged, your hips rising to meet his, seeking the friction you so desperately craved.
he lifted his head, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. “patience, doll. i’ve got three weeks to make up for, remember?”
he moved lower, his mouth tracing a path down your stomach, his metal hand holding your hips still when you tried to squirm. he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, pulling them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. he tossed them aside, his eyes fixed on the part of you that was weeping for him.
“so beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. and then he lowered his head and his mouth was on you.
you cried out, your hands flying to his head, your fingers tangling in his soft hair as his tongue delved into your folds. he ate you out with a single-minded intensity, his tongue circling your clit before he sucked it into his mouth, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your entire body. he knew exactly how to touch you, exactly how to drive you wild, and he used that knowledge mercilessly. he slid one finger, then two, inside you, his metal digits cool against your slick heat as he curled them, finding that spot inside you that made you see stars.
the pressure built, a tight coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers. “bucky, i’m… i’m close,” you panted, your hips rocking against his face.
“come for me,” he commanded, his voice vibrating against you. “let me hear you.”
that was all it took. the coil snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure so intense it stole your breath. you cried out his name, your body convulsing as you rode out the waves of your release, his mouth and fingers working you through every last spasm.
he didn’t give you a chance to recover. he moved over you, his body a hard, heavy weight that you welcomed. he was still fully dressed, the rough fabric of his suit a delicious friction against your sensitive skin. he kissed you, and you could taste yourself on his lips, a heady, intimate flavor that made you moan.
“you with me?” he asked, his voice rough with desire.
“always,” you breathed, your hands moving to the zipper of his own suit. you needed him inside you, needed to feel him, to be joined with him in the most fundamental way.
you fumbled with the zipper, your hands shaking with need, and he helped you, shrugging out of the top half of the suit before kicking off his pants. he was magnificent, all hard muscle and scars, a testament to the life he’d lived. his cock was hard and heavy, curving up towards his stomach, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. “i love you,” he said, the words a raw, vulnerable truth. “i was an idiot, and i was scared, but i love you. i should have told you that before.”
tears pricked your eyes, but this time they weren’t from anger or hurt. “i love you too, you idiot.” you whispered quietly.
he grinned, a real, genuine, breathtaking grin that made your heart do a stupid little flip and then he pushed into you, sinking into your heat in one slow, deep stroke. you both groaned at the sensation, the perfect, rightness of it. he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was both overwhelming and utterly perfect. his head falling onto your shoulder.
he started to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, a deliberate rhythm that built the pleasure all over again. he watched you as he moved, his eyes dark and intense, his gaze never leaving yours. it was too much, too intimate, and you had to look away, your head falling back against the pillows
“no,” he grunted, his hand coming up to cup your chin, forcing you to look at him. “eyes on me. i want to see you.”
you met his gaze, and the connection between you was so powerful it was almost painful. he increased his pace, his movements becoming harder, faster, more demanding. the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your breathless moans and his low, guttural grunts. he hooked one of your legs over his arm, changing the angle, and he drove into you deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars.
“bucky,” you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“fuck” he growled, his rhythm becoming erratic, his thrusts losing their smoothness as he chased his own release. “come with me. one more time, doll.”
he reached between you, his thumb finding your clit, and he rubbed it in tight, circles. that was all it took. your orgasm ripped through you, even more powerful than the last, and you screamed his name, your body clamping down around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. he followed you over the edge with a hoarse cry, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside you, his hips jerking against yours as he emptied himself into you.
he collapsed on top of you, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you were both breathing heavily, your hearts hammering against your ribs. you lay like that for a long time, just holding each other, your bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of your passion.
after a while, he rolled off you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. his heartbeat was a steady, reassuring rhythm against your ear. the city lights twinkled outside the window, a silent witness to your reunion.
“we’re going to be in so much trouble for missing the rest of the debriefing,” you murmured, a contented smile playing on your lips.
he chuckled, the sound a low, rumbling vibration in his chest. “worth it,” he said as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “so worth it.”
you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. “yeah,” you agreed, your heart full. “it really was.”
─˖· masterlist
*thanks to @uzmacchiato for the gorgeous lace banners <3
Warnings :: 18+ Content (MINORS DNI!!) mentions of piv sex / sexual activities, pet names, cursing, dirty talk, dry humping, body worship, etc
A/N ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁ Quick smutty Drabble while I finish Bedroom Bully Bucky’s version. Enjoy!
The sun rose and set with him.
More specifically, the sun rose and set with him on you.
Bucky worshipped you and your body. Your gorgeous curves, the chiseled ins and outs akin to a sculpture he’d see in a museum. Every beauty mark, every mole, every spot of hyperpigmentation scattered across the expanse of your luscious figure was art to him, life to him - and he made sure to let you know it.
You never saw what he saw, but you didn’t have to. Bucky would love your entirety of you enough for the both of you.
So when he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you close in the dead of night, a low growl of desire uncontrollably slipping into his voice, you knew exactly what he wanted.
When you were laying in bed, the early morning sun rays tickling your face as your lover gently dry humped you, erection digging into your thinly veiled ass, you knew exactly what he wanted.
Quiet nights almost always turned into nasty, heated rounds of sex. Bucky fucked you over and over again, in any and every position he could. Making you cum one, two, three times, making you cry and beg into the night as he filled you up with his seed enough times to ingrain himself in you like a branding iron.
“You like that, doll? Like it when I fuck you like this?”
“Can’t stop cumming in this tight cunt, you’re gonna make me cum again, shit.”
“Take it, doll. You fucking begged for this cock.”
Quick, brutal, and unforgiving thrusts were just one of many symptoms of the way he’d take you over and over. Sweaty bodies, ruined sheets, headboard scratches, red spank marks, and damn near bruising hickies were only some of the symptoms of a night with your lover. And you loved it, down to the last breath you’d take before you and him drift into a satisfied slumber.
Mornings were for soft, tender worship. Massaging the sore parts of your body, gently stretching your walls out as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear.
“That’s my pretty girl. You take me so well, doll.”
“Just one more for me, sweetheart. Can you do that?”
“That’s it, gorgeous. Cum for me again.”
“I got you, baby. My girl.”
Gentle affirmations, sore bodies, tender kisses, cuddly sex, and lotion and oil massages were the byproducts of a serene morning with your soldier. Lazy mornings would roll into slow afternoons, with you awaking to find lunch cooked already, your sweet soldier preparing your first meal of the day exactly how you like it.
The duality of James was enough to make your head spin. You were his sweetheart, his doll, his perfect girl, and his brat, his little fucktoy, and his undoing all in 24 hours. You never doubted you and your body were well loved; but James certainly had a way of destroying any doubt, just in case.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
So when you’re in your shared apartment bathroom, putting your hair up for the night, you don’t act surprised when James walks in with a look in his eyes. As you pull on your pajamas, lightly cinnamon-scented, you are nowhere near taken aback when Bucky pulls you slack to him, nose buried in your neck as he grinds his hips into your backside.
And as you look at the clock, realizing the time, and that you both have nowhere to be in the morning, there’s only one thing for you to do.
You whip around, wrapping your arms around the broad shoulders of your lust-filled lover and ever-so-gently whisper:
“Bring it on, soldier.”
Credit to the lovely @cafekitsune for the gif dividers °❀.ೃ࿔* title graphic by me!
If you loved this fic, please like, reblog, or comment! I’d love to hear from you pretties °❀.ೃ࿔*
friends to lovers, soft Bucky, a little hurt/comfort/smut where Bucky is your bff, he’s loved you silently and wants more with you. Always been the only one who has shown up for you. He rescued you from a violent ex. Held you through the pain, the recovery, the nightmares, the fear. You’ve just turned 40 and have a longing to get back out there and be in a relationship, but you’re terrified it’s going to end up the same. Every relationship you’ve been in has been mentally or physically violent. Men telling you what to change about yourself so you can be “perfect” for them. You’ve never experienced real love, connection or intimacy before. Never enjoyed sex, just always went through the motions because that’s just part of it. You love Bucky, but you’re so terrified of ruining your friendship, of not being enough for him or being too broken for him. You talk to him about how you’re thinking of putting yourself back out there, but you’re afraid. He shoots his shot and asks you to be with him, because no one can love you better than he does. You tell him your fears and he just calmly reminds you he loves you as you are. Also leads to some intense, intimate, fulfilling detailed smut and relationship.
Don't you ever end up anything but mine
A/N : This might be my favourite fic I've ever written. Mostly because I took so much time with it and drafted it the way I wanted it. I'm so satisfied with how this turned out. I hope you all like it too !
Disclaimer : In the wake of recent events I would like to make it clear that I have not and I will never use ai for writing fics.
Word Count : 3.7k
Warnings : 18+ MDNI, hurt/ comfort, domestic violence, mentions of abusive relationships and manipulative relationships, jerk boyfriends, smut, fingering, PinV, tit play (if you squint), idiots in love. Older reader.
Let me know if I missed something.
The living room is dark when you enter. The only source of light being the low glow of the dim lamp from the far corner of the living room.
The keys jingle as you place them in the bowl on the doorway cabinet and shuffle out of your shoes meekly. Trying to make as less noise as possible to avoid waking up your boyfriend.
You tiptoe into the house, feet landing softly on the hardwood so it wouldn't screech under you as you walk.
“You're late” a voice calls from the couch.
You're startled at the suddenness of it. And the pang of fear that grips you is sharp and immediate.
He's awake
You turn towards the couch. Only now being able to see what the dark had been hiding the whole time.
Your boyfriend is seated on the couch. Face grim. Eyes darker than the room itself and the way your body shudders is automatic.
“Yeah” your voice comes out squeaky. Like it took effort for it to travel all the way through your oesophagus and out of your mouth. “The meeting ran late”
“How many times have I told you to be home before nine” he gets up, stalking closer and you take a step back on instinct.
“I'm sorry.” You start “I—it won't happen again”
“But it happened this time right?” He's close enough now that you can feel his words vibrate into your body.
You try to speak again but a hand grasps your jaw roughly, moving it in the direction of the wall “What time it is right now?” he motions for you to look at the wall clock.
“I—I'm sorry, okay. I didn't mean—”
The grip on your jaw becomes firmer. His fingers flex, pressing harder into your cheeks. “I asked, what time it is?”
“11:30” you say, your voice is shaky. Eyes burning with something so familiar now, it hurts to admit.
His hand loosens around your jaw, and you think this is it. This is it for the night. Until his fingers curl into your hair around the back of your neck.
He pulls and your neck cranes, trying to follow the motion so it wouldn't hurt. “Do you have any idea how worried I was?” he hisses through his teeth.
“I'm sorry” you choke out a sob as he pulls harder.
“No. No more sorries” He growls “ You don't deserve forgiveness now. What you need is a lesson” his eyes meet yours and you feel fear—sharp as electricity—jolt through you.
No.
An electric shock would hurt less.
“Please” you beg “it won't ever happen again. I promise. Please just this time—” you try to pull away but his grip tightens and you cry out.
“Shh.” He places a finger on his mouth, glaring at you and your mouth shuts instinctively “I don't need any more words coming out of that mouth” he snarls, dragging you towards the bedroom.
The knowledge of what's coming for you, dawns on you instantly.
You thrash. Trying to get away. All while pleading him to stop, to wait. Telling him he's hurting you.
He doesn't stop. doesn’t care.
The door to your bedroom opens with a loud thunk and you're pushed onto the bed.
The door closes behind him as he enters and you turn “you're gonna pay for this” his voice is laced with fury and you tremble as he reaches for you…….
You jolt upright from the mattress with a choked gasp. Your chest is heaving. Breaths coming in laboured even as the dream loosens its roots on you.
You don't realise you're sweating through your shirt. Neither do you feel the tears streaming from your eyes in steady, constant rivulets.
All you feel is terror. The alarms going off in your head causing your ears to ring.
Your hands scramble in the dark to find your phone. And you dial the number thoughtlessly. You’ve done this enough times for it to become a muscle memory.
He picks up after a few rings.
“Hello?” His voice is hoarse from the sleep you interrupted and an ugly broken sob tears through your chest at the familiar sound of his voice.
There's shuffling on his side that tells you he has gotten up from his bed in surprise.
“Hey. What happened?”
You don't answer. You can't. You don't think you even have the words for it.
“Tell me sweetheart, please. Are you okay?”
You try to compose yourself enough to tell him what's wrong but all that comes out from between the sobs is his name. Broken and pleading. A complete sentence in all it's honesty.
“Buh—Bucky—” you choke out, hiccuping.
“Oh baby” You can feel his voice soften through the phone as the realisation sinks in. “Breathe for me okay. I’ll be there in fifteen”
The thing about bucky barnes, despite him being your best friend, is that he knows about your past.
He knows about the men you dated, about the men who have hurt you, about the men who—in their opinion—were loving but their love felt more like shackles than affection.
He has been there the whole time.
Holding you when you fell apart after a tormenting relationship.
Rescuing you from an abusive relationship.
Pulling you out of the gutter after you were drowning in guilt from a manipulative relationship.
In 40 years of your life you believe you’ve seen all kinds of men there are to see in the world. But never once have you found anyone even vaguely similar to bucky.
He’s the breath of fresh air in your life. The pole star to your dark nights. The rainbow to your storm clouds.
You’ve been through the hell and back, and yet, the thing that hurts you the most, is that he’s only your friend.
—
By the time bucky arrives at your place your condition has worsened monumentally.
He finds you on the floor, sobbing and shaking and he’s immediately by your side. Crouching until he’s eye level to you.
“Hey. Hey. Hey, baby. look at me. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re here, alright. You'll be okay” You look up from where you’re curled in a fetal position beside your bed.
His soft blue eyes find your frightened teary ones, fingers swiping at your cheeks to wipe the tears away.
He says your name in that endearing way he has said it for years now and you fall into his arms like a mourning widow and resume sobbing.
“Jack” you cry into his arms “He’s gonna hit me” you hiccup between sobs and his voice gentles even more
“He won’t, sweetheart. He can’t. I won't let him. It was just a dream” his arms come around you themselves, holding, caressing your head softly.
“You don’t know that.” shaking your head “He was—” you choke on a sob “He was right there. I saw him, he was gonna hurt me” you burrow into him like if he held you tight enough, no one will come for you.
“I know it felt real, sweetheart. I know. But it was—hey look at me—it was just a dream, okay. He isn't here.” You sniffle into his chest and his arms tighten around you. Cooing softly to soothe your erratic nerves.
“Just a dream” he keeps whispering unto your hair. Like if he'll say it enough times, maybe you'll believe it.
That's the thing about bucky. He's been through hell and back with you.
Dragged you out of your darkest times, without so much as a complaining sigh. He did it deliberately. You could feel it in the way he'd look at you. The way he'd joke and whine about little inconveniences in his life like they were huge tragedies until you’d forget your own worries and giggled “you're such a child”
And that's the thing about you. You can't not love him.
Between manipulative exes, and abusive relationships, you fell for the only man who stayed long enough to know you inside out. Who stayed long enough to be your home. Who stayed long enough that you inevitably and irrevocably fell in love with him.
And as he holds you through the panic attack, you're yet again reminded of the love that, despite being within your arm's reach, is too far away to have forever.
—
By the time weekend arrives, the nightmare has lost its grip on you completely.
You're laying sideways on his couch. Feet resting on his lap as the movie plays in background and popcorn lays untouched on the table.
Somewhere along the way, Friday nights had become a thing for the two of you.
Watching movies, eating pizza, talking shit about grumpy bosses, and ending the night with some cheap wine until you both forgot your woes.
Today was one of those days, and somehow, the conversation had drifted to your love life.
He had asked if you had any other nightmares this week and you had denied.
And from thereon, you had talked about every agonizing thing about dating you had ever encountered.
How dating apps are practically a scam. And how you don't want sleazy and drunk guys from the bars. And how your trust on the relationship has died down completely after all your past experiences.
Which is why, when the certain words—ironic to your statement before—come out of your mouth, bucky freezes with the popcorn halfway to his mouth.
“I've been thinking of putting myself back out there” you say casually, like it hasn't almost stopped bucky's heart. “Maybe I should try something new. Get into those matchmaking websites or something”
You go on. Rambling about how you’re thinking maybe there’s still some hope left for you to date, and what not. Bucky doesn’t hear any of it. He had zoned out the moment you mentioned ‘putting yourself back out there’
Whatever you’re saying right now is a background noise for him, his mind is already thinking about how he has wasted so many years keeping his feelings to himself. Hoping you’ll find someone better than him, someone who deserved to be loved by you.
He remembers his heart breaking the first time you introduced him to a boy. Liam, or whatever his name was. He remembers you calling him for the first time in months after that and how he got excited to hear your voice again only to find you sobbing on the other side.
If there’s anything he hates in the world, its to see you cry.
He hadn’t said anything then because you wanted someone who understood you, heard you. Not someone who unceremoniously announced he loves you when you were already so miserable.
So he stayed quiet.
Years passed in him thinking it’s not the right time. In believing you deserved someone better. In hoping you’d say it first that you love him.
“Why?” the words tumble out of his mouth all of a sudden, before he can stop them.
“What?” Your brows furrow.
“Why do you want to go through all that again. Haven’t you had enough?” his words are harsh, laced with irk for all the time they spent waiting inside his mouth.
You’re surprised at the way he says it “Bucky, what do you mean? I have to put myself out there because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life moping or lonely or loveless” you counter.
“Is that how you think your life is? alone and loveless?” he looks offended as he continues “You can’t see it, can you?”
“Can’t see what, bucky?”
He leans forward, grabbing you by shoulders. Not harsh, just enough for you to look at him as he says, “Can’t you see that all you’ve ever searched for has been here the whole time? Can’t you see that no matter how many times you try this whole dating thing, it won’t be the same because it’s not us?”
He sits back slightly, hands leaving your shoulders and finding your hands.
“Why can’t you see that I love you!”
His voice somehow gentles even more as he continues, “I’ve loved you since we were sixteen and bunking lectures to go to the movies. I’ve loved you since you helped me sneak pizza in my dorm and took the blame upon yourself when we got caught” he continues
“Can’t you see? It’s been you all along.”
He looks up from your hands, and raises a brow at your stunned expression “Don’t be so surprised”
The audacity of this man!
“Of course I am surprised” you say “After all these years I’ve spent thinking my love was one sided, you’re telling me you’ve loved me all along?”
It was his turn to be stunned now. Mouth falling open in sheer shock as his brain malfunctioned in processing the information
“ wh—what?” He stuttered
“I love you bucky barnes” you confirm “I've loved you since your broke Henry Stafford's jaw in college after he called me a boring bitch”
He laughs. Genuine and booming. “I think you're forgetting the part where I broke three knuckles, and you had to do my homework for the rest of the semester”
“Well” you giggle, inching closer “there's always a price to pay for love, isn't there?”
He notices you leaning towards him and pulls you into his lap. You go happily “And it's a price I'd gladly pay”
You lean forward, lips brushing his until he captures it in a kiss that tastes of all the time you spent waiting and all the wrong roads that led you here.
His hands come around your waist, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his.
When he pulls away, there's a dazed expression on his face like he's drunk from the kiss alone. Drunk on your proximity.
His head comes to rest against your chest “You have no idea how long I've waited for this”
“I might have some idea” you tease, pressing a kiss into the brown hair you've ruffled so many times.
You're so content on having him here and so lost in the moment that it takes you a minute to realise he's mouthing on your chest through your shirt.
Your fingers fumble their way to his hair, curling around the soft strands at as his teeth graze your tender flesh through the fabric.
“Bucky—” his name comes out breathy and he takes the cue, hands finding the hem of your shirt and tugging it up until its off and on the floor before making quick work of your bra and letting it fall to the floor alongside the shirt.
He takes a moment to admire the view. You, in his lap, naked and flushed. Oh, how he had dreamed about this moment all his life. Yet somehow it turned out even better than his imagination.
His warm mouth closes around a nipple and you moan into his hair. His other hand massages the breast that didn't get to feel his mouth, before switching sides.
You let out a whine as his teeth grazes against the tender flesh before soothing it again with his tongue.
When he's satisfied with his work, his mouth leaves you breast to trail upwards. Tongue lapping at the salt of your skin.
His teeth occasionally nip at your collarbone, at your neck, at your jaw. Leaving hot red marks blooming in their wake.
You grind down onto him as you feel him suck yet another hickey against your neck. The growing bulge in his sweats pressing deliciously on your core.
You can't resist moving. And he shudders a muffled sigh against your skin.
“Need you, buck” You dip your head to gather his mouth into another warm kiss. This one more fervent than the last. More desperate.
“Not here” He pulls away, just enough to say it and stand up from the couch with you still clinging to him.
You yelp “Bucky!”
He gives you a light peck, chuckling at your startled expression and teases “I'm not gonna drop you sweet girl”
You swat at his chest, smiling despite yourself “you better not”
When you make it to his bedroom, he lowers you softly onto his bed.
The room is familiar. So familiar. You've been here hundreds of times. Playing games. Watching movies. Stealing his clothes.
But never like this.
Never with him looming over you with lust blown eyes and love confessions pouring out of him like it's second nature.
Your hand curls around the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer until his face rested just above yours.
“You made me wait too long” you complaint, but there's no real heat to it.
“Then let me make it up to you” he whispers against your mouth. The kisses turn more heated now. All teeth and tongue.
The clothes come off soon after, in drunken haze of two people lost in the moment.
The first brush of his fingers against your core sets you alight. The sound that leaves you is embarrassing in all it's honesty.
But bucky doesn't care. If anything it inspires him to double down.
He teases you until you're begging. Light brushes of fingers, barely any pressure, until you're writhing beneath him.
“Bucky, please”
“Yeah? You want me that bad sweetheart?” He teases, not mocking, just amused.
All you can manage is a dumb nod until two of his fingers find their way inside you. You clench around him. Moaning at the fullness.
He stretches you slowly. Fingers moving at an agonising pace. His thumb comes up to rub tight circles on your clit and you jolt up from the bed at the feeling.
His other palm finds your thighs immediately. Holding them down as he quickens his pace.
You whimper, toes curling and back arching off of the bed as your orgasm washes over you.
You lay there, breathing laboured, cheeks rosy, and a soft sheen of sweat covering your body, and bucky thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful.
He presses a chaste kiss against your thigh, your hip, your stomach, trailing upwards until his mouth finds his destination.
The kiss is intense, full of restraint and rapture. Your hands find his ass, squeezing at the flesh and he thrusts forward involuntary.
His cock, hard and tinged pink at the tip nudges at your core and you gasp into his mouth.
“Buck—” you start, but he beats you to it.
“Think you're ready for me sweetheart?” His eyes are reverent even when lustful, like if you said no, there was no chance he was going ahead. He looked perfectly content just to have you like this.
But you can't say no. Not when you have spent so much time waiting for him, for this. Imagining him on dark nights with your hand between your thighs. Wondering how it would feel if it had been him.
You nod eagerly. And he leans forward kissing your forehead and breaching you with the slightest pressure. You feel it immediately. The way your walls open to welcome him. The slight burn at the sudden fullness.
Bucky’s breaths come in uneven from where his head is buried against your neck, as he adjusts to the feeling.
“Uh—fuck. So warm, baby. So tight. Fuck” he groans as he thrusts forward until he's buried all the way to the hilt.
He stills. Adjusting. Waiting.
The burn subsides slowly, giving way to pleasure and you urge bucky to move. His thrusts start shallow. Barely pulling out before rutting back into you.
The pace he sets is slower now. More erratic. More desperate. Restraint running thin as he drives into you with primal urgency.
He watches his cock drag in and out of your pussy like it's a enlightening experience for him.
The sound you make at the sight is embarrassing and you'll forever deny making it. But Bucky like this is a sight to see.
He's flushed all over, expression wrecked, sweat damp hair sticking to his forehead, as he fucks into you like it's the last time he'll ever get to do it.
His hand abruptly finds your clit again as he feels himself on the edge. You gasp, back arching off the bed and clenching around him as you surrender yourself to the pleasurable feeling.
He doesn't let up. If anything his thrusts grow more fervent. Curses spilling out of his kiss swollen lips as he pounds into you before hot ropes of his release spill inside you.
He flops forward almost immediately. Letting his full weight fall onto you as he comes down from his high. Breath still coming in heavy as he peppers sweet, chaste kisses across your clavicle.
When his breathing settles, he rolls over and pulls you upon himself until you're lying on his chest.
He pulls the covers up over both of you, before his hands settle at your back. Caressing softly. His eyes find yours and you bold his gaze. The blue has returned to them. And you're suddenly shy.
“We should go shower” you suggest, looking away as heat rises to your face for no apparent reason other than having him like this.
He looks offended at the suggestion. Like you've asked him to get lost.
“Hey” he pouts “you've kept me waiting for about 20 years. I'm not going anywhere until I get my time's worth” You giggle as he presses his lips against your cheeks in a loud, wet kiss.
And you decide in the dark of the night and that in his arms, will forever remain your favourite place to be.
Dividers : @dividers-are-us
Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514 , @globetrotter28
pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x reader | word count: 5.4k
prompt: "wait, it's valentine's day today?!" as part of the dear my darling reader event! organised by the one and only @salty-tang
warnings: established relationship, dry humping, smut, oral (f. receiving), face-sitting, male self-pleasure, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, mating press, creampie, praise, overstimulation, pussy pronouns, slight size kink, cum-play, aftercare, tooth-rotting fluff
summary: Bucky's the perfect boyfriend — sweet and attentive and does anything to make you happy — so who cares that he forgets this one valentine's day? Especially when he spends the morning making it up to you, nestled between your legs.
a/n: this is dedicated to the beautiful @pinksplace 🩷 dear sweet Pink, I hope you enjoy this lil valentine's fic as much as I always enjoy your fics! you are so incredibly talented! I was so excited to get to write this for you and had the best time doing so 🩷
You wake up softly, slowly — the kind of morning where your eyes adjust gently to the light peeking through the blinds, and your body gives a small stretch as you wake. Bucky’s nose nudges against the skin of your neck before placing a soft kiss there. He’s shirtless against you — in nothing but his boxers — his skin warm against yours, dog tags pressing into your chest.
“Mm— morning doll.” He nuzzles his face closer, metal arm wrapping around your waist possessively as his leg slings heavily over yours, pressing you further into the mattress. You welcome the feeling, his weight grounding and safe. You push your knee up, grazing your leg across his before settling into the weight of him on top of you, tilting your head to press your lips to his forehead. The smell of his shampoo washes over you as his hair tickles your nose.
You crinkle your nose up and bring a hand to his hair, pushing it back as you place another kiss to his head.
Bucky groans against your skin — a low, content sound, like the safest place to be is right here, with your hands in his hair and his arm draped across you, the sweet smell of your jasmine body wash pressed against his nose.
“Buckyy,” you singsong, gently brushing your hands through his hair. Your eyes flutter shut when his lips brush against your skin.
“Hmm?” His hot breath fans over your neck, eyes still closed, nudging himself impossibly closer.
You love him like this.
All soft and sleepy and completely yours. You feel his heartbeat against your chest and smile.
Steady. Safe. Yours.
“You not sleep good baby?” You’re peering down at him, nose tilted towards his.
Bucky never really slept well, always waking in the night to his chest pounding or his body shaking. Before you, he barely slept at all. He’d be lucky to get an hour or two. But tucked against you — you with your soft hands and fierce protectiveness you wrapped around him like a security blanket, you who never complained when he woke you by mistake — just slowly lulling him back to sleep with gentle, deep-pressure strokes across his back and sweet nothings whispered against his skin — he allows himself to breathe, lets himself rest.
“Mm, slept okay,” he grumbles, turning his head in towards the pillow, shielding his eyes from the light. You can’t help but smile at how young he looks when he does that, nose and eyes scrunched, and a little crease in between his brows.
You kiss it away.
“Valentine’s Day today…” you whisper, voice high, hopeful.
Bucky stirs before lifting his head from the space between your shoulder. His eyes blink the sleep out rapidly before meeting yours. His face is still soft with sleep — unguarded, slightly dishevelled, tiny creases on his cheek from the pillow.
God, he’s beautiful in the morning.
“Wait, it’s Valentine’s Day today?!” Bucky rubs at his eye, voice groggy and deep.
You smile gently despite the twinge of disappointment you feel.
“Mhm, you forget or something?” Your thumb traces his jaw lovingly and Bucky melts into it.
“M’sorry doll.” He kisses the inside of your palm resting on his face, eyes apologetic.
You don’t mind too much — not when he’s the perfect boyfriend in every other way.
Bucky’s attentive.
It’s instinct for him to pick up on small details. And ever since he met you, he’d been tucking away every single finding into his mind, filing them in alphabetical order, all kept as notes of how to love you right — care for you the way you needed. He’d notice the way you’d frown at people who were rude to servers, the way you’d flinch slightly at a raised voice or the way you’d curl into yourself and go quieter when you were burnt out. It was subtle; your smile not quite reaching your eyes, your breath slightly heavier, little sighs in between tasks and a slight wobble of your lip when he’d ask you what’s wrong.
He listens.
He knows the way you take your coffee, the way you don’t like the crusts on toast, the way you’ll have an extra sugar in your tea if it’s after dinner. He knows you like the fan on when you sleep, even when it’s cold. He always buys you the right jewellery, the right flowers — pink peonies wrapped in paper, tied with a soft pink ribbon.
Always plans out your birthday, takes you on dates.
Anything you want for, he gladly obliges.
Every whim, every crazy idea you have, every new hobby you pick up on a random Tuesday night, insisting — ‘Bucky, this is the one, I swear.’ Of course, it’s not the one and you pick up on another within a month and Bucky never complains — simply goes to the craft store yet again, picking out all the things you might need, handing them to you silently in a paper bag — yarn, crochet hooks and the soft little buttons you insisted you need for your plush penguin.
He listens to you talk about your junk journal, collecting silly items like the wrapper for his pastry or the tag from the new jumper he’d bought. He gets the hang of it, saving the movie tickets from your date, or the napkin from the coffee shop he’d been to and presents them to you. You’d tuck them away, face beaming, trying very hard to not squeeze his face between your hands.
You used to get anxious when first suggesting things to him — previous partners who’d get annoyed or frustrated that you’d started another DIY, who’d complain about the smell of hot glue or the half-finished projects scattered around the house. But you had quickly learnt that his silence only meant he was thinking of how to make it happen for you.
You wanted to turn the doorways in the apartment into archways? He’s helping you plaster and paint the walls. You want to paint flowers into the trimming? He’s washing your brushes and lining up stencils.
Anything to make you happy — to make you feel seen and heard and completely at home with him.
“S’okay Buck, I don’t really care that much about Valentine’s.” You lean forward, kissing him, before settling back against the headboard, pillows tucked in behind you.
“Let me make it up to you.” He’s slotting himself between your legs, head nestling against your chest, placing a kiss on your collarbone. His flesh hand is pressed into the mattress next to your head, bracing himself over you, his metal one squeezing your hip, thumb pressing into the strip of skin where your top has ridden up.
You arch up into him as he places another kiss to your sternum, your collarbone, then higher — dragging heat across your skin as your hands curl into the tendrils of his hair. You hum happily when his lips part against your throat, before moving to your jaw, placing soft kisses.
“Bucky.” You’re already needy — soft and wanting as he continues nipping at your neck.
You push back on his shoulders and Bucky gives, laying back for you to straddle him, knees pressing into either side of the bed. You feel your hips stretch at the sheer size of him.
Bucky looks up at you — your eyes sparkling and hair falling around your face, looking like the rest of his life. His chest swells at the thought — you with his ring on your finger, you round with his baby, in his home, in his bed — for as long as he’s lucky enough to be chosen by you.
And you’ll continue choosing him every single day.
A soft smirk plays at your lips, and he knows he’s gone.
Completely and utterly bewitched by every part of you.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful. I’ll never get used to it.” His calloused hand comes to brush the hair out of your face — cupping it firmly, thumb stroking your cheek as you melt into his touch.
“You gonna make it up to me, James?” Your voice is smooth, sultry against his ear as your cheek presses to his — the stubble scratching at your skin.
“Yeah baby, gonna make it up to you.” He swallows hard, hand seeking out your face, cradling your jaw — pulling you to him, kissing you deep and slow — tongue slipping into your mouth as he tilts your head for him, fingers pressing deliciously into the back of your neck.
The kiss quickly turns desperate — all teeth and tongue and breathless gasps — Bucky letting out a low groan when you grind your hips down onto him. There’s barely anything between you, his boxers and a pair of your sleep shorts. You’re completely bare underneath. Your hands cup his face, his running up and down your sides, palms warm against your waist.
His hands are so big, curling around the expanse of your ribcage as they inch closer to your chest.
He thumbs at your nipples through your thin pink top, before pinching them gently, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger.
You gasp.
You lean into his touch, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him deeper, his fingers moving under your shirt, tracing the underside of your boobs before rolling your nipples between his fingers again, tugging at them gently.
“Mm— Bucky—” Your chest arches into his touch, your top somehow making its way to the floor, your breasts falling perfectly in front of him. You grind your hips down harder onto his growing bulge — thick and hard between your legs. The friction combined with Bucky’s mouth on your breasts makes your head go fuzzy.
Bucky loves the soft sounds you make before he’s even really started, always so pliant for him, your body molding to the shape of his, pressing towards him like you can’t get close enough — like you want to be consumed by him.
You kiss him again, guiding his jaw, nose pressing into his cheek. He hums into your mouth when your wetness coats through the fabric of his boxers, and you swear the sound could end you. It vibrates through you, travelling down your spine and melting into a puddle low in your stomach.
Bucky jerks his hips up to meet yours. You rock against him, hips moving in slow rolls against his throbbing length. Your hands twist into his hair as you kiss him deeper, letting Bucky guide your hips along his. You’re gasping against his mouth, wet hot desire pooling embarrassingly fast, soaking through your shorts and his boxers.
You reach down and pull his cock free, gliding your hand up and down the thick length, thumb spreading the pre-cum around his tip before brushing the underside.
“Oh fuck sweetheart.” Bucky pulls away from your mouth, leaning further into your touch, every part of him desperate for you.
“You wanna fuck me, Bucky? Hmm?”
“God, yes.” His voice traces over your neck. He can’t stop kissing you. Tasting you.
“I just, I can’t get enough baby. Let me taste you doll, please.”
Your eyes nearly roll back at the please. Your stomach flips at the way his head tilts back, looking up at you like you hold the answers to the universe.
The answers to him.
He doesn’t have to ask again before you pull your shorts off, throwing them to the side. He sheds his boxers quickly. You settle your hips back down flush against his, letting him feel your soaked folds against his hard cock.
Bucky lets out a low, visceral sound, gripping your hips tighter.
You can’t help but let your pussy drag up his length, once, twice — his tip nudging your clit, before catching between your folds. You let out a loud moan, grabbing onto him for balance. You push him down, hands dragging up the hard lines of his abs, through his chest hair before settling on his broad shoulders. You crawl up his body, letting your slick drag against the bare skin of his stomach, his chest.
Bucky moans at the feel of it, “So warm baby, so soft.” He’s not even saying it to you, more like muttering worship into the skin of your thighs.
His hands wrap around your legs and the way he looks at you can only be described as reverent. He kisses the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing slightly — his gaze never leaving yours.
He’s underneath you and you’re trembling — legs shaking on either side of his head as you hover over him. There’s something so intoxicating about having a man so big, so strong, completely taken by you. By your legs wrapped around his head. By the sweet smell of your pussy. Bucky pulls you down onto him, wanting nothing more than your full weight against him.
“C’mon doll, sit please.” His fingers dig into your thighs — metal and flesh — dragging you onto him.
You land with a broken little sound, still trying hard to not put your full weight on him.
He grips your thighs tighter, smirking before wrapping his lips around your clit, never easing you into it. The sound of it has your eyes rolling back — a low, wet pull — tongue flicking against your clit, and you collapse against his face.
“Fuck— Bucky— oh…” Your voice trails off into a moan as his tongue breaches your opening, slipping between the wet folds.
“Mm Bucky— you— mmph.” Your hips roll down against his face and Bucky groans — a low guttural sound that vibrates through you. He pulls your hips down, burying his face further into your weeping, aching cunt.
He knows every pull, every movement that makes your body tremble for him.
He lets his right hand reach down for his cock, his metal hand pressed into the curve of your ass, holding you to his face. His hand tugs at the length, stroking up and down as his tongue continues fucking into you.
Bucky looks up to take you in.
You’re a vision — skin flushed, dewy with sweat, brows pulled together in pure pleasure, chest heaving — his name falling from your lips over and over like a prayer.
And when your thighs tighten around his ears —
Bucky swears he’s in heaven.
The obscene slick sounds are muffled against his face, the sweet cadence of your moans echoing in his ears as you come against his face. Your orgasm washes over you in slow, soft waves, matching the pace of your hips as you ride it out, pushing his face further into your dripping cunt.
He pulls you off him and throws you down onto the bed before you even realize what’s happening. His lips are swollen, chin wet with your slick, beard soaked with you. He kisses you like he’s thanking you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into his mouth, hands already moving to his cock, guiding him towards you.
“Please Bucky, need you inside me.” You stroke him up and down, tightening your hand just slightly at the base.
Bucky wants to tease you, drag it out — but he can’t. Not when your voice is begging for him so sweetly, not when one hand is tenderly placed over his heart, the other still stroking him, coating the tip in your slick. Not when you’re looking at him like he’s your whole world and every dream you’ve ever had.
So he moves your hand, bringing it to rest on the large expanse of his back and pushes in with a slow, deep thrust.
“Buckyy— fuck—” You gasp at the stretch — the delicious burn of him pushing further and further into your waiting cunt making your eyes roll back. He lets you adjust, kissing you through it, fingers slotting between yours as he pins your wrists to the bed.
“So tight baby, fuck, she’s squeezing me so good—”
Your hips roll up into his, letting out a soft whimper when his tip nudges something inside you and Bucky moves. He starts thrusting into you — deep, slow strokes that have you burying your face in the crook of his neck, letting out muffled moans into his skin.
When he thrusts harder, faster and you let out a soft little whimper — Bucky doesn’t hold back. It’s like the sound of your voice flips a switch inside him that exists only for you.
Something raw and animalistic overtakes him. He feels it crawl up his spine, posessive and dangerous, wanting nothing more than to claim you, to mark you from the inside out.
He didn’t get like this all the time, but god when he had you like this — spread out beneath him, legs bent on either side of his hips, hands resting on his waist, panting and open for him, he couldn’t help what it brought out in him.
“Gonna fill this sweet little pussy up— fuck—” Bucky almost collapses forward when you clench around him, looking up at him with faux innocence, like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.
His pupils go wide at the sight of your lower lip caught between your teeth, thrusting into you harder. His hands travel up the lengths of your legs, before pushing your thighs out and into your chest so fast, you forget how to breathe.
“Fuck Bucky — slow—” You cry out as his tip drags against a spot in you so deep, you swear you can feel it in your throat. You pull him impossibly closer — Bucky letting his full weight rest against the backs of your thighs, pressing you into the mattress.
“Can’t slow down baby. Look at you—fuck—” His eyes roll back as he watches your mouth fall open, completely soundless, too fucked dumb for anything to come out.
His shoulders press into the back of your knees, hips slamming against yours so hard, his dick nudges against your cervix, over and over and over.
“You want me to fuck a baby into you, huh?” Bucky’s metal hand goes under your back, somehow pulling you closer to him. It’s too much — his words, the drag and stretch of his cock in your warm, wet walls, the feel of your slick dripping onto his balls, your body folded in half like this is what it was made for. For him. To be used and bred by him.
“Yes Bucky yes, please, please— want your baby.” You let out a sob, the pleasure twisting with the sheer emotion of being so completely his.
Your hands twist desperately in the sheets as your body rocks back and forth under Bucky’s weight — your mind turning to mush as his thrusts slow, letting you feel every inch of him sinking into you.
“Bucky— I’m—” Your voice comes out broken, desperate little inhales as Bucky fucks you somehow deeper.
“Yeah, my pretty girl gonna cum for me?” Bucky’s voice is rough against your skin, his dog tags swinging against your throat as your head tilts back, pressing your face sideways into the pillow.
“Oh— oh Bucky!” You practically screech when his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.
“Look at me when I’m fucking you.” He growls, grabbing your jaw and pulling your gaze to his.
Your beautiful fucked-out gaze.
“Can’t— can’t— s’too much— fuckkk.” Your head threatens to tilt back, the pleasure building to the point you think you might just pass out, before Bucky grips your chin between his fingers.
“You can take it— cum for me doll, cum around my cock.” His thumb presses tighter against your clit, his dick hitting your soft spot with relentless precision.
You break.
Your orgasm hits you so strong, so sharp — your vision goes white. It spreads through your body like wildfire, clenching and pulsing, hips jerking up against his. Bucky fucks you through it, slow and controlled, murmuring praise, ‘So good for me baby, that’s it, that’s it— there she is.’
You whine, eyes glazing over, the overstimulation bordering on too much — one part of you wanting to pull away from him, the other wanting to slip further down the sweet spiral of insanity with him.
“You can give me one more. One more while I cum in this sweet little pussy. Gonna fill her up.”
Your knees are still pressed to your shoulders, the burn in the back of your legs only adding to the overwhelming pleasure as Bucky continues pounding into you.
“Bucky— I can’t— I can’t—” Your head thrashes side to side and Bucky grips your chin in his hands, so gentle compared to the way he was fucking you.
“You can baby, just one more, one more.” He kisses you soft and sweet.
And you nod, like he knows your body better than you do — because he does.
“She wants it, doesn’t she? She’s gripping me so tight doll— fuck—”
You’re babbling now, complete nonsense as you feel your orgasm building again.
“Oh fuck doll, gonna cum, gonna make sure it takes.” He thrusts into you twice more before you feel him cum, hot spurts filling you over and over until it’s dripping out around his cock.
“Take it sweetheart, it’s all for you. All for you.” He continues thrusting into you, riding out his orgasm, fucking his cum back into you.
“Bucky— I’m—”
“Give it to me doll, good girl— good girl.”
His thumb presses into your clit and you swear you black out as you cum, screaming his name like it’s the only word you know.
You’re both panting, completely breathless, your body still rolling with aftershocks as Bucky unfolds you, pulling out with a hiss, watching his cum drip out. He pushes his metal thumb between your folds, collecting what he can before pushing it back inside you.
“Bucky—” you whine, hips twitching around his thumb.
“Shh, shh, can’t let it go to waste, sweetheart.”
You lie there, too fucked-out to protest, letting him play with you. He places a final kiss to your clit before kissing up your body and resting his forehead against yours.
“You good baby?”
You nod, smiling up at him before kissing him, hand resting on the side of his cheek.
You barely register Bucky picking you up, carrying you to the bathroom with that super soldier ease. He holds you up while you shower — your legs still trembling, sore and sticky and thoroughly used. Bucky massages lotion into your thighs after, kissing your ankles, your knee— whispering praise into your skin.
And just as thoroughly as he ruins you — he takes care of you after, nudging his nose with yours, whispering sweet nothings against your lips as you giggle, mussing his wet hair.
“I was thinking we could do panc—” You stop mid sentence, the thought dying in your mind as your eyes land on the scene in front of you.
The apartment’s been transformed.
The living room is covered from one end to the other in hanging flowers, pink peonies wrapped around clear string, giving the illusion that the flowers are hanging freely.
You turn back to him, mouth agape.
Alpine struts up to the two of you, head nudging against Bucky’s leg before coming up to you. You pick her up, scratching behind her ear as she purrs happily. Bucky shakes his head at the sight, still slightly betrayed by his own cat having chosen you as her preferred human.
You look up at the roof, noticing the strings have been hung clumsily with pieces of bright red tape.
You laugh at the sight, shaking your head when Bucky mutters, ‘was the only tape we had.’
You put Alpine down before looking closer at the garlands hanging from the roof.
There’s little polaroid photos of the two of you hanging between each flower, ones of you from before you’d started dating, from date nights or just a photo he’d sneakily taken of you while playing cards late at night. Fairy lights are draped around the room, casting the room in a warm glow.
“Bucky— what?” Your eyes are filled with tears, looking between him and the room. He guides you over to the kitchen with an excitement that resembles a small puppy.
The kitchen island is scattered with heart shaped chocolates wrapped in pink foil. There’s a plate of pancakes covered with a net food cover (more to stop Alpine than anything else), tiny fake tealights lining the edges of the counter, setting a warm glow over the food. There’s a vase sitting in the middle — one you had made — with a bouquet of the most beautiful pink peonies, stems carefully trimmed and a ribbon tied around the neck of the vase.
There’s a small open box next to it, with small rolled up notes in a jar that reads ‘reasons I love you’ in Bucky’s handwriting. A scented candle sits next to it, as well as a gift voucher for your favorite craft store that reads ‘for whenever your next hobby comes around’.
Your bite your lip, tears falling freely from your eyes now and you don’t know whether you’re laughing or crying. You turn to him, shaking your head.
“You— Bucky—”
Bucky stands there with a goofy grin, eyes twinkling, reflecting the fairy lights. His hair’s still damp from the shower, a few wet drops on his white t-shirt and he’s never looked more like home.
“You like it?” He adjusts one of the flower garlands, before stepping closer to you, hand resting gently on your waist.
“Bucky— I— I— when did you—” Your hands travel up his chest, one hand resting on his cheek, the other on his shoulder.
He smiles sheepishly, looking down.
“Last night, after you went to sleep. And then I got up early and did the pancakes.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, like your heart isn’t threatening to burst out of your chest at any second.
“Oh my god how did I not wake up?” You laugh wetly, looking around the room in disbelief.
“You were out like a light baby.” His forehead rests against yours, hands sliding fully around your waist now.
“It’s perfect Bucky. So perfect. No one— no one’s ever done something like this for me before.” You pause, taking a shaky breath, like if you breathe too loud, the moment might disappear.
“Why— why?” Your eyes don’t meet his.
“Because you deserve it.” He pulls your chin up gently so your eyes meet his.
He says it like a fact — no room for argument, no questioning. Just simple. Like it’s the only reason there could be.
“And I’d do anything to see that pretty smile on your face.”
You can’t help but smile then, eyes tearing up as he looks down at you with so much love, you feel as though you have to look away.
“There it is…my perfect girl.”
You hide your face in his neck, hugging him close, feeling his laugh rumble through his chest.
You pull back, smacking his chest lightly.
“Oh my god, why’d you let me go on about making it up to me?”
He smirks.
“Any excuse to get you to sit on my face doll.”
“Buckyy.” You roll your eyes, smacking his chest again before pulling him into another hug.
“What, like you were complaining? You were rocking against my face like I was your personal toy baby. All ‘mm Bucky pleasee.’” He mocks you, laughing when you groan into his shoulder.
“If you make fun of me one more time, I’ll literally never moan for you again.”
Bucky laughs, “Like you can help it.”
“I can. Try me.”
“Is that a challenge?”
Bucky’s eyebrow cocks and heat pools low so fast at the sudden roughness of his voice, you don’t know how he does it.
One look and you’re a puddle for him.
But as much as you could probably go another five rounds with him, your stomach’s growling and the smell of the pancakes has your mouth watering.
“Mhm, but later, I’m hungry.”
He laughs, shaking his head and squeezing your ass before pulling away from you. He makes you a plate — pancakes and strawberries and maple syrup, topped with vanilla ice cream and presents it to you with a dramatic flourish.
“For you, my love.”
Your heart beats stupidly in your chest, like you’re five and it’s the first time holding a boy’s hand on the playground.
“Why, thank you.” You sit on the kitchen stool, giggling as he feeds you a strawberry from his plate.
You eat until you can’t eat anymore, laughing and talking about everything and nothing all at once. Alpine had jumped into Bucky’s lap at one point, trying to get his ice cream from his plate as he pushed it away from her. She had circled his lap before deciding there were better things to do with her time— jumping off to lay in the patch of sun shining through the balcony door.
“I still can’t believe you did all this.” Your hands wrap around your mug, the warmth lingering from the coffee.
Bucky knows it’s not because of him that you don’t believe it. He knows that deep down, you still don’t feel like you deserve it.
But he’ll keep reminding you.
As many times as it takes.
The way you do for him when his mind gets dark, when he disappears in his own head, when the memories of the Winter Soldier come back to him telling him he’s not worth it.
You remind him every day that he’s worthy of this love.
And he’ll do the same for you for as long as you need.
“You deserve it. I love doing stuff like this for you doll. It makes me happy.”
The air gets thicker — your eyes trained on your coffee, watching the little foam bubbles pop.
“You know, before I met you, I thought— I thought I only existed to show other people love…but with you— with you it’s like all the love I’ve poured into the universe put into one person and poured straight back to me.” Your hands are shaky around your mug as the words linger between you — somehow heavy and soft all at once.
“Doll—” Bucky sounds wrecked, chest tightening in that sweet, aching way, eyes tearing up as his hand comes to your face.
You put down your mug, turning your body into his warmth, hands sliding up his chest. He cups your face in both hands, the pads of his thumbs tracing back and forth over the apples of your cheeks, and rests his forehead against yours, taking a shaky breath.
“I love you Bucky.”
Bucky’s nose brushes yours, before tracing his lips up to your forehead, not quite kissing — just breathing you in like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he can’t believe it was even possible for him to be loved by someone like you — someone warm and patient and understanding.
He never could’ve imagined being here, back when you were his annoyingly cheerful, annoyingly pretty, neighbor — handing him freshly baked goods to “welcome him to the building”, like who does that? Of course, it had just been your excuse to get closer to him but Bucky hadn’t known that.
You’d wave hello to him in the hallways, coax more than a few words out of him in a way that no one else seemed to. You were easy to talk to. You never expected him to be anything other than himself. He remembers the first time he’d invited you to a movie night, heart pounding and face burning as the words hung between you. You’d nodded yes immediately, biting down on a smile.
And then quickly — without warning — you’d spread into every part of his life and turned it technicolor — coaxing all of his darkness out of the shadows, holding it in your safe, warm hands, gently picking at it, patiently untangling all the knots in his soul until it was something that made sense — something manageable. It didn’t mean it went away, just that he didn’t need to hold it alone.
You brought love and laughter and chicken pot pies and being with you was like stepping into the sun after years of being in the dark — blinding at first, then warmth — so warm and so fucking good and god, Bucky never wanted to be cold again.
His lips tremble gently against your skin, “I love you doll. More than you know.”
He presses his face into the crook of your neck, pulling you into him.
“My girl, my home.”
moodboard inspired by @juniebjonesin's gorgeous headers she always creates!!
@lolala1414 thank you for listening to me ramble about this story non-stop!!
Some Bucky watching an Arthur and secretary steve in a tight dress.
Unfortunately for Bucky, Arthur isn’t as chill as the girls. In fact like the exact opposite that boy will cry and screech until he’s in Steve’s arms again. While the girls don’t mind whose arms they’re in as long as they’re being doted on.
warnings: explicit sexual content 18+, oral, praise kink, sir kink, dirty talk, light dom/sub, uniform kink, mutual obsession, neighbors may hear things, thirsty calendar discovery scene
summary: you’ve been setting off your smoke alarm on purpose just to get sergeant barnes at your door — broad shoulders, wet gear, and all. but tonight, the game catches up to you.
authors note: happy 2,000 followers to me! this fic is near and dear to my heart as its loosly based off of one of the VERY FIRST concepts i wrote for bucky barnes. theres just something about a man in uniform.... 🚒🔥
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It starts with rain.
The kind that doesn’t fall so much as hammers, drumming on the roof of your building like knuckles on a locked door. You can hear it in your kitchen, the steady, heavy rhythm, the hiss of streetwater kicked up by passing cars like waves. The city’s been soaked all day, and now the evening air sits thick and tense, humid the way it gets right before a summer storm breaks into something mean.
It would’ve been a perfect night to behave.
To pretend you’re normal. To heat up soup. To watch something brainless. To go to bed early and not think about him.
You last about twelve minutes.
Then you’re standing in the kitchen barefoot and guilty, biting your lip and staring up at the little black, circular plastic eye in the corner near the ceiling.
The smoke detector.
Your smoke detector.
Your stupid little red button that brings you James Buchanan Barnes.
You tell yourself you’re not going to. You tell yourself, no, you absolutely cannot, because last time Sam Wilson (loud, funny, deeply nosy) had narrowed his eyes in the hallway and gone, “Huh, princess, this is what, the third ‘emergency call’ this month? You runnin’ a grill in your living room or something?”
And Bucky had cut him a look, one brow ticking, and said, “Wilson,” in that low warning way.
Wilson had smirked at you. “Mmmhmm. Just makin’ conversation.”
You’d laughed it off. You’d said something about cheap wiring in old buildings. You’d shrugged and hugged yourself in your doorway and tried very, very hard not to look at Bucky’s soaked turnout jacket clinging to his shoulders, or the way he stripped his gloves off with his teeth.
But you’d seen it. You’re pretty sure he’d seen you seeing it. And you’re not dumb.
You know you’re playing with matches.
You also know you want to get burned.
You close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, and whisper to your empty apartment, “Okay. Okay. Last time. Last time and then I’ll stop.”
You’re a liar.
You drag the chair from the table over to the stove. The chair legs squeal against linoleum, too loud in the quiet kitchen. Your heartbeat hitches. You climb up, stretching on your toes, and reach for the battery housing inside the little circular alarm.
But you don’t take the battery out.
You nudge the test toggle just wrong. Just enough to loosen the casing.
You know exactly how to make it scream now. Practice makes perfect.
Then you step off the chair, pad back to the stove, and turn the front-left burner on high.
There’s a pan on it. Dry.
You leave it there.
You don’t even put oil this time—that had been messy, last time; you’d had to open both windows and wave a dish towel around like you were landing a plane.
Instead you just leave metal on heat, let it sit, let it cook and cook and cook until the scent starts to change. It goes from clean to warm to oh, that’s probably not good in less than a minute. By two and a half minutes, you see the first thin ripples rise from the pan like heat mirage. Little curls of smoke.
You swallow.
Your heart is already beating stupid fast, and they’re not even here yet.
“God, you’re pathetic,” you mutter to yourself, pacing in a small nervous circle. “You’re actually deranged. You’re out of control. You are—”
The alarm goes off.
It doesn’t chirp; it screams.
That high, piercing, shattering shriek fills your apartment in a single breath. You jump and wince, lunging for the front door because you’ve done this before and you know what’s coming next. Your building’s alarm system is tied into the local station for “fast response to potential structure fires,” which is good for the neighborhood and terrible for your self-control.
You swing the deadbolt back and leave the door unlocked.
Your hands are shaking.
Oh my god. Oh my god he’s going to—
The hall alarm starts up a second later. Someone from down the hall yells “What the fuck!” over the wail of it. You flinch and duck back into your kitchen, twist the stove off, yank the pan onto a cold burner.
Okay. Okay, okay.
Breathless, you grab the nearest dish towel and start waving beneath the alarm to “try to clear the smoke.” You know it won’t silence it—only maintenance has the code for that. You’re not even really doing anything useful.
You’re just trying to look innocent.
Heavy boots on stairs.
You hear them even over the alarm. The stomp, stomp, stomp of trained hurry. The low voices. The clipped “Watch your corners, it’s this floor,” you’ve grown embarrassingly familiar with.
Then:
A knock, hard and authoritative.
“Fire department!”
You can feel the grind of that voice in your spine.
You toss the towel, spin around, and try to pull your sleep shirt down a little lower on your thighs before you open the door.
And there he is.
Jesus Christ.
Even if you hadn’t seen him before, even if you hadn’t engineered this, you would know him on sight. He’s not the tallest on his crew, but he looks like the center of gravity. He’s built wide—shoulders that block half the hallway, thick arms roped with muscle, turnout coat open at the collar and hanging heavy off his frame, still damp from either the rain or whatever call they were on before you. Maybe both. His dark hair is pushed back, a little mussed, rain-wet at the edges. His jaw is set. His mouth is a hard line. There’s a streak of black on his cheekbone where soot had mixed with sweat. His eyes, glacial blue, cut straight to you, then sweep past you into your apartment in one practiced scan.
You meet his eyes on instinct.
Something tightens, electric.
“Hi,” you say, too fast, too breathy.
One of his crew, the same loud one from last time, leans around him to peer in. “Ma’am, you got an active—...” Sam stops. Looks at the cold pan on the stove. Looks at the faint haze in the air. Looks back to you, then to Bucky. His mouth curls. “Oh, come on. Again?”
You suck in a breath, trying to look offended, or at least confused. “The stove just— I was making— it started smoking and the alarm just—”
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, unimpressed. He’s grinning, though. “Barnes, you wanna walk her through Fire Safety 101 again, or should I? I got charts in the truck.”
“Wilson,” Bucky says without even looking back.
Just his voice can make “Wilson” sound like shut up.
Sam’s grin widens. “Copy that, Sarge.”
Bucky steps forward. Automatically, you step back. He fills your doorway on instinct, one gloved hand braced high against the jamb as he leans in.
He smells like rain and smoke and clean laundry. You could drown in it.
“You okay?” he asks you, quiet, like there’s nothing else in the hallway. His tone shifts when he looks at you, always. You’ve noticed that. With Sam and the others he’s all clipped command; with you he’s lower, softer, threaded with warmth he pretends he doesn’t have.
Your stomach flips.
“Yes,” you manage. “I’m— I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
He nods once, eyes flicking over you, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of what you’re wearing: an oversized sleep shirt with your college logo and absolutely nothing else. No bra. No shorts. Nothing covering the way the fabric skims down over your hips and barely catches the lowest curve of your ass.
A flush crawls up your chest.
You cross your arms over your chest in what you hope is a casual move, but his eyes catch it. They flick down, then up again. His jaw tightens the smallest bit.
Oh.
Oh.
Your pulse stutters.
Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Wilson, clear the hall, tell ‘em they’re good. I’ll reset her unit.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says cheerfully, and then he’s clapping another firefighter on the shoulder and disappearing down the hall, calling, “False alarm, folks, everybody relax, nobody’s burning alive—yet.”
The alarm keeps screaming, echoing against the narrow walls. Your neighbors are muttering. Doors crack open, then shut again.
And then it’s just you and Bucky in your doorway in the pounding, relentless sound.
“Back up for me, sweetheart,” he says.
Sweetheart.
You feel it like a hand at the back of your neck.
You back up.
He steps inside with you, shuts the door with his boot, and just like that, you and Bucky Barnes are alone in your apartment for the first time.
The second the door shuts, the noise dulls—less piercing, more like being underwater. You can still hear the alarm from the hall, but in here it’s only your unit wailing.
Bucky peels off one glove with his teeth, then the other with his bare hand. You watch that hand. He’s got big hands. Veins, calluses, blunt square fingers. His left hand, the one with the dark leather glove, comes off slower—it’s a metal prosthetic, gleaming dull matte under the fluorescents. You’ve seen that, too. You’ve thought about it too many times. You’ve thought about what that would feel like between your—
“Show me,” he says.
You blink up at him. “Show you…?”
“The stove,” he prompts patiently. His jaw is tight. “The fire hazard. Doll.”
Heat pools low in you at that last word. Doll.
You swallow and turn, padding quickly to the kitchen, acutely aware of him following, of the soft jingle of gear at his belt, the weight of his presence at your back like heat off a furnace.
“It’s off now,” you babble, nerves spilling out of you in words. “I just—I honestly don’t know what happened, I just turned around and it started smoking and then the whole thing went off and—”
“Mmhmm,” he says, which does not sound like he believes you. “Step back.”
You step aside.
He leans over your stove, inspecting. Rainwater drips from the hem of his coat onto your floor. His shirt under the open jacket, dark navy department issue, stretches obscenely over his back and shoulders when he bends forward.
You bite your lip.
He reaches out, puts two fingers to the still-warm pan, then tuts under his breath.
You freeze.
You know what that sound is. You’ve heard it twice now. That’s not oh god this is dangerous. That’s that little disappointed noise he makes right before he lectures you.
Your stomach swoops. You love that noise.
He straightens slowly. Turns to you. Crosses his arms over his chest.
“D’you think I’m stupid?” he asks mildly.
Your mouth opens. “I—”
“You think I can’t tell the difference between a kitchen fire and you cooking fuckin’ nothing in a dry pan until it smokes?”
Your face goes nuclear.
Your lips move silently for a second. “I— I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
His brow lifts, and it’s obscene, the way just that can make your knees want to wobble. “You wanna try that again with an answer that isn’t a lie, menace?”
Menace.
Your breath catches.
You should feel embarrassed. You should feel caught. You should feel anything except the hot, dragging ache low in your belly, the one that pulses every time he uses that tone on you.
You whisper, “I like when you come.”
Silence.
The alarm is still shrieking overhead. Rain still hammers the windows. Your heart is in your throat.
Bucky just looks at you.
For one long, dizzying second, his face doesn’t change. Then, slowly, his mouth curves.
Not a smile.
Something darker.
Something that sees you.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I figured that out.”
Your lungs forget how to work.
He takes a step toward you.
You don’t move.
“You know what happens,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “out there, when we get a call like this?”
You swallow. Your throat is dry. “You… show up?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “We gear up,” he says, like he’s telling you a story. “We roll out emergency. Lights. Siren. My guys put on forty pounds of equipment in under sixty seconds, sweetheart. We run. In the rain, in the dark, in traffic. Because that alarm says somebody might be burning alive.”
Your stomach twists. Guilt flares for a split second, sharp and bright.
Then he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him on your bare thighs and you lose the ability to think.
“And then,” he continues, eyes on yours, voice low and unhurried even while your alarm screams, “we get here and it’s you again, wearing nothin’ but a fuckin’ t-shirt and big eyes, and you tell me—” he tilts his head— “oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what happened, I’m just so scared.”
Your face is so hot you’re surprised you’re not setting off sparks.
“I— I never said ‘Sergeant,’” you whisper, too honest.
He laughs. Low. That same not-smile pulls at his mouth again. “No,” he says. “You never did. You just looked at me like you wanted to climb me like a ladder and said ‘thank you for coming, sir.’”
Your knees almost go out.
You remember that night. You remember saying it. You remember how his jaw had clenched when you did.
“You know we could fine you?” he asks conversationally, like he’s talking about the weather and not about your impending moral collapse. “False call like this? You can get cited.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“You know what a citation looks like?”
You shake your head.
He leans in.
“It looks like me,” he murmurs, “in your apartment at nine p.m. explaining fire code to you line by line. Real slow.”
Your breath catches on a quiet, involuntary sound.
His eyes spark.
“Yeah,” he says, voice roughening. “That’s what I thought.”
Your thighs press together. You can’t help it.
Bucky’s gaze flicks down. Follows the movement. Stays there. When he looks back up, something in his face is different. Less restraint. More hunger.
The alarm screams and screams.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna reset your alarm. I’m gonna radio dispatch and tell ‘em false alarm, no emergency, situation contained. And then,” he continues, so soft you almost miss it under the noise, “you’re gonna tell me the truth.”
Your mouth is dry. “The truth?”
“That you did this on purpose.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “That you wanted me here.”
Like he doesn’t already know.
You nod.
“And,” he adds, voice dropping into something that makes your stomach flip, “you’re gonna tell me what you want now that you’ve got me.”
You cannot breathe.
A tremor runs through you from scalp to toes. “Bucky—”
“Mm.” He tuts again, but his eyes are heat. “That’s not how you’ve been talkin’ to me, is it?”
You feel it all the way down. “Sergeant,” you whisper, breathless.
God, the way his pupils blow at that.
“Good girl,” he says, like praise, like reward.
You almost come on the spot.
He steps away from you before your legs give out and moves with efficient calm you can’t begin to fake. He reaches up, twists something in the housing of your alarm with one sure hand, and the wail cuts off mid-scream.
The sudden quiet rings.
Your ears buzz in the absence. You sag against the counter and try to get your lungs back.
He unclips the radio mic at his shoulder, presses the button, and speaks in that calm, professional tone that makes you weak. “Dispatch, this is Engine 41, Barnes. False alarm, Unit 3B. No visible fire, no active smoke. Resident attempted to cook, pan overheated, alarm tripped. We’ve reset the unit. You can clear us.”
There’s static, then a crackle of confirmation. You barely hear it. You’re watching his throat as he talks. The way his Adam’s apple moves. The faint stubble along his jaw. The way his mouth shapes “Barnes.”
He re-clips his mic. Looks back at you.
You’re still braced against your counter, thighs pressed together, heart going way too fast.
He takes his time peeling his turnout coat off. He doesn’t break eye contact. The heavy, reflective-striped jacket slides off his broad shoulders slow and deliberate, revealing all of him in that dark navy tee. It’s soaked at the collar, rain-dark over his chest and sleeves, clinging to muscle. His biceps flex with the movement. A heavy black strap crosses his chest, part of his harness. His utility belt sits low on his hips.
He hangs the coat over the back of one of your kitchen chairs with military neatness.
Then he steps back into your space.
“Now,” he says softly. “Truth.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Your heartbeat is hammering so hard you feel a little lightheaded.
“I—” you start.
His brows twitch. “Not a great start, menace,” he murmurs.
You exhale in a little rush. “I wanted you.”
He hums. “Yeah?”
“I wanted you to come,” you say, cheeks blazing but there’s no way out now, “and I wanted you to yell at me and I wanted you to— I just— I wanted you.”
His eyes go dark, hungry.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His right hand—big, warm, human—comes up, cups your jaw. Not hard. Just holding. His thumb drags slow along your lower lip, presses there until your mouth parts.
“There’s somethin’ else,” he says quietly. “Somethin’ else you’re not sayin’ yet.”
You shiver. “Bucky—”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant,” you whisper, dizzy. “Please.”
His jaw flexes.
“Please what?” he asks, his voice so soft it almost hurts.
“Please touch me,” you whisper.
Something breaks in his eyes.
And then he’s kissing you.
It’s not gentle.
His mouth hits yours like he’s been holding back for weeks and lost the leash in one second. His grip on your jaw tightens, angling you up, and his other hand slides to your hip, dragging you in against him with zero hesitation.
You gasp into his mouth. He swallows it.
He tastes like clean mint and rain and smoke.
You whimper and grab at his shirt, fisting the soaked fabric at his chest, clinging. He’s solid like a wall. Heat pours off him. He groans, low in his throat, when you open for him, and then his tongue is in your mouth, slow and sure and claiming.
You’ve kissed men before. You’ve never been kissed like this.
This feels like being cornered in the best possible way. Like being owned.
You moan.
He growls.
“Oh,” Sam says brightly from your doorway, “oh, wow, okay, so this is what we’re doing, cool cool cool, love that for you two, I’m gonna go tell dispatch we’re doing an extended safety inspection, carry on—”
The door slams.
You jerk back, mortified, breathless. “Oh my god—”
Bucky doesn’t even look away from you. His thumb strokes under your chin, coaxing you to look at him, dragging you back in. His pupils are blown so wide they almost eat the blue.
“Eyes on me,” he says quietly. “Not on Wilson.”
Your head snaps back like he’s got a grip on your hair.
“Yes, sir,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. You feel his hand on your hip tighten, fingers digging into bare skin through your shirt.
“Fuck,” he mutters again, almost like it hurts. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. You wanna play games with firemen? You get the fireman.”
You make a needy noise that doesn’t sound like you. “Please—”
“Shh.” He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just under your ear. His breath is hot on your neck. “We’re gonna do this right.”
You’re shaking.
“I need two things from you,” he murmurs against your throat, kissing his way down, slow, deliberate. “You’re gonna give ‘em to me and then I’ll give you whatever you want. Sound fair?”
You nod frantically.
“Words, menace,” he chides softly.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Sergeant.”
He hums, pleased. You feel the sound against your skin. “Good girl.”
You squeeze your thighs together helplessly.
“First,” he says, voice low, “you’re gonna tell me if you want me to stop. Any time. ‘Stop’ means stop. You say it, I step back. We clear?”
“Yes,” you breathe, chest heaving. “Clear.”
He presses a kiss to your throat, soft, like reward. “Second,” he murmurs, mouth moving against the frantic flutter of your pulse, “you’re gonna be honest when I ask you questions. You lie to me again? I’ll put my coat back on and I’ll walk right out that door.”
Panic shoots through you so fast you gasp.
“I won’t lie,” you blurt, desperate. “I won’t, I swear, I won’t, just— don’t leave.”
He exhales a quiet curse that’s basically a groan. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Then his hands are on you.
Both of them.
And you learn, very fast, what it feels like to be handled by James Buchanan Barnes.
His right hand, warm and rough, fists in the hem of your shirt and drags it up in one smooth motion. His left—metal, cool and impossibly steady—slides down over your hip and under the edge, palming your bare ass like he’s been waiting to.
You squeak.
He grins against your throat. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what you wanted, doll? You wanted the big, scary firefighter to put his hands on you?”
You’re not sure if you whimper or nod. Probably both.
He pulls your shirt up, up, over your ribs, over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, dizzy and pliant. He tangles you for one clumsy second, laughing softly under his breath when the shirt catches on your elbow, then tosses it somewhere behind you with zero concern.
You’re naked in your own kitchen in front of him. Bare and shaking and wet between your thighs already.
His breath leaves him in a harsh exhale.
“Fuck me,” he says quietly, reverent and filthy at once.
You flush from scalp to sternum.
His gaze drags down slowly, like a hand. Your throat. Your collarbone. Your breasts—he groans, actual, honest groan, when he sees you, like you’re some kind of miracle. His tongue flicks over his lower lip. His jaw flexes. He drags his stare down your belly, to the soft curve there, the dip of your waist, the way your thighs press together, already damp at the seam.
You squirm, suddenly shy under the scrutiny.
His eyes snap back up to yours instantly.
“Don’t,” he says softly. There’s heat in it. Warning. “Don’t you hide from me now. You hear me?”
You nod, dizzy.
“Words,” he says gently, patient even through the hunger in his eyes.
“I hear you,” you whisper.
His mouth twitches. “Good girl.”
You feel that praise like it’s physical.
He leans in and kisses you again, slower now. Deep and claiming, yes, but he slows the roll of his tongue, learning your mouth, mapping it. His hands bracket your hips—one warm, one cool—holding you steady as he licks into you until you’re making those soft, helpless noises again.
When he pulls back, you chase him without thinking.
He smiles. “Needy,” he murmurs, and it sounds like approval.
Your face burns. “You said honesty.”
“I did,” he agrees. “So you’re gonna be real honest with me right now, okay?”
You nod, breathless. “Okay.”
“Have you touched yourself thinkin’ about me?”
You let out a tiny, strangled sound.
His brows lift. “That a yes?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes,” you whisper.
“How many times?”
Your brain goes white.
“I— I don’t—” You swallow. “A lot.”
He hums, pleased. “Yeah? You get yourself nice and wet thinkin’ about me showin’ up in my gear?”
You whimper. You can’t help it. “Yes.”
“Thinkin’ about me bendin’ you over that counter and teachin’ you a lesson?”
“Oh my god,” you croak.
He laughs under his breath, low and delighted. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what I thought.”
His right hand, warm and rough, skims up your side. Over your ribs, over the curve of your breast. He palms you there, big hand covering you almost entirely. His thumb drags over your nipple, slow, teasing.
You gasp, arching into him.
His eyes flick up to your face, watching you.
“That feel good?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathless.
“Yeah?” His thumb circles, firmer now, and your knees actually wobble. “You like my hands on you, doll?”
“God, yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to put his mouth on your throat again.
He kisses down. Slow, unhurried, like he’s got you for hours. The rain’s still pounding outside; the world could be ending and he would still be right here, licking lazy heat along your pulse while his hand kneads your breast.
When he drags his teeth, just a little, along the curve where neck meets shoulder, you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
He groans. “Fuck, yeah, grab me,” he mutters against your skin. “Hold on to me.”
You don’t know if you’re standing or floating.
His mouth moves lower. Over your collarbone. Down. He pauses over your breast, glances up at you once, giving you a breath of space to say no.
You nod so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. “Please,” you gasp.
He smiles against your skin.
Then he sucks your nipple into his mouth.
Your head drops back with a gasp so sharp it’s almost a sob. “Oh—”
He groans, low and filthy, like you taste good. His tongue flicks over you, slow and teasing, then harder, then he closes his teeth just barely, a whisper of pressure, and your stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Sergeant,” you whine, high and desperate.
His groan rumbles against your breast. His metal hand tightens on your hip, cool and unyielding, keeping you right where he wants you when you try to squirm.
“That’s it,” he mutters around you. “Say it again.”
“Sergeant,” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into the soaked navy cotton. “Oh my god—”
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same slow worship until you’re trembling and making noises you’ve never heard from yourself. His mouth is hot, his stubble scraping just enough to make you feel raw in the best way.
By the time he drags himself away from your chest, you’re panting.
He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes dark. He looks wrecked. Hungry.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he says rough and honest. “You understand me?”
You let out an embarrassing noise. “You’re just— you’re just saying that—”
His expression sharpens, instantly. “No,” he says, voice low and firm. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”
You blink.
“You’re perfect,” he repeats, softer but no less serious. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. I’ve been losin’ sleep over you for three goddamn weeks. Don’t you ever tell me I’m ‘just sayin’ that’ again. You got me?”
Your throat closes.
You nod, a little watery. “Y—yes.”
He leans up and kisses you, soft and sweet, like sealing it. Your chest aches.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth.
You whine.
He feels it instantly, stills, and his voice drops to a quiet rumble.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You good?”
You nod fast, dizzy. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m good. I promise.”
Something in his eyes softens — a flicker of pride, or maybe relief.
“Good girl,” he says again, like a reward. And then his fingers slip between your thighs.
You choke on a gasp.
You’re so wet you’re embarrassed. Slick and aching and hot. His fingertips drag through you and come away shining, and he hisses through his teeth when he sees.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, like it’s a prayer. “Look at you. You been walkin’ around like this waitin’ for me to come put you out?”
“Oh my god,” you groan, face on fire. “Please don’t say it like that—”
He grins, wicked. “What, you don’t like bein’ my little fire hazard?”
You let out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, might be a moan.
He drags two fingers—thick, callused—up through your slick and circles your clit, gentle, lazy, barely-there pressure that still lights you up like a match.
Your knees go.
He catches you easily, metal hand tightening, hauling you in against his chest like you weigh nothing. “Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. I got you.”
“Please,” you gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he soothes. “I know, sweetheart, I got you. Gonna take care of you now, okay? Finally gonna give you what you’ve been beggin’ for in that pretty little head.”
You whine, wordless.
“Spread for me,” he murmurs.
You do. You spread your thighs as far as you can with him still crowding you against the counter, shameless now, desperate.
“Good girl,” he breathes, genuinely pleased, and slides his fingers down, down, until he’s pressing one thick finger into you.
You gasp so loud you’re sure someone in the hall heard.
“Yeah?” he mutters through gritted teeth, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like the feel of you almost knocks him over. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
“Bucky—” you choke, then catch yourself so fast you get dizzy. “Sergeant, please—”
His groan might actually hurt him. “Say my fuckin’ name like that again,” he mutters against your skin, “and I’m gonna lose every bit of self-control I got left, you understand me?”
You nod frantically, clinging to him like you’ll float away, because that sounds incredible. “Yes— ah— yes, sir—”
He swears, low and filthy.
Then he starts moving his hand.
It’s over for you.
He fucks you on his fingers slow and deep, not rushing, not pounding, just pressing in and curling, pressing and curling, finding that spot like he’s been here before. Like he was built to fit inside you and wring you out.
You make a noise that doesn’t sound human.
“That it, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes on your face even as his jaw clenches. “That where you wanted me?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, please, please—”
“Yeah,” he grits out. “Been drivin’ me crazy, thinkin’ about this. You know that? Tryin’ to do my fuckin’ job—” curl, press, curl “—and all I can think about is how you’d feel milkin’ my fingers like this—”
You wail.
He laughs, breathless and so fond you could cry. “There she is,” he mutters. “There’s my little menace. That’s my girl.”
Your orgasm hits like a slammed door.
It takes you in one brutal rush, cresting and snapping all at once. You arch, cry out, clamp down around his fingers so hard you’re shocked he doesn’t hiss, and everything goes hot-white and shaking. You vaguely register the way he holds you through it—arm like a band of steel around your waist, mouth at your ear telling you, “That’s it, that’s it, let go for me, good girl, I got you, I got you”—and then you’re sagging against him, boneless and wrecked.
You’re still panting when you feel him ease his fingers out, slow, gentle.
You whimper at the loss.
He groans, quiet and filthy, watching his own fingers. They’re slick with you. He stares like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Then, eyes on yours, never breaking contact, he lifts those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
Your jaw actually drops.
“Jesus,” you whisper, stunned.
He hums around his own fingers, eyes rolling back for one split second like he’s fucking tasting heaven. When he pulls them free with a soft, obscene pop, his voice is wrecked. “You taste like trouble,” he murmurs, grinning slow and dark. “Figures.”
You’re shaking. “I can’t believe you just—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost sweet, “I’m just gettin’ started.”
Your legs almost give again.
He laughs quietly and steadies you. “Think you can walk?”
You blink. “Where are we going?”
His grin goes wicked. “Bedroom,” he says. “Unless you want your neighbors to hear you choke on my cock in the kitchen.”
You make a tiny, strangled sound that does nothing to hide how your thighs press together at the image.
His eyes flare. “Bedroom it is.”
He doesn’t exactly ask permission to move you. He just puts his hands on you—one at your hip, the other low on your back—and steers you down the hallway like you’re his to move. You stumble a little, still boneless from the orgasm, and he huffs a quiet laugh, murmuring, “Easy,” like you’re not both about to do something that’ll haunt your dreams forever.
Your bedroom is a tiny, soft chaos of blankets and laundry and warm lamplight. You’re suddenly, violently aware that you did not plan for tonight to go this far—you didn’t tidy, you didn’t stage, you didn’t—
Oh, god.
The calendar.
You forgot about the calendar.
Bucky stops dead in the doorway.
For a split second you’re confused, then you follow his line of sight and want to actually dissolve.
It’s hanging on the inside of your closet door, right where you’d left it after laughing about it with your friend over wine. The fire station fundraiser calendar. The local “Heroes of Engine 41” charity thing they’d sold at the farmer’s market.
It’s currently flipped to this month.
This month is Bucky.
And not “Bucky in full gear, anonymous hero” Bucky. No. This is “Bucky with his turnout pants low on his hips and suspenders tugged off his shoulders, shirtless, drenched, helmet in one hand, looking over his shoulder like you just called his name.” It’s borderline obscene. Whoever took that photo knew exactly what they were doing. His abs look like they’re carved. His dog tags are dripping water down his chest. His mouth is a soft, dangerous curve.
It’s also signed.
To: Trouble. Try not to burn the place down without me. –Sgt. Barnes
You actually whimper.
Bucky is absolutely silent.
You cannot tell if he’s mad, turned on, amused, or about to arrest you.
Your face is on fire. “That’s not— I mean, that’s not what it looks like—”
His head turns, slow, and when his eyes land on you again they’re molten.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice dropping so low it’s basically a purr. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
You cover your face with both hands. “I didn’t— Sam made me— he said if I didn’t buy one he’d tell you I didn’t support local heroes and I panicked—”
Bucky snorts.
You peek through your fingers.
He is staring at the calendar like he wants to physically climb through the paper and fight himself. His jaw is tight. His pupils are huge.
“You been jerkin’ off to my fundraiser photo, menace?” he asks conversationally, like he’s asking if you’ve had dinner. “That why you needed so many ‘emergency visits’?”
You let out a mortified squeak. “I— I have not—”
“Honesty,” he reminds you softly.
Oh god.
Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”
His eyes close for one glorious second like he’s in pain.
When he opens them again, he looks… different. Rougher. Hotter. Hungrier.
Dangerous.
“Get on the bed,” he says.
You go.
It’s not graceful. You sort of scramble backwards onto your sheets, breathless and wrecked, heart pounding wild. You sit with your back against the pillows, knees bent, thighs parted because you can’t pretend you’re shy anymore. Your pulse roars in your ears.
Bucky steps into your room like he owns it.
Like he owns you.
“Lay back,” he murmurs. “Head on the pillows. I wanna see all of you.”
You melt back, dizzy, spreading out for him without thinking. Your legs fall open in invitation.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“That’s my girl,” he says, voice rough.
You groan.
Then, slowly, never looking away from you, he reaches for his belt.
You almost combust.
He unclips the heavy utility belt, sets it carefully on your floor. The harness strap comes off next. Then his shirt.
Holy god.
You’d known he was big. You’d seen the fundraiser photo. It did not prepare you for the reality of James Buchanan Barnes shirtless in your bedroom.
He’s all broad chest and thick arms, heavy muscle that looks earned, not sculpted, like he didn’t get it at a gym, he got it carrying people out of burning buildings. Scars cross his torso, pale lines and healed nicks, each one a story you suddenly, desperately want to hear. His dog tags hang against his sternum, just like in the calendar, only now they’re real and right there and you could touch them if you reach.
You whimper.
His mouth quirks. “Like what you see?”
“Are you kidding,” you whisper hoarsely.
He laughs softly.
Then he reaches for the button on his cargo pants.
Your breath stops.
He’s not shy about it. He doesn’t tease. He just undoes the button, drags the zipper down, and shoves the pants low enough to free himself.
You actually gasp.
He’s… yeah. Big. Thick. Flushed. Sitting heavy against his lower abdomen. Your mouth goes dry.
Bucky chuckles, low and smug, at the way your eyes go wide. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice gone honey-dark. “Nervous?”
You swallow. “No.”
“Honesty,” he reminds you, amused.
You flush. “A little,” you whisper. “You’re— um.”
“Yeah,” he says with a little huff of a laugh. “That’s what I figured.”
Then he’s at the edge of the bed, kneeling between your open thighs. He braces one hand on the mattress right by your hip. The bed dips with his weight. You feel caged. You love it.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re gonna make me feel good with that pretty mouth, and then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, just like you’ve been beggin’ for in that little head of yours. Sound good?”
Your stomach drops straight through the floor.
You nod frantically. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, sir.”
His groan is borderline pornographic. “Oh, fuck, you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
He shifts up the bed, knees bracketing your ribs. He doesn’t sit on your chest. He’s careful about his weight, about his balance, like he’s done this and knows how not to hurt you. His hand—his warm hand—comes up and cups your jaw again, thumb stroking your cheek.
“You tap me, I move,” he murmurs, voice low. “You gag, you pull off. I don’t force. You hear me?”
You nod. “Yes, Sergeant.”
His eyes flash.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Open.”
You open your mouth.
He groans.
Guiding himself with one hand, he drags the blunt, flushed head of his cock over your lower lip. Slow. Teasing. Slicking you with pre-come. You whine at the taste. He hisses.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Pretty fuckin’ mouth. Jesus.”
Then he slides in.
You moan.
He doesn’t choke you. He doesn’t slam. He feeds himself into your mouth slow, just the head, then a little more, then a little more, until your lips are stretched around him and your tongue is pressed under the weight of him and your eyes are watering.
You whimper.
His head drops back on a low, broken groan. “Oh my god.”
You rest your hands on his thighs—thick, hard muscle under heavy fabric—and hollow your cheeks, sucking.
He swears softly. “Yeah,” he gasps. “Yeah, that’s— fuck, that’s perfect, baby, just like that. Look at you. Jesus, look at you takin’ me like a fuckin’ angel.”
Heat floods you at the praise.
You hum around him, wanting more.
His breath hitches. “Oh fuck— careful, doll, you do that and this is gonna be over real fast.”
You look up at him through your lashes, and the sound he makes at that—half groan, half laugh—goes straight between your legs.
“Menace,” he growls, fond and desperate. “Such a fuckin’ menace.”
You preen.
You keep working him, finding a rhythm. He lets you set the pace, lets you get comfortable. You drag your tongue along the underside of him, swirl the head, suck him back in. His thighs flex under your hands. His breathing gets rougher. His hand tightens on your jaw, not forcing, just anchoring.
“Such a good girl,” he pants, voice gone ragged. “God, you’re such a good fuckin’ girl for me, takin’ me so sweet—”
You whine, needy, and he chokes on a groan.
“Okay,” he mutters, voice breaking, “okay, baby, I gotta— if I don’t stop now I’m gonna— fuck—”
He pulls back gently, letting you breathe.
You gasp, blinking up at him, spit on your lips, eyes glassy.
He looks wrecked.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a shaky hand over his face. “You’re gonna put me in an early grave.”
You smile, dazed and smug.
He laughs, breathless and incredulous and so fond you swear your chest hurts. “C’mere,” he murmurs.
Then he’s shifting, moving you like you weigh nothing. He slides down your body, kissing as he goes—your mouth, your throat, the swell of your breasts, the soft of your stomach. You squirm, breath hitching.
When he settles between your thighs and drags them over his shoulders, you gasp.
“Bucky—” you choke, then whimper, “Sergeant, please—”
He glances up at you from between your legs with a grin that could start wars. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and then he’s licking into you like he’s starving.
You scream.
There’s no other word for it. You slap a hand over your own mouth on instinct, wide-eyed and shaking, because you live in an apartment building and you are about to make enemies.
Bucky growls against you and drags your hand away, pinning your wrist to the mattress with his cool metal hand. “Uh-uh,” he mutters against your soaked pussy. “Let ‘em hear.”
You moan something that isn’t words.
He eats you like a man dying of thirst. Messy, greedy, thorough. He groans like you’re his favorite meal, like you’re his first meal. His tongue drags up and down, slow and heavy. He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision whites out. He slides two thick fingers back into you, easy this time, slick with you and his spit, curling just right, just right, just—
You come so hard you almost black out.
It hits even faster than the first one. Your whole body bows tight, your breath catches in your throat, you sob his title on a broken moan—“Sergeant, please, oh my god, oh my god”—and he groans like you just blessed him.
“That’s it,” he growls into you. “Fuck, that’s it, give it to me, doll, lemme taste it, that’s my girl—”
You’re shaking when he finally eases up, kissing you through the aftershocks, licking you slow until you’re twitching and too sensitive.
He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh like benediction.
Then he’s crawling up your body again, bracing over you, eyes blown and wild, mouth slick with you.
You’re boneless. Floating. Wrecked.
He groans like you just punched him. “Christ you’re a vision.”
Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock slick with your wetness, and pressing in.
You both moan.
He goes slow.
Thank god he goes slow.
You can feel him stretch you, inch by thick, perfect inch, and it’s almost too much—your mouth falls open on a silent gasp, eyes rolling back, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. He’s huge. He’s so big you feel split, stuffed, filled to aching.
“That’s it,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh. “Shh, I got you. You’re okay. You’re so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart, takin’ me so sweet. You’re okay.”
You whine, high and helpless. “Ohmygod—”
“I know,” he groans. “I know, baby, I know. You’re doin’ so good. Look at you. Jesus fuck, look at you.”
When he’s finally, finally all the way in, seated deep, you feel full in a way that borders on spiritual.
You’re both shaking.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You feel— I can’t— I can’t even—”
You let out a breathless laugh that edges on a sob. “Move,” you beg. “Please, Sergeant, please—”
He swears, low and reverent. “You keep sayin’ that,” he mutters, “and I’m gonna propose to you, you understand me?”
You make a half-sob, half-giggle noise.
He laughs, breathless, and then he starts to move.
It’s obscene.
He fucks you slow like he promised, long, deep strokes that drag against every tender, sensitive place inside you, hitting perfect every single time like he mapped you with his fingers first. His hips roll, controlled and heavy. The muscles in his arms flex over you, caging you in. His dog tags swing and tap against your sternum with every thrust.
You’re gone.
You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, head tipped back, mouth open on high, broken noises you couldn’t hold back if you tried.
“That’s it,” he groans, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, sweetheart, take it, take it, fuck, you’re perfect, you’re my perfect fuckin’ girl, shit—”
You’re babbling. You don’t even know what you’re saying. Please and yes and Sergeant and don’t stop and oh my god over and over like a prayer.
He’s shaking, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple, holding himself back with visible effort.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, desperate. “Tell me.”
You don’t even hesitate. “I’m yours,” you gasp, raw and honest. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”
He growls, low and feral. “That’s right,” he snarls, thrusts stuttering. “That’s right, that’s my fuckin’ menace, my little fire hazard, mine.”
You tumble over the edge like he flipped a switch.
Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you sob. Your whole body locks tight around him, clenching, milking him, and you cry out his title on a wrecked, pleading wail.
“Sergeant—!”
He breaks with you.
He chokes on a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped out of him, buries his face in your neck, and thrusts once, twice, deep and hard, before he’s spilling into you with a shudder that borders on violent.
For a second, everything is just heat and heartbeat and rain.
You’re both shaking. You can feel his pulse pounding against your throat. His breath is hot and ragged where his mouth is pressed to your skin. You’re full, stuffed, stretched, perfect.
You’re also absolutely ruined.
He stays there for a long moment, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you even though you’re pretty sure you’d like him to. His metal hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking slow and soothing along your cheekbone. His human hand fists in your sheets like he needs the anchor.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes look soft. Gentle, in a way he hasn’t let himself be yet.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough.
You nod, smiling, dazed and wrecked and so full of him you feel drunk. “Better than okay,” you whisper. “Holy shit.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, relief flickering across his face like sunrise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say honestly. “You?”
He looks at you like you’re the fire and he’d gladly walk in.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m good.”
You grin, sleepy and smug. “So,” you murmur, “you gonna write me up for that citation?”
He groans and drops his face back into your neck. “Menace,” he mutters, words muffled against your skin. “You’re an actual menace.”
You giggle, boneless and warm, and wrap your arms around him, holding him there.
Outside, rain hammers your windows, steady and relentless.
Inside, you’re finally, blissfully, warm.
----
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summary: in the aftermath of a crash, your last hope is a small garage set aside from the main city. there you leave your precious car left in the hands of a grease covered man with a charming smile.
warnings: mechanic!bucky, mentions of trauma (from a car accident), fluff, lots of flirting, checking each other out, smut, dry humping (against a motorbike), p in v, oral (m and f receiving), face-riding, use of pet names (babe, sweetheart, dears - by a waitress), multiple sex positions (cowgirl, missionary, mating press), no use of y/n, not beta read, all mistakes are mine
author's note: needed something a little sweeter and softer after my recent works. then I named this after a depeche mode song and realised I might have low key channeled mr martin l. gore. no regrets. and thank you for 200 followers!! ₊˚⊹♡
word count: >7.2k
credits: divider by bhavihelps
The car pulled into one of the open spaces, quiet enough that it drew no attention, despite the damage across the rear of the vehicle.
You step out of the car, spinning the keys on your finger for a moment before hitting the lock button. Keeping your head down as you walk into the garage, you allow yourself a moment to peek up.
“Hello?” You call out shyly.
“Hey!” A friendly voice responds. “Give me a minute, I’ll be right with ya!”
“‘Kay,” you call back, and fidget, still playing with your keys.
You hear the creak as one of the two cars is lowered to ground level. Standing aside it is a dark haired man in dark blue overalls, and matted in dirt and grease.
He brushes his hands together before turning and giving you a smile.
Your lips part for a moment, taken aback by how attractive he was. His hair was thick and messy, stubble lining a strong jawline, subtle hints of grey peeking through, and light blue eyes that made you wonder if you could lose yourself in them.
“Hey there,” he walks over, his strides long, reaching you quickly. “What can I do for ya?”
“I, um,” you stutter, embarrassed by your own thoughts. “Someone hit the side of my car, I was hoping you could take a look? Please?”
“Sure,” he nods. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”
Your heart thumps harder for a moment at the nickname. “‘Kay.”
You walk out the open doors and gesture vaguely to your car.
He steps around and looks along the length of the car, first the left and then the right.
“Well shit,” he pauses when he sees the wing. “Poor girl took a belt.”
“Yeah,” you agree.
“Someone hit you?” He guessed, eyes moving from the vehicle to you.
You nod, crossing your arms. “Pulled out on me.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, and flinches for a moment. “You okay? Hits like that can be terrifying.”
“Uh, yeah,” you are taken aback by his empathy. “I’m still a bit unsure when driving.”
He nods. “That’s common.”
You exhale. “So, how bad is it?”
“Hate to break it to you,” his face contorted. “But you might want to get another car, it would be cheaper.”
You hang your head. “The insurance company said the same.”
“And you still brought it here?” He was surprised.
You place your hand on top of the car. “It’s my car. It might sound weird, but I’m fond of it.”
“That’s not weird,” his voice was soft, and leaned against your car casually. “Our vehicles carry us around every day. We have to care for them like a kid, worry when they make weird noises. They matter.”
Your lips part and you exhale. “Thanks.”
He gives you a smile that makes your heart tighten.
“Look,” he pauses and glances back at the car. “Fixin’ her could be a money pit. But, if we’re lucky we might be able to source parts cheap, and the majority of the bill would, unfortunately, be labour.”
“You’d do that?” You raise your eyebrows.
“For a pretty girl with good taste in cars,” he shrugs then gives a wink. “Absolutely.”
“You’re a life saver,” you feel the relieved smile on your face. “Legitimately. I owe you.”
“You owe me,” he repeats. “What does owing you entail?”
You could hear the teasing in his voice, your cheeks go red.
“Um, I don’t know,” you admit. “Didn’t think it through.”
He throws his head back laughing.
“How about this?” He suggests a mischievous glint in his eye. “If I get your car fixed. You let me take you out on a date.”
Your jaw drops at his forwardness.
“I- um,” you stumble. You give yourself a moment, eyes wandering over the overalls that seem to obscure his large form, to the shine of his eyes. You bite your bottom lip for a moment. “Okay, sure.”
Bucky nods, looking smug. “Alright. One car for one date?”
He holds out a gloved hand, you reach out and shake it.
It took over a month, and it was exhausting.
The search for parts, finding the exact parts and then finding it had been listed incorrectly. Matching the colour of the wing, the length of the springs for the suspension, and alloys that didn’t make the car look like a speed drunk teenager.
Then there was the actual labour. It turned out repairing a vehicle was more than just taking parts on and off. All sorts of things could go wrong, bolts getting stuck and parts being rusted.
Those were the problems you knew of.
Bucky had kept you regularly updated, texting weekly with progress reports. His tone is always positive and kind, never acting as if you were a bother.
You should see her, sweetheart. She’s looking mighty fine, if I do say so myself x
You glance at your phone, a soft smile on your face. Every text he’d leave that damn kiss at the end, teasing you. You knew deep down that he’d put a lot of work in, but remained humble every time you brought it up.
You grab the spare keys for the car, and head to the waiting taxi.
A tap from your card and you are out of the taxi and in the car park of Bucky’s garage.
You walk forward, no hesitation this time. You’d visited several times to check on your car, the building had become comfortingly familiar.
“Hi Steve,” you call out to the blonde man who is glancing over a diagnostic on a laptop.
His head turns. “Oh hey. Bucky’s in the office, want me to grab him?”
“It’s fine, I’ll knock,” you wave your hand. “Good to see you though. You look good.”
Steve laughs. “Thanks, back atcha! Try not to dirty that pretty top.”
You grin and continue on. Cutting down the side of a Mercedes to reach the office door.
You tap with your knuckles, twice, and wait.
“Come in!” Bucky’s voice calls.
You open the door into the small office. The room served as the staff room and office. A sofa, coffee table, then opposite a kitchenette with a fridge, then to the back is a desk with a singular PC.
Behind the desk is Bucky, left hand gloved and holding his phone to his ear.
His right hand waves at you and points to the seat opposite him.
You settle onto the leather chair, watching.
He is not in his overalls, but in a plain polo shirt and loose trousers. The polo did a lot for him, allowing you the sight of the muscle and veins of his right forearm, and the left glinted as the sun hit the metal.
You blink a second, and catch Bucky mouthing sorry at you.
You shake your head at him. Don’t worry, you mouth back.
“It’s not a negotiation,” you hear him say. “Take it or leave it.”
His tone was assertive and confident, the sign of someone who knew his field.
“Alright, good day sir,” he pulls the phone away and hits the end call button.
“Fucking cheap skates,” he mutters.
You smirk, amused.
He flings his phone onto the desk with a clatter and his eyes turn to you.
“Well, hey there,” he leans back with a smile, charm turned on.
“Hi Bucky,” you grin at him.
His eyes lower, noticing that your top shows the valley of your cleavage.
“You look damn good,” he licks his bottom lip.
“Well, I have a date,” you shrug, keeping the teasing smile on your face.
“Anyone I know?”
“Maybe,” you are enjoying this, Bucky had this easy light heartedness that made the world seem lighter. “He did me a huge favour, and he’s not bad looking either.”
He chuckles. “Not bad?”
You shrug. “Well you have a mighty good looking co-worker.”
Bucky glares and you giggle.
“You fucking tease,” he rumbles.
“Sorry, sorry,” you laugh. “Your face was priceless.”
Bucky shakes his head and starts to smile again, unable to remain angry for long.
“Wanna see your baby then?” He asks.
You nod eagerly. “Please.”
He gets to his feet and gestures for you to follow him. You head through a side door out the side of the building, there are parked two motorcycles and a singular car.
Your car.
You rush forward, leaning around to look up and down the vehicle.
“Oh my god!” You gasp, taking in every detail. “Bucky! How did you do it?”
He chuckles behind you.
“Hard work, babe,” you turn to see him cross his arms, a smug look on his face. “She’s a beauty.”
You place a hand on the bonnet.
“She’s amazing,” you say fondly. “You waxed her and everything!”
“Of course, I don’t leave a job unfinished,” his tone is soft, yet you see the mischief in his eyes.
“Bucky,” you feel flustered for a moment. “Fancy a drive?”
His face lights up. “Absolutely.”
You throw him the spare keys. “You drive, you’ve earnt it.”
He glances at the keys in his hand, amused. “Well, thanks, babe.”
You walk over to the passenger side, glancing back long enough to notice him looking at you, his eyes once low with a thinly veiled smirk.
The door clicks gently as he shuts it. You instructively do your seatbelt, and catch him doing the same, adjusting the seat to accommodate his legs.
“I’m surprised you haven’t driven her already,” you admit.
“Steve took her out yesterday,” he fiddles with the rear view mirror. “He’s a dumbass who keeps the seat too close so his legs are bumping against the console.”
“Poor Steve,”
“Yeah, poor Stevie,” his voice is taunting as he starts the car.
“You love him really,” your voice is confident. Your interactions had been brief, but you could always see their bond between the two men, one that appeared unbreakable.
Bucky sighs. “I really fucking do.”
He pulls forward, down the side of the building, slowly edging through the car park onto the main road.
Bucky handles the car with ease, changing gears, revving the engine to hit a good speed and then putting it into the highest gear.
“Yeah, she’s a beauty,” his voice is full of adoration. “She can move.”
“Mhm,” you agree. “Now you might understand why I didn’t want to scrap her.”
He looks at you for a moment. “Glad you didn’t.”
“You sure?” you joke. “You undertook a month-long project just for a pay check and a date.”
“Worth it,” he nods, his eyes still on the road ahead. “You are so worth it.”
You blush. “You are such a charmer.”
He laughs. “Only for you, babe.”
“Uh huh,” your tone is teasing, but part of you is curious if it was the truth.
He senses the change in demeanor from you.
“About that date,” his tone was serious. “Thought we could go to a little diner I know, they make the best desserts and you seem like you have a sweet tooth.”
Your head turns at the word dessert, he chuckles for a moment at the action.
“Sounds nice,” you admit, your enthusiasm evident in your voice.
“Great,” he begins to smile again, now driving back to his garage. “I’ll pick you up after my shift, it should be around six.”
“Alright, need me to dress up or anything?”
“Nah, you look stunning in that getup,” he smirks, eyes flicking over your chest, then to the jeans that cling to your hips.
“Thanks,” you blush slightly. It would be a lie to say you hadn’t worn this outfit on purpose, hoping to grab his eye.
“Isn’t very often I see a girl dressed up,” he admits.
“You don’t date?” You ask, curiously.
“Haven’t in a while,” he admits and runs a hand through his hair to push it back. “Garage takes up a lot of my time.”
“And outside that?”
“I crash out pretty much when I get home,” he shrugs. “Steve and I might go out for a few drinks with friends, some nights. Been a while since I met a girl I was interested in.”
“Oh,” you stammer slightly, taken aback by his shift to seriousness. “I’m flattered.”
Bucky throws you a grin, indicating and pulling right back to his garage, parking outside.
“Here we are,” he says. “She’s all yours.”
He reaches into his pocket and hands over the main keys, leaving the spares in the ignition.
“Thank you,” you breathe. “Do you want me to come and pay?”
He shakes his head. “We can sort that out tomorrow. Gives me another excuse to see you.”
You half smile at his attempt at being subtle.
“Then, I’ll see you at six?” You ask.
“You will,” he promises. His hand reaches over brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Catch you then.”
The thrum of the motorcycle stops abruptly.
You leap to your feet, rushing to your front door. In your eagerness, you fling it open forcing it to knock loudly against the wall behind it.
At the end of the driveway stands Bucky himself, he looks up upon hearing the knock and laughs, his entire frame shaking as he flings his head back.
Your heart tightens slightly at the sight of him. His hair is neat, freshly washed, the stubble on his face appeared even, peppered with grey that somehow increased his appeal. He wore black trousers, boots, and unzipped his leather biker jacket to show a pale green shirt underneath.
He opens the box at the back of his bike, pulling out a bunch of flowers, closes it and begins to approach you.
“Hey,” he greets you. “These are for you.”
He holds out a bunch of white lilies.
“Thought you’d match your outfit,” he admits, his lips twitch slightly. “Sorry I forgot to ask your favourite.”
You shake your head, grasping the flowers gently. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Bucky smiles, close up like this you could see the smile lines on his face, crinkles forming around his eyes.
You reach over, placing the flowers of the cabinet near the door and grabbing your bag.
“Ready?” He asks. You nod, stepping out to join him, you turn to lock your door and can feel his gaze on you.
“Seen something you like?” You tease as you turn your head.
“I see several things I like,” he smirks. “You kept the outfit.”
You turn and shrug. “You seemed to like it.”
“I really do,” he agrees, slowly he reaches forward, eyes asking. You smile in response, and his gloved hands land on your waist, holding you as his eyes flicker over you again. “Whoever designed that top, I owe them a drink.”
You giggle. “How about you buy me a drink first?”
“Mm,” his eyes move from your chest to your eyes. “Yes ma’am.”
His hands withdraw from your body, and strangely leaves you feeling absent. You follow him to his bike, and he offers a helmet.
“We can take my car,” you offer and he shakes his head.
“Never been on a bike?” He asked, sensing your trepidation.
“No,” you admit, chewing on the inside of your mouth to hide your expression.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures you, zipping his jacket up. “We aren’t going far, and riding a bike can be thrilling. I think you’ll like it.”
You pause, still unsure and looking at the helmet in your hands.
He sighs and steps forward.
“Hey. Look at me,” your eyes flicker to his. “Do you trust me?”
You see the seriousness in his eyes, the set of his mouth and find yourself nodding.
“I do,” you say earnestly and realise you are being slightly foolish. He had fixed your car, driven you around in it. Why would he put you at risk on his bike? He was clearly a capable driver. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky reaches over, tilting your chin up. “You really are pretty.”
You blush. “Oh shush, you flirt.”
He laughs. “Alright,” he holds his hands up. “Put the helmet on, and zip up your jacket, pretty girl.”
You put on the helmet and zip up your jacket, covering your chest.
Bucky then helps, carefully fastening the clasp, the leather of his gloves leaving a tingling sensation on your neck.
“Climb on,” he rumbles. You swing your leg over the bike, lifting yourself with your hands to the backseat. As you do so, Bucky places his own helmet on his head and easily straddles the bike.
“Hold onto me,” he suggests. You reach forward, hands landing on the thick leather around his waist.
Bucky starts the bike, kicking the leg up and sets off.
You both remain silent during the ride, the gushing of the wind and thrum of the engine making it difficult to hear anything else.
The diner is outside the city, sitting next to a petrol station. It looks quiet, only a few cars parked outside.
Bucky pulls into a bay marked for motorcycles, kicks the leg down and kills the engine.
You watch as he pulls off the helmet.
“Here we are,” he declares as he dismounts.
You reach to undo the buckle, only for him to reach over gently, fingers brushing your chin again and removing the helmet with care.
He smiles. “Hey, pretty girl. Enjoy the ride?”
You blink, a little stunned by the brightness after the visor had shielded your eyes.
“Yeah, it was,” you pause, mind spinning slightly from the speed and overwhelmed senses. “I can’t think.”
Bucky laughs softly. “There’s something special about sharing a bike, the feel of the wind, having someone wrapped around you. It’s very intimate.”
You blush slightly at his phasing. “Is that why we rode a bike over taking a car?”
“Maybe,” he smirks, offering his hand to help you down from the back of the motorbike.
You take it, noticing that he’d taken off his gloves, his metal fingers wrapping around your hand.
“Thank you,” you say as you land on your feet. His hand still holds yours, shifting to interweave his fingers with yours.
“In we go” he says, pulling your hand eagerly.
The diner is as quiet as it had appeared, peaceful.
You sat in the booth, bag next to you, looking at the patterns on the vinyl on the table.
“Here,” he pushes over a strawberry milkshake that matched his own.
“Oh, thanks,” you take a sip through the straw and give a happy sigh. You spot him sipping his own milkshake, eyes on you the whole time.
“What?” You cannot help but smile.
“Just. Looking…” he leans back.
Your cheeks turn red as you smile wider. “Bucky, you don’t need to flirt with me to win me over.” You lean towards him. “You’ve already won.”
“I like flirting with you,” he smirks. “And you like it too, don’t you babe?”
You dunk your head to hide your smile.
“Don’t you want to play with me a bit?” He teases, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Yes,” you admit. “But, I’d also like to get to know you better.”
“‘Right,” he seems to turn more casual, arm dropping from its perch and leaning forward. “How about we take turns in asking questions?”
You nod. “Sure.”
He gestures vaguely. “Ladies first.”
“I- um,” you pause, and think for a moment. “Steve mentioned that Bucky is just a nickname for you. What’s your actual name? Only if you wanna though.”
“It’s James,” he laughs gently at how worried you look at the idea of crossing a line. “James Buchanan Barnes. But, no one calls me James, except sometimes my ma or my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
He nods, a gentle smile and soft look in his eyes. “Rebecca. My baby sis, don’t get to see her much since she moved out of state. She’s married, has a kid and is pregnant with her second.”
“Oh,” you breathe. “Congrats.”
He chuckles. “Thanks. Don’t get to see them nearly enough.”
“Bet you’re a fun uncle though,” you sip your drink.
“To my sister’s chagrin,” he chuckles. “Gave the little mite so much sugar he was awake till nearly 11pm.”
“Oh no,” you laugh with him. “You’re going to be one of those kinds of father’s.”
“What’s one of those?” He teases.
“The kind that lets the kids have so much fun, it means a battle later.”
Bucky shrugs. “Kids deserve fun.”
You groan, mind full of images of little kids with blue eyes eagerly rushing around after Bucky in the middle of the night. “Well, at least I know now.”
“Little early to be thinking about kids, don’t’chu think?” You can see from his smile he is teasing.
“I’m just getting to know you,” you shrug innocently, trying to shake the cute image from your mind. “Do you have any other family, friends?”
“Not really,” he goes quiet for a moment. “Just them, Steve and our buddy Sam. Couple of people that are friends with Steve, but we just hang out and not really socialise.”
“You seem plenty sociable to me,” you say.
A waitress comes over then, popping two pies with a serving of salad and fries.
“Here you go, dears,” she says and leaves to trend another table.
“I make an effort with customers,” Bucky admits. “Though, I’d have made an effort with you if I saw you on the street. No chance I was letting you walk away.”
“Bucky,” you smile at the compliment, and start to eat to disguise your embarrassment.
He grins back, looking proud of himself as he joins you.
The two of you take a few minutes to enjoy your food before you spot Bucky’s fingers sneaking some fries from your dish to his plate.
“Hey!” You complain, and notice his near empty plate. “How the-“
He pops a fry into his mouth, chewing with a taunting grin.
“Too slow,” he teases.
Your eyes narrow. “You better be paying after that, Barnes.”
“Already have, sweetheart,” he picks up another between his fingers, carefully dipping it in sauce before reaching over. “Here, open.”
You open your mouth allowing him to delicately place the fry on your tongue. You close your mouth and slowly chew, slightly entranced by how his fingers had brushed your lips.
“You’ve got quite the appetite,” you comment.
“Well,” he pauses. “Killer hours do that.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I was expecting some comment about your muscles.”
“I could,” he turns his right arm, the veins of his forearm stand out against the muscle. “But, that would be a lie.”
“Well,” you take another bite. “They are impressive now I can actually see them.”
Bucky smiles. “Thanks, babe. Unfortunately the overalls come with the job, even if it’s not very flattering.”
“Maybe I can see you out of them more often?” You suggest.
“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’d like my clothes off?”
You choke on the drink in your mouth. “Bucky!”
He bursts out laughing. “Oh, your face!”
“Bucky!” You hiss, now bright red.
“Sorry babe, but you made it too easy,” he shrugs innocently, but his smile made it clear how much he was enjoying this.
You shake your head, your chest tightening slightly out of fondness.
“It’s your turn, ask me something,” you tell him, taking the opportunity to finish up your food.
“Mmm,” he pauses. “Well, first, what do you want for dessert?”
“That’s not a question!” You protest, waving your fork slightly in indignation.
“Yes, it is,” he teases. “I wanna order dessert before we continue.”
“Alright,” you lean back, placing the cutlery neatly on the plate. “I’ll have some chocolate cake, with ice cream, please.”
“‘Kay,” he responds. “Be right back.”
You watch him as he gets to his feet with a slight grunt, making you giggle slightly at his dramatics, and your eyes linger on the muscles of his back visible through the shirt.
You see him chat to the waitress, giving her a sweet smile before ordering and paying. Then he quickly moves away to rejoin you.
“Done,” he announces. “One chocolate cake, one apple pie and one banana split.”
You tilt your head. “You’re having two desserts?”
He shakes his head. “Apple Pie is Steve’s favourite, I’m going to take it to his place.”
“Aww,” you can’t stop the noise emerging from your mouth. “That’s so sweet!”
“Don’t,” he rumbles, lips pressed into a disapproving line. “The punk is lucky. I got it for him for getting me out of happy hour with his friends.”
“Oh,” your lips part. “You cancelled to go on a date with me?”
“I didn’t want to go,” he shrugs. “A date with a pretty girl is far better than Sam dragging my arse between bars afterwards, or the endless questions when I’m getting a girlfriend.”
You smile sympathetically.
“Glad you chose me,” you reach over, fingers brushing metal.
“So am I,” he agrees. “Now, here’s a real question, what’s your favourite flower?”
“Hm,” you think, keeping your hand on his. “Lilacs are a nice colour, but I also like orchids. I have an orchid on my coffee table at home.”
He leans back, allowing you to talk, eyes never moving from yours as you answer question after question.
The waitress returned, placing down a box with the pie and the desserts, then gathering up the plates. Then departs again to take them to the kitchen.
“Wanna share?” Bucky suggests.
You nod eagerly and you push your plates together. Bucky moves half a banana, and most of the ice cream next to your slice of cake, then chops only a third of your cake off and slides it onto his plate.
“You can take more,” you say and he shakes his head.
“I took your fries,” he responds. “And you clearly love dessert.”
Your heart swelled at his selflessness, at how he remembered.
“You are so sweet,” you whisper fondly.
“No, you are,” his voice is teasing again, and scoops up ice cream and pops it in his mouth.
You smile widely as you also begin to eat, leaning back and making a soft sound at the satisfying taste of chocolate.
Bucky perks up, lips pressed together as if suppressing laughter.
“What?”
“I can’t believe you are moaning over dessert,” he snickers.
“Sometimes a good dessert just hits the spot,” you reply, leaning back and giving him glare.
“Mhm,” he shakes his head with a smile. “You still moaned like it was getting you off.”
Your lips part, suppressing your embarrassment in favour of sass, and then retort. “Why? You jealous?”
He licks his bottom lip, unfazed. “Maybe.”
You blink, surprised.
He smirks at your expression. “Can you blame me? I’m on a date with a gorgeous girl and she’s not moaning over me but over cake.”
You press your lips together, suppressing a giggle and then lean close to whisper. “‘Maybe you need to give me something to moan about.”
Your foot inches forward, gently running down the side of his calf.
“On the first date?” He leans close, his expression is no longer teasing but serious.
“I told you, I trust you and…” you pause. “I really like you.”
Your foot brushes his leg again, taunting.
“Fuck,” he mutters. He stares at you a moment and picks up the box of pie with one hand, slides out of the booth and offers you his free hand.
Instantly you take it, curious.
He eagerly pulls you out of the diner towards his bike. It’s dark, only the streetlights illuminating the area.
Bucky opens the box at the back of the bike, places the pie box inside, and slams it shut.
“Sit down,” he instructs you.
You use your arms and lift yourself onto the backseat, legs hanging down in front of him.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice is deep, sultry.
You nod eagerly, heart fluttering. He leans closer, cupping your chin with his right hand and presses his lips gently to yours. The kiss is gentle at first, tender and soft. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him between your legs.
He lets out a groan, metal arm snaking around your waist.
“God,” he mutters. “You’re beautiful.”
You press your forehead to his. “Bucky.”
He exhales, tilting your head and kissing you again. The kiss runs deeper, his mouth moving against yours, pulling your lips, tongue entering your mouth.
His hips roll against yours, you feel his hardness pressing against you, building friction. You grind against him in an attempt to soothe the ache between your thighs.
“Mm,” he mumbles into your mouth, leaning so you arch back helpless against the snap of his hips.
“Bucky,” you whine as your clit catches the seam of your jeans, sending a shot of pleasure through you.
His mouth moves to your neck, lips trailing slowly downward making you tremble.
“Bucky,” you repeat his name with a gasp. The sound seems to snap him out of his stupor, he pulls back.
He breathes heavily, pupils blown wide. With a loud swallow he pulls the helmet off the bike and offers it to you.
This time he doesn’t help, he puts his own helmet and jacket on and straddles the bike, eager to get moving.
“Your helmet on?” His voice was low.
“Yeah,” you reply huskily.
“Good,” he starts the bike with a roar. “Hold onto me.”
You grasp onto his waist, and clamp your legs, knees pressing into his hips.
You can’t help but admire the grace of the bike, Bucky makes it go fast, sliding in gaps that seem too small and down side streets clearly meant for only pedestrians.
He kicks the leg down once you reach a small white wooden house.
“I’ll be two minutes,” he rumbles, grabbing the pie box from the back.
You watch as he runs down the path to the door, pulling his helmet off uncaringly. He knocks and taps his foot impatiently.
After a minute you see Steve open the door, still dressed up from going to happy hour. He converses with Bucky briefly then gives you a wave. You wave back, smiling even though he can’t see it behind the helmet.
“Alright alright,” you hear Steve’s voice carry. “I get it. You want out. Have fun, and wear protection!”
“Steve!” Bucky hissed, scowling as his best friend laughed and shut the door.
“Fucking punk,” Bucky grumbled as he passed you.
You laugh quietly.
“Don’t encourage him,” he grumbles. “I finally got myself a girl, and he could have ruined it.”
Bucky straddles the bike again, and you lean forward to wrap your arms around his waist, your chin landing on his shoulder.
“I think it’s sweet he cares enough to tell you to use protection,” you murmur.
“Mm,” he sighs. “It’s embarrassing.”
“The protection part or Steve shouting it?”
“Steve,” he clarifies, jaw ticking slightly. “I don’t want people up in my business."
“Fair enough,” you gently nudge his cheek with the helmet in a show of affection. “But, just so you know, I’m on the pill. We don’t need protection.”
He inhales sharply. “I need you at my place, now.”
With that, shoves his helmet on and he sets off again, ignoring the speed limit until you reach another wooden suburban house.
He pulls onto the driveway next to a black Audi, then turns off the engine.
You hop off eagerly, removing your helmet. You head for the door, see Bucky has already removed his own helmet and is holding the door open.
“Ladies first,”
You walk in, peeking around. The space is kind of cramped, yet homely. You hear Bucky throw his keys into a bowl, and the sound of a zip.
“It’s not much,” he admits, and places his hands on your shoulders - removing your own jacket.
“It’s nice,” you say, attempting to ignore the tingling feeling left by his fingers on your arms. “Warm. Like you.”
You turn to face him and share a smile for a moment.
“Do you want a drink or anything?” He attempts to break the silent tension.
“Bucky,” you step close to him, pressing your hands against his shirt.
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Let’s go to your room,” you suggest, eyes peering up at him through your lashes.
Bucky pauses, considering. Then steps close, placing his hands on your hips.
“Jump,” he instructs. You jump up, legs around his waist. His hands press against you back to steady you and walk with you in his arms to the back of the house.
Too enraptured by his eyes, you barely notice the movement until he lowers you onto his bed. You feel thick blankets beneath you.
He moves fast again, bending over you and kissing you hard.
“God,” he moves to your ear, and bites it gently. You whimper. “I’ve been thinking about this for a month.”
You tilt your head, consenting to allow him to kiss your neck.
“Some nights I just couldn’t get you off my mind,” he murmurs. “Had to lay on this damn bed without you.”
“I thought about you too,” you whisper back. “Every time you’d send a kiss by text. I would spend hours just staring at it, wishing that you’d just kiss me.”
He groaned, diving back to your lips starting with short kisses until he tilted slightly his tongue entering your open mouth.
You lay back, bringing him with you, your fingers clasping his shirt.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, and then gives a roll of his hips. “I need you, babe.”
“Me too,” your murmur, then a thought passes through your head. “Roll over, onto your back.”
Bucky gives an amused look, but rolls onto his back.
“Planning to ride me?” He teases. “Not that I mind.”
“Maybe later,” you say, sliding down his body till you are face to face with his clothed erection. “I have a better idea.”
“Oh,” he realises as you unbuckle his belt and eagerly tug both his trousers and boxers down in one go.
His cock springs out, hard, the tip leaking pre-cum.
You hear a clatter as he kicks his trousers off, forcing them to land on the floor. You peek up at him, his arms are behind his head, relaxed.
“Do you mind?” You ask and gesture to him.
“Please,” his eyes close gently in anticipation.
You lean forward, testing, and lick the tip. The taste of salt erupts on your tongue, his hips buck and your groan, enjoying seeing him like this.
You push yourself closer, taking the first inch of him into your mouth.
“Oh fuck,” he moans, a hand grasps your hair, refusing to let you move.
Your right hand reaches, giving a gentle squeeze to his balls whilst your left remains on his thigh.
“Shit- yes-“ he groans. “Keep doing that, sweetheart.”
You move down, allowing him further into your mouth, pushing into the back of your throat. You gag for a moment and inhale through your nose, attempting to relax.
You pull yourself off with a loud pop, then take him into your mouth again, then repeat.
His hand grasps your hair tighter, helping you build a rhythm to worship him with. Your tongue rolls along the underside of him, feeling the veins there whilst you hollow out your cheeks to provide extra stimulation.
“Fuck, just like that,” he bucks into your face. “Babe, you’re- I’m-“
He groans, loud.
Your eyes water as he puts the back of your throat, spilling warm. An inhale through your nose to stifle yourself from choking, and force yourself to swallow.
You pull yourself onto your elbows, rubbing the tension from your jaw.
“Hey, come here,” his voice is slightly strained.
You shuffle up his body, laying on top of him.
“You okay?” His right hand lays on your cheek. “Wasn’t too much?”
You shake your head. “I’m good, I think.”
Bucky nods. “I won’t push you if you aren’t ready.”
“No,” you were quick. “I want to.”
His hands run down your sides to your jeans, doing the button and pulling them down.
“Oh,” his eyes widen as you help him remove your jeans, revealing that the shirt was a bodysuit, hiding your underwear from his sight.
You roll your hips over his length, it’s soft from his release, but the action forces a groan from him.
Your fingers move, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his chest. You run a palm over the muscles.
“Mmm,” he sighs contently. “That feels nice.”
He abruptly sits up, chest pressing against his, as he pulls off his shirt.
“Oh,” your eyes take him in, your hands move to his shoulders. Your right hand lingers, delicately tracing the rough skin between him and the metal arm. You lean forward pressing kisses along the join.
He exhaled, wrapping his arms tightly around you to pull you closer, and hiding his head in your shoulder.
“You’re so pretty,” you murmur as you tilt your head to press against his.
His own head moves, his gaze intense and leans forward to capture your lips. The kiss is tender, slow and soft, an expression of adoration over pure lust.
Bucky pulls you down on top of him, continuing the kiss for a moment before speaking, his voice thick.
“Come here,” he tugs at the cotton of the bodysuit. “I want you to sit on me.”
You inhale sharply. “I don’t want to squish you.”
He snorts. “Please, I’ve nearly had two ton cars land on me. Your hot arse is nothing. Get up here.”
You study him a second, then move up, legs on the side of his head. His fingers play with the buttons of your bodysuit.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs, feeling the dampness that had seeped through your underwear and was staining the bodysuit.
Your hands grasp the headboard. His fingers undo the buttons to reveal the lacy underwear beneath.
“You planned this,” his fingers traced the soaked material.
“I hoped,” you admit. “I hoped you wanted me as much as I do you.”
“Mmm,” he tugs the waistband, you lift a leg to free yourself of them then allow them to slide off. His hands grab at your hips, pulling you down onto his face, the stubble on his face burns your legs in the most delicious way. He then takes one long stripe with his tongue.
You jolt, your grasp on the headboard tightening.
“Bucky,” you whine. He repeats it, forcing a loud inhale from you.
“Mmm, I could hear those sounds all day,” he mumbles, voice muffled by you. His mouth moves to press a kiss to your thigh before using his tongue to part your folds, revealing your swollen clit to him.
You yelp as his lips wrap around the nub.
His mouth works you, tongue flicking one minute, then circling it. Slowly building pressure, the wetness between your thighs increases as you clamp around nothing.
The touch of his tongue rolls over your clit, you arch your back with a cry and he repeats the action.
“Bucky!” You cry out, legs shaking as you hit your peak.
Gentle hands soothe your thighs, guiding you to sit on his chest.
“Beautiful,” he mouth and chin were shiny, lips curled into a smile.
“I need-“ you inhale sharply. “I need you.”
“Already?” He grins, smug.
You nod, grabbing the sides of the bodysuit and pulling it off. His irises widen, noticing that you wore no bra underneath, meaning that you hadn’t been wearing one all day.
Your bare body moves down him, leaving a damp trail as you grind down his chest to meet his hips.
His hands cup your face, pulling you into a brief kiss.
“Gonna ride me?” He asks. “Or do I need to flip you over and fuck you myself?”
“You just like the idea of being ridden,” you tease him, allowing his now hard cock to brush your folds.
“Can you blame me?” He taunts. “I haven’t even seen you in the driver's seat yet.”
You giggle. “A car metaphor, really?”
Bucky shrugs. “What can I say, I like a girl with taste in cars.”
“Mmm,” you roll over him again, pressing his head against you and then take it into you, slowly.
“Ohhh fuck,” he groaned. You lower further, giving yourself time to feel each inch as he stretches you until he is fully seated.
You moan, arching to press your hands against his chest.
“You gotta move, babe,” he whispers.
You exhale, senses overwhelmed and overstimulated. “I- I don’t know- feel so full- it’s so much…”
He studies you, the way you are barely holding yourself together, eyes pricking at the mix of pain and pleasure at being stretched so well.
“I got you,” his voice was soft, wrapping his arms around you and rolling you onto your back.
You moan again, feeling him brush that spot deep inside.
His hands move carefully, spreading your thighs, then inching out of you to roll slowly back in.
The pair of you groan. Bucky starts to move, thrusting at an agonisingly slow pace, allowing friction to build as you both pant.
“Bucky,” you gasp. “Please, more.”
He gives you a tight grin, as if he’d been waiting for this.
He pulls your legs up so your calves are over his shoulders, bending you so your thighs are against your chest.
“Oh fuck,” you cry out as his hips snap into you, now hitting deep enough to hit the spongy spot that made the world fall away.
“That’s it,” he mutters between his clenched jaw, hips thrusting faster. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
“Buck- I’m close,” you whine, unintentionally allowing the nickname he reserved for his closest friends to slip from your lips.
The metal fingers of his left hand move between you, rubbing over your clit frantically as he continues to move.
Your head falls back against the pillow as you cry out, body shaking as you fall apart.
“God. Fuck! I can’t-“ he was cut off by a choked noise, your insides suddenly filled with a warmth.
The room was silent other than the heavy sounds of breathing. Bucky gently lowers your legs, pulls you until you arms and rolls to pull you onto his chest.
Your fingers make patterns on his chest.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“What for?” His left hand tilts your head up, looking at you carefully.
“For the date,” you say. “For this.”
His arm tightens around you, and he kisses the top of your head. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” you whisper. “When you asked for a date, I wasn’t sure how serious you were. I convinced myself you didn’t want me.”
He lifts you up slightly so your faces are practically touching.
“I don’t want you?” He repeats with a slight frown. “Girl, I wanted you the moment you batted those eyelashes at me.”
You blush slightly.
“I want you, in fact I want to keep you,” he squeezes you. “If you’ll have me.”
You can’t restrain the smile from spreading across your face. “I’d really like that.”
Bucky then presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good. When you come round tomorrow we can have another date? A picnic or a movie?”
“Either sounds nice,” you agree. “As long as it’s with you.”
He beams, his nose gently bumping against yours. You reach under him to place your hands on his shoulder blades, snuggling into his chest.
You inhale deep, smelling the faintest trace of grease, metal and his woody cologne.
Something solidified in your chest, deciding that he smelt like home.
author's note: kudos to anyone who noticed the little tid that's a reference to sebastian himself. thank you all for reading!! ❤︎₊ ⊹
summary: you return home to find your scrawny childhood friend somehow growing up to be very tall, very broad, and very very hot. shame he’s also the most oblivious man alive, because you've been shamelessly flirting with him since you walked into his coffee shop and he just wont bite.
warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, light praise kink, use of pet names (sweetheart, baby, sunshine), childhood friends to lovers, fluff, big ol’ love confession from steve, small town AU, light angst in the beginning i guess bc of reader's cheating ex-fiancé?, 18+ MDNI
word count: 4.9K (just under the limit! i had to do a fair amount of chopping bc i'm a yapper, so if something seems oddly paced, thats why)
from maddie: this is my very very last minute (big apologies if it's actually after the deadline and feel free to ignore if it is) entry for @stargazingfangirl18 @biteofcherry and @buckets-and-trees's hoes for the holidays event! i adore all of their writing and when i saw this fabulous event i knew i wanted to do something for it. unfortunately, this ended up being so last minute bc it's my second draft of it and this has been reworked and put back together many times. kinda panicking about this fic tbh. it was supposed to be fluffy and smutty but it turns out writing fluff is NOT my forte.
never in my life has a fic kicked me in the ass like this one has. it fought me every step of the way and definitely won. so i'm posting this at 4am literally as i've finished it and going to bed. if you hate it, please lie 🫶🏼
p.s. this also has inspiration from WDYGH by sabrina, because i've seen so many steve edits to the song, i thought it would be cute to do a steve fic for it (little did i know it would take everything outta me)
prompts: i chose the general prompt of new year's eve, and the AU prompt of moving to a small town
Masterlist
Your childhood bedroom is smaller than you remember.
Or maybe you’re just bigger now, filled with the kind of grown-up regret that can’t be boxed away with your old school trophies.
You’ve been back for three days and the only thing you’ve unpacked is your misery. The first night home, you told yourself you were just decompressing. The second night, you called it self-care. By the third, it’s just inertia.
There’s an empty wine bottle on the floor. You’ve eaten crackers for dinner two nights running. Your parents are still on their festive cruise, blissfully toasting to their daughter's engagement, and you're alone with nothing but an old stuffed rabbit for company.
So it’s just you here. You, and the persistent pings of one very desperate ex-fiancé, still trying to text his way out of an affair. Funny how remorse arrived once he realised the closet was empty.
But you’ve ignored every message. That is your one victory.
He’ll have come home from work to find the apartment gutted. You like to imagine him standing in the doorway, blinking stupidly at the space where your life used to fit, maybe realising a little too late that you don’t get to keep the life you’re careless with.
Outside, the snow hasn’t stopped piling thick and muffling the world, like time itself is trying to bury you. Which feels appropriate, really, because it’s New Year’s Eve, and whilst the rest of the world is out toasting to fresh starts, you’re back in your childhood bedroom.
But eventually, even your wallowing gets restless. You don’t want to spend the day in this bed, alone and vaguely wine-sick, watching reruns and wondering if your ex is feeding someone else dessert from the platter you picked out together.
So you drag yourself upright, trading self-pity for practicality, and make the brave decision to go outside. It’s at least a chance to find something to eat that isn’t square, salted, and designed for toddlers.
⋆·˚ ༘*°🌨️⋆.ೃ☕️࿔*:·༘⋆
Main Street is exactly the same - even the lamp posts are still strung with the same festive garlands the town’s been using since you were in middle school. Everything you’d sworn to outrun at eighteen still sits where you left it, as if the town’s been holding its breath all this time, just to watch you come crawling back.
Snow crunches under your boots as you trudge past shuttered shops and dark windows. You're not sure what you're looking for - maybe just somewhere that doesn't feel like it's still wearing your ghost.
But then you round a corner, and something catches your eye. Tucked away at the edge of the street is a storefront you don’t recognise.
Howlies' Coffee.
You stop in front of it, snowflakes catching in your lashes, breath hanging in the air like steam. The dark wood sign is painted in clean blocky letters with a little stylised wolf howling at a moon. Warm yellow light spills through the windows like melted butter.
The bell chimes softly as you step inside, heat pouring over you. You’re immediately enveloped by the scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and the distinct warmth of something fresh out of an oven.
It’s cozy in the way only small-town places know how to be - familiar, but not like somewhere you tried to leave behind. Strings of yellow lights draped across wooden beams, mismatched furniture, and walls lined with sketched artwork.
“Holy shit,” a voice behind the counter exclaims, loud and unmistakably familiar. “it’s you.”
You blink, turning instinctively, and then your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god, Bucky?”
“In the flesh,” he grins, a little crooked, like the past 10 years haven’t passed at all. Like he’s still the same smug bastard who used to copy your maths homework and charm his way out of detention.
And really, like the rest of the town, he hasn’t changed much. Same smirk. Same cocky, yet annoyingly charming, tilt of the head. His hair is longer now, however, tied back in a stubby knot that suits him far too well.
"God," he exhales, leaning forward, "I thought we'd never see you again after your big move to the city." There's no edge to it, just casual observation, but you still wince like you ghosted the whole town.
“Yeah,” you say, voice scraping awkwardness off your tongue. “The big move. Very adult. Lots of overpriced rent and poor decisions I now get to call growth.”
Bucky snorts. “Sounds about right. You just back for the holidays?”
Your heart clenches, ribs tightening like they’re bracing for impact. You look down, suddenly fascinated with a loose thread on your sleeve, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, just to have something to do with your hands.
“Something like that,” you murmur, noncommittal, forcing a smile that feels about as real as it looks. “This place is gorgeous, by the way,” you add, keen to redirect the conversation.
Bucky lets you have it. Doesn’t press.
“Yeah, we opened a couple years ago,” he says, glancing around with a kind of quiet pride. “It’s been a journey, but we’re proud of the place.”
“We?” you echo, brow lifting.
“Steve and I,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “You remember Steve, right?”
Of course you do.
You remember the boy with too much heart and not nearly enough body to carry it. The boy who showed up to every fight whether he belonged there or not, who bled easy and healed slow and never once learned the lesson the world kept trying to beat into him. The boy who stood up for you on the playground and got knocked down twice as hard for it.
Of course you remember Steve Rogers. How could you not?
There’s the faint clink of ceramic from the kitchen, a domestic sound that pulls you back into the present.
“Buck,” a voice calls, familiar in a way that makes you still. “Did you write this list drunk?” There’s a pause, then the voice again, closer this time, fondly exasperated in a way that feels intimate. “Seriously, pal. I can’t tell if this says ‘milk’ or ‘mail.’ We gotta talk about this.”
The owner of the voice appears in the doorway mid sentence, looking down at the paper in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. For half a second, your brain refuses to cooperate.
It tries to overlay the memory it knows - skinny shoulders hunched over a sketchbook, fingers stained with ink - onto the man stepping into the light, and the images won’t line up. They slide past each other like mismatched transparencies.
This is not the scrawny Steve Rogers you remember.
This version fills the doorway without trying, broad shoulders almost touching the frame, like the world finally decided to build him the way his heart always suggested it should
There’s a sweater situation happening - cream, cable-knit, rolled sleeves. And it’s unfair, frankly, that forearms like that exist on a man who once tripped over his own backpack strap. It fits slightly too well across his chest, the knit straining just enough to suggest it’s losing a battle against whatever’s underneath.
But then Steve lifts his head, and when he finally meets your eyes, it’s catastrophic.
Because it is still him. Still Steve. The same gentle blue eyes, widening just a fraction as they land on you. The same mouth pulling into that shy, lopsided smile you remember from tenth grade.
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you, like he’s making sure you’re real, like if he blinks too hard you might turn back into a memory.
“Wow,” he finally exhales. “Sunshine… it’s been a while.”
You laugh. A short, startled thing that slips out before you can stop it, half amusement, half what the hell else are you supposed to do with this?
“Yeah,” you reply, stunned, because words are suddenly very hard. “Guess so.”
There’s a pause where nothing useful happens in your head. Then, grasping for something, you try again. “You look…” you trail off, helpless, because good doesn’t cut it. “…different,” you finish weakly. Coward.
Steve lets out a chuckle immediately, warm and self-deprecating, like he’s been waiting for that exact word. He ducks his head, one big hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, sheepish. “I get that a lot. Puberty showed up about a decade late, but I filled out eventually.”
He glances down at himself like he’s only just noticed his own body, then back up at you. “Still me, though. Promise.”
You swear you catch the ghost of that old boyish awkwardness under all that new muscle. It hits you right in the chest, sharp and fond, and something reckless stirs in its wake.
So what if your ex-fiancé broke your heart. So what if everything feels a little scorched at the edges. Maybe a concentrated dose of the new Steve Rogers is exactly what you need.
You tilt your head, let your gaze linger openly now, unapologetic. “Well, thank God for late bloomers,” you add, teasing. “And lucky me, showing up just in time to enjoy the finished product.”
Steve goes still. Just for a second. Then he lets out a huffed breath of a laugh, as if to brush it off. But you catch the pink creeping up his neck. Bingo.
Steve clears his throat. “You want anything? Coffee's on the house for returning hometown legends.”
You give him your order, then let your gaze linger, a deliberate smile curing your mouth. “Free coffee, shameless flattery, and a view like this? You really know how to pull them in, Rogers.”
Steve doesn’t even blink, smile easy and unguarded, already turning back toward the machine. “Oh, yeah. Howlies does pretty well for itself,” he nods, like that’s what you meant. “Lots of loyal locals, word of mouth et cetera…”
He trials off, completely unaware that your flirting just bounced off him like a pebble against a boulder.
You bite the inside of your cheek, mildly stunned, then amused. Maybe you’re a little rusty, maybe heartbreak dulled your edge, but that’s fine. You can be patient.
You watch him work. Watch him move with easy confidence as he reaches for the grinder, shoulders shifting beneath that poor, overstretched sweater. He finishes up quickly, sliding the mug across the counter, sleeves pushed up, veins tracing lazy lines along his skin.
Your gaze drops there and lingers, unsubtle. “Damn, Steve,” you exhale. “Those arms…You been lifting cars or something?”
Bucky chokes on a laugh from behind the counter
Steve laughs, ducking his head, still bashful despite the size of him now. “Mostly bags of coffee,” he replies, grin crooked. “Take a seat wherever you like, maybe grab a book too.” He nods towards the bookshelf labeled ‘Take a Book, Leave a Book’.
You tilt your head as he turns away, waiting for any flicker of realisation, but it doesn’t come. Your smile goes a little wry, baffled and amused all at once. Either you’ve completely lost your touch, or he’s is the most aggressively oblivious man on the planet.
You take the mug, thank him, and make a tactical retreat before you embarrass yourself further. Grabbing a random book off the shelf, you settle into a chair in the corner with your coffee and a huff of quiet laughter.
⋆·˚ ༘*°🌨️⋆.ೃ☕️࿔*:·༘⋆
Time slips quietly. For the first time in days, your shoulders actually start to relax. You're three chapters deep and entirely too invested in a fictional detective's marital problems when you finally surface.
The cafe is quiet. Too quiet.
You blink, glancing up from the page, and realise with a jolt that the place is empty. The string lights now glow soft against the darkening windows, chairs stacked on tables, the kind of end-of-day stillness that makes you feel like you've overstayed a welcome.
"Oh god," you mutter, checking your phone. Two hours. You've been here two hours, absorbed in your book while the place closed up around you.
Movement catches your eye. Steve, wiping down the counter with easy efficiency, sleeves still rolled up, looking utterly unbothered, like this is exactly where he planned to be. Like he’s not in any rush at all. When he notices you watching, he just smiles.
"Good book?" he asks, like it's natural you've stayed past closing “Buck picks them out. He likes making sure there’s something for everyone.”
“I—yeah—shit—sorry, I completely lost track of time," you say, already gathering your things, face warming. "I should’ve—"
"Don't worry about it, Sunshine" he interrupts gently, tossing the rag aside. "I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to stay.”
And there’s something in the easy way he says it that makes your chest to something stupid.
You straighten in your seat, trying not to seem flustered. “I didn’t realise it had gotten so late. Has everyone else gone?”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at the door. “Bucky already ducked out to spend new years’ with his folks. I was supposed to go with him, but…” He shrugs, his mouth quirking. “Didn’t want to rush.”
You blink. Your heart thuds. “You stayed for me?”
He shrugs again, as if it’s not a big deal. “Didn’t want to kick you out. You looked like you needed the quiet.”
You stand slowly, stretching out legs that had been curled for far too long, and cross toward the window. The glass is fogged, but you can still make out the heavy curtain of white blanketing the street. Snow’s coming down heavy now, piling fast, the streetlights haloed and blurred.
Your breath fogs the glass. You press a hand to it absently. “Oh shit,” you murmur.
Steve's beside you in a moment, following your gaze, and frowns a little. “Damn, it got bad fast." He glances at you, brow creasing slightly. "You weren't planning to walk home in this, were you?”
You wince, just slightly, at the thought of trudging back through that snowstorm. “It’s not that far,” you lie.
He hesitates just a beat, then nods like he’s decided something simple and obvious. “No way you’re walking home in that. I’ll drive.” He shrugs, casual, already reaching for his keys.
“Steve, really, it’s fine—”
“It’s not,” he cuts in gently, voice firm but warm. “It’s freezing and dark - please, let me drive you.”
You open your mouth to protest again, but the look on his face brooks no argument.
“Okay,” you relent, “Thanks, Steve.”
⋆·˚ ༘*°🌨️⋆.ೃ☕️࿔*:·༘⋆
The drive settles into loaded quiet. Snow streaks sideways in the headlights, the heater humming, the pineapple air freshener swaying.
You sit angled toward the window, watching the world go soft around the edges, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of the man sitting next to you. But, inevitably, you start watching Steve instead.
The set of his jaw. The way his grip shifts when he turns a corner, forearms flexing. You tell yourself you’re being subtle about it. You are not. At one point, you glance over and catch his eyes already on you, lingering slightly before he turns back to the road. His throat bobs around a swallow.
The silence stretches, grows warm, a little charged, like it’s daring one of you to do something about it.
Then he pulls up outside your place, tires crunching softly into the snowbank. You both sit for a moment too long. You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, fingers fumbling a little more than they should, before thanking him for the ride and the coffee.
Steve huffs a breath through his nose, smile soft. “Anytime.”
You hesitate just long enough to curse yourself, then push through it. “Hey, Steve, are you still heading to Bucky’s folks’?”
He blinks slowly, thinking. Before placing at the snow piling on your curb. “With the snow coming down like this, I’ll probably just head home. It’s closer”
“Oh,” you say, carefully casual, “I mean…it would be a shame for us both to spend New Year’s alone.” You pause. “You’re welcome to come inside - I’d appreciate the company.”
Steve hesitates, visibly weighing it, earnest to a fault. “I don’t want to impose,”
You tilt your head, smile turning a little wicked. “Come on Stevie, don’t make me beg you to come inside.”
The blush hits fast - ears, neck, all of it - and he laughs under his breath, embarrassed and utterly undone, though you think it might be more from the childhood nickname rather than the innuendo.
He nods once, decisive now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Okay. That’d be nice. We could catch up.”
You almost roll your eyes. Almost. If it weren’t so Steve, so painfully, stupidly genuine, it would be laughable. But it’s also warm and tugging at your chest in ways you don’t want to name just yet.
Inside, you kick off your boots by the door. Steve follows, pausing just long enough to stomp the snow off his soles, one shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he steps past.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll grab us something to drink.”
Steve does as he’s told, settling onto the cushions with an easy sprawl, like the place already knows him. You pause, watching him for half a second too long - how unfairly broad he looks, making your three seater seem like a two - then clear your throat.
“Fair warning,” you add, casually, “the couch is seriously comfy. It’s dangerous really. People tend to stay longer than they mean to.”
He huffs a laugh and sinks back further, one arm draped along the back. “Yeah? I can see that.”
You head for the kitchen. “Also,” you toss over your shoulder, unable to help yourself, “a surprisingly decent place to make out. If you don’t mind getting stabbed by rogue remote controls.”
That gets a louder laugh, head tipping back, utterly delighted. “Wow,” he says. “Haven’t made out on a couch in years.”
You smile to yourself as you grab the wine, already mentally filing that away.
You come back from the kitchen with two glasses and the bottle tucked against your side, nudging the living room light dimmer just slightly as you pass.
Steve’s right where you left him, leaning back on the couch, still looking unfairly at ease in your childhood living room. You hand him a glass and sit beside him, close enough that your knees nearly brush, close enough that you notice the heat of him.
Conversation slips into place like it was always meant to. You tease him lightly, let your knee brush his once or twice. Let your fingers graze his when you pass the bottle back and forth. You lace your words with intent, with edges, with invitations that feel obvious to you. He laughs at every one like it’s just a game you’re playing out of nostalgic habit.
But he also listens like every word matters. Leans in when you speak and asks questions that aren’t small talk. He remembers details you didn’t realise you’d given him, and circles back to them later like he’s been holding onto them carefully.
It’s disarming, unfair, and completely charming.
And somewhere between topping off your glasses and his gentle, “What really brought you home?” the wine loosens something you weren’t planning to untie. The humour drains out of your voice before you can stop it.
“My fiancé—ex-fiancé, I guess—was having an affair,” you say, staring into your glass. “Months. I didn’t even know.”
The words keep coming once they start. You talk about leaving. About packing. About coming back to a house that still knew you when you didn’t quite know yourself anymore. Steve doesn’t interrupt, he just remains, solid and warm at your side. The kind of presence you can lean against without being asked.
When you finally run out of words, a heavy silence follows.
You laugh suddenly, brittle, and take a long sip of wine before slumping back. “God,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Listen to me. You did not sign up for this.”
He starts to say something, but you barrel on, groaning.
“Seriously, Steve. This is not how I planned to spend New Year’s Eve.” You glance at him sideways, half-laughing now. “This is what happens when you ignore all my attempts to get you to sleep with me. Why couldn’t you just be a typical man and take the damn hint?”
Steve’s head jerks up, eyes snapping to yours, wide. “Wait. You’ve been—what?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Unbelievable. Do you mean to tell me I’ve been dropping hints all night and you just, what, thought I was joking?”
His mouth opens. Closes. His brows knit together like the ground has shifted under his feet. “I didn’t think you meant it,” he says carefully. “You weren’t that obvious
Your fingers part. You peer at him through them, eyes narrowing despite the smile that’s tugging at your mouth. “Excuse me? Are you saying my game is bad?”
Steve laughs, the sound a little bashful, but his eyes flick down to your lips before he answers, and it changes something in the air.
“I’m saying if this is your game,” His voice drops into something more deliberate. “It needs work.”
Heat crawls up your neck - not embarrassment anymore, but something sharper.
“Fine,” you murmur, setting your glass aside, your body angling toward his. “Then let me make my intentions very obvious.”
You don’t wait for him to respond.
You grab a fistful of his sweater, yank him toward you, and crash your mouth to his. There’s a split second of startled heat, his breath hitching against your lips, before it melts into a low, rough groan, the kind that vibrates straight through his chest and into you as he kisses you back.
The kiss becomes messy fast, all heat and want and the sharp taste of wine on his tongue as he kisses you like he’s done being careful and has no intention of stopping. And then his hands are suddenly everywhere - one at your waist, the other sliding up your back, his grip possessive in a way that steals your breath.
Then he’s pulling you closer, easily tugging you onto his lap like you weigh nothing. Like the space between you was always a mistake. Like straddling his thighs is exactly where you’re meant to be.
The control in it makes your stomach flip. You moan into the kiss, needy, and he takes the sound for the permission it is, tongue sliding into your mouth with a greedy, deliberate press that has your whole body tightening.
His sweater is the first casualty. You tug it up and over his head, breathless, fingers dragging along heated skin as he lifts his arms to help.
“Jesus Christ, Steve…” you whisper against his mouth, palms sliding down his chest, fingertips greedily tracing the muscle until you reach the hard line of his jeans.
He groans, hips twitching when your fingers press against the thick bulge straining behind the denim. “Fuck—”
His mouth leaves yours only to trail open, hungry kisses down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. One big hand slips beneath your shirt, tugging your bra up until your breast spills into his palm. His grip his firm, thumb pinching your nipple so you gasp and arch against him.
“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth hot against your throat. “Always knew you’d be sweet.”
You whimper at the praise, hips shifting restlessly in his lap, breath stuttering, “Steve—please, I need—”
He groans at that, low and wrecked, and you swear you feel him throb beneath you.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he coos, voice dark with promise. He his free hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, sure fingers slipping past the fabric until they find the slick heat between your thighs, already soaked for him.
Steve curses, low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he kisses you again, needier this time, like the feel of you has tipped something over inside him. His fingers stroke through your folds, spreading you open, slow and deliberate, before his thumb finds your clit and presses down.
You jolt, gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as pleasure sparks through you. “Oh, fuck—Steve.”
“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, as his thumb keeps working slow, devastating circles over your clit. “You just let me make you feel good. I’ll give you what you need, baby. I’ll give you everything.”
Then he sinks a thick finger inside you and groans outright when you clamp around him, your walls fluttering with desperate need. He adds a second, stretching you open, and you cry out, hips jerking in his lap.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice breaking. “You’re so tight for me.”
The pressure builds fast, sharp and hot, breathless moans spilling from you with every drag of his thumb over your clit. His fingers pump slow and deep, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
He rests his forehead to yours, breath ragged, eyes locked on your face like he needs to watch you come apart for him.
“Good girl,” he mutters, wrecked, as your walls flutter around him. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it. Let me feel that pretty pussy come on my fingers.”
And it’s like his voice drags your orgasm from you, hot and all consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your breath catches in a desperate cry of his name, as your body locks up, soaking his hand
Steve groans like he feels it too, swallowing your moans in a kiss, fingers still working you through it, coaxing every last shudder from your body.
But your orgasm doesn’t satisfy the ache, only sharpens it, twisting your need for him into something hungrier. Your hands go straight to his jeans, fumbling with his belt, fingers trembling with urgency as you try to undo it
“God—” Steve rumbles, catching your wrists with one hand, eyes squeezed shut like it’s costing him everything not to give in. “Don’t—please.”
“Steve, please,” your voice trembles with need. “I need you, need to feel you.”
The low, restrained, sound he makes nearly undoes you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?” he utters, voice cracking at the edges. “But I can’t. Not like this. Not just tonight.”
You freeze, heart thudding.
He exhales hard, chest rising and falling against yours, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, like the words are dragging themselves out of him. “I’ve wanted you since we were kids. Before the growth spurts. Before sweaters actually fit me. Back when you’d smile at me in the hallway and I’d blush so hard I couldn’t breathe.”
“When you left—” his voice breaks, and you feel the shudder that runs through him. “When you left it felt like something got carved out of me. And I thought that was it.”
He lifts his head then, eyes searching yours - wide, uncertain, and far too full of feeling.
“So if this is just a one-time thing for you, if you’re hurting and I’m just convenient, then I can’t.” His jaw flexes, throat working around a swallow. “Because it wouldn’t be casual for me. The truth—”
He catches himself, almost doesn’t say it, then forces it out.
“The truth is, I’d fall in love with you. All over again. And it would tear me apart trying to shove it back down this time.”
You don’t even know what expression you’re making. Your mind just keeps looping in love with you, in love with you, echoing in his voice, low and raw. You should say something - God, you should say something - but all you can do is stare wide-eyed, heart caught in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.
His thumb brushes gently along your cheek, as if to ground himself.
“Steve…” It slips out, barely a whisper. You blink like you’re still not sure you heard him right.
But he’s not finished. He swallows again, his eyes burning into yours.
“I don’t want to be something you look back on and shrug off,” he continues. “I want to take you out. Walk you to your door. Bring you flowers. Kiss you goodnight. Be the man who gets you, not just for a night, but as long as you’ll let me.”
“Because you mean everything to me,” he adds quietly. “You always have.”
The way he looks at you, hopeful and afraid in equal measure, makes something ache deep in your chest. Because this isn’t a line. This is Steve, laying himself bare and asking you to choose him, not just his body.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, voice dropping, eyes flicking downward. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending. But if you don’t want that, if it was just tonight for you,” his voice dips, soft with pain. “It’ll break my heart less if I stop now.”
You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you again. He’s giving you space. But your mind is already made.
“Then I guess you’d better take me on that date, Stevie,” you whisper, breath warm against his lips. “Because we’ve got years of catching up to do.”
A smile blooms across his lips, small and boyish and so goddamn sweet it hurts worse than the ache still pulsing low in your belly.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah.”
He kisses you again, slow and lingering, before pulling you against his chest. You curl into him, breathing in the warmth of his skin, the clean spice of his cologne, and the comforting trace of coffee that clings to him.
Outside, the snow still falls heavy. Inside, Steve holds you close, and you count in the new year with the sound of his heart keeping time against yours.
thanks for reading <3
hopefully you enjoyed it reading this, still kinda nervous about it. if you did please like & especially reblog/comment, as i would be super grateful for feedback!
pairing: chubby!bucky x fem!reader
word count: 6.7k
warning: body insecurities | oral (both f and m receiving) | mention of injuries | Sharon (it’s a warning) | PinV
summary: Bucky loves you. You love him in private, or that’s what he thought.
a/n: first new one shot before reuploading all the old ones... hope you like :)
You loved the way he moved on the field.
Calculated, powerful, always protective.
There was nothing Bucky wouldn’t do to keep you safe, even if it meant catching a grenade with his bare metal hand. But the moment the armor came off, so did the persona. Inside the quiet walls of his room, the soldier turned soft. And self-conscious.
Bucky was everything you wanted in a guy. Strong, caring, handsome and kind. He got a little belly that giggled when you laid on him or when he laughed at something, many times something you specifically in the privacy of one of your room. You both hid from the others and that killed Bucky. But he wasn’t the only one; it killed you too not being brave enough to admit the world you loved him.
HYDRA’s times were gladly in the past when Bucky discovered again the pleasure of food and eating without the need of the pure intention of being strong for some missions.
You always watched him. As he grew bigger, you found yourself even more attracted to him. Bucky was already absolutely gorgeous when he first came in the tower, saved and brought by Steve Rogers himself. As the time passed, you saw how he avoided dinner with the team, movie nights with popcorn and even small lunch breaks during missions. It took time for him to gain the right confidence to sat and eat. He also gain the courage and began to train shirtless, making you stump in one of the mattress on the floor many many times. Steve said he was gaining the 40's audacity he had.
The peak of your attraction arrived in a normal Tuesday.
The tower silent and empty, only you and Bucky in the tower’s kitchen.
“So,” you asked as you bit your sandwich. “Alone in there?”
“Sounds like.” He nodded looking at you, above the rim of his glass.
You looked at his hand, at his shoulders, at his belly when he sat on the chair across you. His henley tightened around him. His veiny neck peaked out of the collar. He bit his sandwich too, the one you prepared for him as he saw the minutia you used for yours. You starred at him, biting in the bread hoping one day to feel his bite one your skin. You coughed and finished your sandwich.
You both now ended your lunch and headed to the couch. You sat at one end of it, while Bucky occupied the other one. You muttered something under your breath as he was so far from you, hoping he didn’t hear it.
“Said something?” He asked.
“No.”
God, why am I so dumb? We worked perfectly together, you thought.
On the field no one and nothing could beat you.
Outside the field? Two teenagers madly in love too scared of being hurt.
“Should we watch a movie?” He suggested.
“Yeah.”
The universe was clearly messing with you when you landed on one of the cheesiest yet hottest rom-com you ever saw.
“Uhm… I can switch it… if you want…” he said stuttering. His bravado all gone.
That was the moment your bravado came out.
You turned to him, resting your arm on the backrest. Head tilted resting on your closed fist. “Do you wanna switch it?” You asked, tone low and dangerously hot. He shook his head no. “Well,” you moved closer. “Neither do I.” Your finger traced his profile at first. His cheekbone, his nose, his full lips.
“What are you doing?” He said as he tried to compose himself.
“I’m not doing anything.” You hooked your leg on his tight. Your chest close to his torso and your hand still lingering on his face.
“Doll,” he said.
“Doll?” You said, voice trembling for a second.
“Oh god,” he began. “I mean Y/N… no… doll,” he stutter as your hand began to wander on his chest and then sliding down toward his belly. “Please don’t.”
“But I like this very much, Bucky.” You said as you battled your eyes. “Want me to stop for real?”
“Yes!”
You immediately stopped, worried you crossed a line.
“Bucky I swear I’m sorry…”
“It’s not your fault.” He said as he stood up.
“Wait,” you followed him. You grabbed his hand making him turn toward you. “Buck I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable…”
“Don’t worry. I know you were messing with me.” He said, as the rediscovered handsome and confident guy disappeared again. He looked down, ashamed.
“What?”
“You don’t have to pretend you want this,” he mumbled. “You could have anyone. Someone who looks like Steve or Sam or even-”
“Stop.” You closed the distance, placed his flesh hand against your chest so he could feel your heart. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you. This you. All of you. Trust me.”
Oh my god… did I say it for real? You thought.
He watched you straight into your eyes. He didn’t see a person messing with him, but two brown and pleading eyes telling him to trust someone more than the voice in his head. He saw how your lower lip trembled. How your hands still gripping his arm. How your body was impossibly close now to his belly. How you weren’t disgusted by him.
“Buck,” you began saying as you pressed his hand more on your chest. “I didn't want to tell this like that… but it's true… I like you…”
He looked at you again, really looked at you. He moved so fast you found yourself pressed against the wall. He kissed you like a man starved, moaning in the kiss.
It flown naturally between you and him. Your first time, right after he was thinking you were messing with him and after you got pinned on that damn wall, was sweet and even way more gentle than you could imagine. He kissed you like you were made of glass, totally the opposite of moments before. Touched you like the precious thing in the world and his body crushed you deliciously between him and the bed.
In the following days, you both tried to get together every free minute you had. Some stolen kisses in the gym after Steve and Sam finished their routine. His hand on your tight at dinner when you casually say closer. You pressed yourself on him in the kitchen when you cooked or when Nat asked you both to make dinner. You also began to avoid every cameras in the tower, escaping Tony's high tech security.
The voices in Bucky’s head never really stopped, maybe they got lower but they didn’t disappear. He gain his confidence back and it was true but every time he passed a mirror, you could see his eyes lingering for a bunch of second. You helped him making those voices smaller, but one day on a mission they got back.
All the Avengers got called. A former HYDRA facility. Narrow spaces and mouldy smells.
“Barnes can you copy? Y/N need help.” Steve breathed through the comms. He had some doubts about your only friendship as you both called it, but he knew you were deadly efficient together so it came out normal calling him for help.
“On it.”
He began running. Boots against the concrete, wreckage all around him. He tried to fight the cement still lingering in the air and he was glad he was still feeling zero pressure in his lungs nor fatigue despite his bigger body, thank to the serum in his veins still.
Once he got to the red zone where you were, he yelled your name. “Y/N? Where are you?”
“Here Bucky… follow my voice…”
He did and found you in an almost locked cell. The hard and massive metal door was stuck and just a narrow opening allowed him to see you in the room.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know… I was looking inside and the door began to slide close… thank goodness it got stuck…”
“Oh my god, Y/N are you hurt?” Bucky said. He was so worried that he looked at your face without looking. If he had looked, really looked, he would have seen you on the floor sat while gripping your ankle.
“Just fell down. You need to open it more please. I can’t get out.”
Bucky pondered how he could get out of that cell. He tried hooking his metal arm against the door just for yanking it, but the door didn’t move. Without thinking, Bucky put himself between the door and the wall in the little chink. Everything was good until he had to suck his breath, making his belly smaller in order to push properly.
You saw how he avoided looking at you, so you didn’t press. The shame and embarrassment giving him the energy and strength to move the door. When he opened the door enough to breathe again, he bent down a little picking you up.
You circled his neck with your arm and kiss his cheek. He smiled, even if it didn’t reach his eyes and began to walk with his arm around you, guiding you.
Once you got back to the tower you insisted of not seeing the doctor. “Bucky will help me.” You said, as he remained silent near you. No one said anything, sensing some kind of tension and unresolved things.
You were now in your room. He set you on the bed and was about to leave.
“Don’t you dare.” He stopped immediately. “Take off your t-shirt.”
“Y/N”
“Take. Off. Your. T-shirt.”
He did of course, standing shirtless now, black pants hanging low on his hips. His thick belly rising and falling with every anxious breath. He didn’t meet your eyes. You stood from the bed, not putting to much weight on the ankle, and crossed the room. You wrapped your arms around his warm body pressing kisses along the patchy scruff of his jaw.
“Don’t,” he muttered, stepping back.
“Don’t what?” You asked, voice soft.
He shook his head, arms folding across his broad chest hiding the soft skin of his stomach after he untangled from your arms. He didn’t speak, but his eyes shimmered still. That steel-blue gaze always gave him away.
You reached down, using it as an excuse for your ankle, and unbuttoned his pants slow and deliberate. “I love this stomach,” you whispered, kissing the soft curve of it. “Love this arms,” you said as your hands slid up towards his forearms. “Love the way you crush me to you in bed. You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”
Bucky’s breath hitched as you positioned on your knees, pulling his pants down with care. His cock was already half-hard, thick and heavy.
“Stop worshiping me,” he grumbled, though his hand settled possessively on your head. “You’re gonna make me think I’m sexy or something.”
You looked up at him with a teasing smile. “You are sexy.”
You ran your tongue along the length of it, watching him unravel with a groan and a shaky hand reaching for your hair. “You always make me feel like I’m more than this broken body,” he whispered. “Like I’m… enough. You saw me in the cell...”
“When you saved me? When your big and strong arm opened that door?” You kissed the sensitive head of his cock and smiled. “That’s because you are. You are enough. More than enough.”
He didn’t stop you as you took him more into your mouth, moaning at the way your lips stretched around him. His hand clutched your hair tighter, the other braced against the wall. His belly jiggled slightly with every sharp breath and moan, and you adored it.
You sucked him more, as you saw him trying to not cum on the spot. You stood and took his hand. “Lay down.” You ordered him, kissing the corner of his mouth.
He did in a second, laying there naked and waiting. You moved toward him, limping slightly. He pulled himself up on his elbows to see you better. You stopped there, right in front of him. His cock thick and hard, as a memo of the effect you had on him. You removed one by one your clothes before straddling him and ran your hands across his chest and his belly. You kissed the softest parts of him like they were sacred, and to you, they were. “I want you to see yourself how I see you,” you whispered against his skin.
Bucky’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight. “I’m trying,” he whispered back. “You make it easier.” He guided your hips down, slow and sweet.
And as you rode him, whispering how good he felt, how deep he was, how perfect, he started to believe it again. “Gonna fuck this insecurity out of you,” you panted. “Gonna make you feel every fucking thing you do to me. Look at me, Bucky. Look how good I look riding your fat cock.”
His hands came up to your hips, but he didn’t try to control the pace. He never did when you were like this, he gave you everything.
His pleasure, his submission, his shame. And you turned it all into something holy. He came hard, trembling beneath you, teeth clenched, nearly sobbing your name as you kept grinding, overstimulating him on purpose.
“Good boy,” you whispered as you leaned down, kissing his flushed cheek. “You’ll never doubt how fuckable you are again, will you?”
He shook his head, ruined and dazed. “No, ma’am.”
You curled up beside him when it was over, letting him catch his breath. One arm wrapped tight around you, clinging like he couldn’t believe he deserved any of it. And maybe he didn’t believe it yet, but you were going to spend every night proving him wrong.
You both sucked at feeling, but Bucky was better at reading the lack of them. He saw it in your eyes during meetings, the way you avoided brushing past him in the hallway, how you never lingered in the kitchen when Sam joked about who was seeing who. You laughed along, eyes flickering to Bucky for half a second, before returning to your mug like he was just another set of boots in the room.
You weren't trying to make him feel bad, you just realised something and it scared you.
You love Bucky Barnes. Not the kind of I like Bucky and I like spending time with him, rather the I want him under my skin and it will never be enough.
So you avoided him and interacted way less during the daytime. You just passed him the coffee, you didn't make sandwiches just for him but for the team as the little piece of paper said on top of the plate. Bucky noticed it was however, always a filling he liked; pickles, ham and Dijon or tomato, turkey and salad even the tuna and mayo, his ultimate favorite.
Then nighttime came. And the moment your door shut, all that cold distance melted into heat. You were passionate, aggressive even. Fingers in his hair, mouth on his skin, nails digging into the thickest parts of him like he was the best goddamn thing you’d ever touched. You’d praise him, ride him, tell him how perfect he was when you were half-wild with need. You asked him to pinned you down on the bed, pounding from behind and crushing his massive body on yours. He was dazed at first, but then quickly turned you and pinned you down. You felt his belly on your lower back, his hot breath on your shoulder as he bit you. And for a while, that was enough. Or maybe he thought it would be.
But that night something broke in him.
It started after a mission, again, but this time his body wasn’t the issue.
You’d taken a hit, just a graze, but Bucky had been the one to pull you behind cover. You’d gripped his arm, breathless, eyes wide with something that might’ve been gratitude. Might’ve been more. But when Sam asked later at the compound, “Damn, Barnes, you sure you weren’t trying to play hero for someone special?”
You laughed.
Laughed.
Patted Bucky on the chest like he was a buddy. “He just knows I’m a pain in the ass when I’m injured.” Everyone laughed with you. Bucky smiled. But inside, it curdled.
You knocked on his door late that night, just like always. He opened it, brows furrowed, shoulders tense. Still shirtless, still soft and warm and so painfully him. You stepped inside without asking and cupped his face. “Hey,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss him. He didn’t kiss you back. “Bucky?” You blinked, your palm still on his jaw. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled away. Not sharply. Just enough. “Are you ashamed of me?”
The question landed like a punch. “What?”
“I’m not stupid, Y/N.” He stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know how you treat me when other people are around. Like I’m a coworker. A partner in the field. That’s it.”
You swallowed, heart pounding. “I’m not ashamed…”
“You don’t touch me in the hallway. You don’t even look at me in the gym. But the second we’re behind closed doors?” He laughed bitterly. “You climb me like a fucking tree.”
You stood there, stunned. “You think I’m using you?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I think you want me… when you’re horny. I think you like fucking me. When I saved you from that cell, I was so down for my body and you-“ he stopped as you pictured you knelt in front of him. His voice cracked. “But I don’t think you want to be with me. Not really.”
“That’s not fair-”
“It’s not fair that I lie awake wondering if you’d even admit you like me if someone asked.” The room went still. “Why do you act like I’m just your coworker out there?” He asked. “Like we’ve never even… like none of it means anything to you.”
You blinked, taken off guard. “Bucky, I-”
His voice cracked. “’Cause I’m not Steve, or Sam, or one of those perfect-looking guys on the team? ‘Cause I’ve got a gut, and scars, and a goddamn metal arm? And this fucking belly?” He yelled, looking down on his stomach.
Your heart twisted. “Bucky, no,” you said, stepping toward him. “God, no. Is that what you think?” You crossed to him, grabbed his hand, pressed it over your heart. “I do like you,” you whispered, desperate. “Bucky, every inch of you. This body. This mind. That stupid metal arm that always wraps around me when you think I’m asleep. I’m sorry I’m shit at the public part of this. I’ve never been good at it.” His jaw tensed.
“You’re not ashamed of me, then. You’re ashamed of being seen with me.”
“No! I-”
You kissed him. Desperate. He melted into it, his body already trained to respond to you with heat and hunger. You pushed him on the bed. You fumbled at his waistband tugging it off, climbed into his lap like always.
“Let me show you,” you panted, grinding against him. “Please, Bucky… let me show you how much I like you.”
He didn’t reach for you. He grabbed your hands.
“Bucky…”
He made you slide from his lap, and stood. “Sex doesn’t fix what’s broken, Y/N,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m just… done trying to believe this is more than something you keep locked behind a bedroom door.” He said, looking down. "If you wanna sleep here, stay." And then he left. You drown your face in his pillow, hugging it. Then, you left his room.
You hadn’t seen him in five days. Five nights of cold sheets. Five mornings of him leaving the gym before you arrived. Five awkward days of glances in shared mission briefings, where his eyes never stayed on you for more than half a second. You’d never felt so starved for someone’s presence. Not just his body, but his warmth. His voice. His crooked smirks. The arm he used to throw around your waist in the kitchen when no one was looking.
You tried to play it cool. Tried to focus on the mission briefings, the workouts, the meetings. But your eyes betrayed you. Always scanning.
Even now, across the training floor, your gaze hooked on the curve of his shoulders, the way his black tee clung to his broad chest. His hair was pulled back in a low bun. His brows furrowed as he focused on hand-to-hand drills with Sam. He didn’t notice you.
But someone else noticed him.
Sharon Carter.
She stood a little too close during cooldown stretches. Her laugh lingered when Bucky cracked a rare smile. She touched his arm casual, familiar, flirty. And when Bucky didn’t pull away, something in your chest cracked. He’s pulling away from me. But not from her. You clenched your jaw, fighting the heat in your throat. You couldn’t blame Sharon, Bucky was magnetic even when he didn’t know it. Even soft and silent, heavy with doubt, he pulled people in.
You just thought you were the only one who saw that part of him.
That night, you couldn’t sleep.
The silence in your room felt like punishment. Your phone sat untouched on the nightstand. No texts. No knocks on your door. No Bucky. The compound was silent at 3:17 a.m., save for the hum of the refrigerator and the low creak of floorboards under your bare feet. You padded into the kitchen, hoodie hanging off your frame, skin still warm from your earlier training session. You were exhausted and not just physically.
The overhead light buzzed faintly as you grabbed a glass, filling it from the tap. You drank slowly, trying to quiet your thoughts. Then you heard it. The unmistakable sound of socked feet on tile. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You turned slightly. Sharon stood there in leggings and a fitted tank top, hair loose, arms crossed casually as she leaned against the counter. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes held a spark of something… amusement, maybe. Maybe something sharper.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “Long day.” She smiled. “Uh me too. Training was intense. Bucky really went all in.” You nodded, sipping your water. She stepped a little closer, slow and easy. “He’s looking good these days, don’t you think? All that muscle on top of the… softer stuff. It works on him.”
Your spine straightened slightly, but you kept your tone neutral. “He’s always looked good.”
Sharon cocked her head. “Interesting. You never say much about him during team briefings. Thought maybe you weren’t into guys like him.”
You tilted your head, lips pressed into a thin smile. “Guys like what?”
She shrugged, too nonchalant. “You know. Quiet. Brooding. A little… bigger. Most girls wouldn’t go for it, but I kind of like the bulk. There’s just something about a man with real weight behind him.”
Your heart pounded but not in fear, in anger. You weren’t stupid. You saw what this was.
You set your glass down carefully. “You got something you wanna say, Sharon?”
She blinked innocently. “Just saying. He deserves someone who sees him. All of him. Even in the daylight.”
The moment Sharon’s footsteps faded down the hallway, silence poured over the room like concrete. You didn’t go back to bed.
You couldn’t. Every word Sharon said kept replaying in your head, twisting with your own guilt and everything you should’ve said to Bucky long before this moment. By the time you reached his hallway, your heart was pounding so loud you swore it echoed through the compound. You stood outside his door, clutching your hoodie sleeves in shaking fists, and raised your hand.
Three knocks. Firm. Hesitant. A little too late.
You waited. A minute passed. Then two.
You finally stepped back from the door, a painful weight settling in your chest.
The morning sunlight did nothing to lift the weight pressing on your chest.
You barely slept, and when you did, all you dreamt of was Bucky’s closed door. His silence. His absence. Maybe he really is better off with someone like Sharon.
She was confident. Open. Flirty in public. Everything you hadn’t been.
You drifted through the compound in a fog, skipping breakfast, eyes on the floor as you walked past the main training wing until you heard voices. Female. Light. Whispering.
You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But one name froze your blood.
“Bucky.”
You paused, tucked just around the corner of the hallway, heart thudding.You didn’t feel your hand moving. Just the small click of your phone’s camera app, thumb tapping record. Just in case. In case you needed proof that what you were hearing wasn’t just some twisted hallucination born of a sleepless night. You were right.
“So you’re willing to go out with him?” one voice asked. Young and unsure; a new recruit, maybe.
Then came Sharon’s voice. Smirking. Dismissive. “Are you crazy? I’d never even consider going out with someone like that.” You didn’t breathe. “He’s weird. Broody. Soft in all the wrong places. It’s pathetic, honestly.” Something inside you cracked. And then she laughed. “I don’t want him. I just want what Y/N wants.”
There was a beat of silence. “Why?” The recruit asked, sounding confused.
“Because it’s fun,” Sharon said. “Watching her squirm. Watching him wonder.”
After hearing Sharon saying those things, you spent the day avoiding everyone and then you took a walk at night needing air. You wore Bucky's big hoodie. By the end of it, your lungs were still tight. Because the truth had clawed its way to the surface, again.
You were in love with him. Desperately. Jealously. Fully.
And you had been hiding it. Because if you admitted it out loud, really lived it, it would become real enough to lose. And losing Bucky? You couldn’t even fathom it.
You walked back to the compound with a pit in your stomach and a fire in your chest. And then you heard it. Soft, low, his laughter. From the common room. You turned the corner. He was on the couch. Sam was teasing him, some rerun of an old show playing in the background. Nat sat nearby. So did Sharon.
And Sharon, of course, was leaning too close. Arm against his and hair falling like a halo around her bare shoulders. Bucky hated being the center of attention. But that didn't stop Sharon from sliding a little closer every time she sat beside him in the common room. Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clenched together between his knees. His hoodie stretched tight across his chest, the fabric pulling a little over the softness of his belly. You used to love touching him there.
Now? You hadn’t touched him at all. Not in days. Not since he’d walked away from you, and you hadn’t come after him. He hated how much he missed you. And he hated even more the small voice in his head whispering that maybe you didn’t miss him back.
“Bucky.” Sharon’s voice broke into his thoughts. You watched how Sharon was almost straddling his lap. Next to him on the couch, just a little too close. Her bare leg slowly on his, her smile practiced and soft. “You’ve been quiet lately. More than usual.”
He gave a shrug. “Just tired.”
“Mm,” she said, resting her chin in her hand as she looked him over. “That’s funny. You look good. Healthier. More confident.” He blinked, unsure what to say.
Bucky’s heart thudded, slow and uncomfortable. “Sharon-”
She brushed her fingers down his arm, featherlight. “Come out with me. Just dinner. One night. No pressure.”
He hesitated, looking at her. Not because he wanted to say yes, he didn’t. It was so jarring to hear the offer spoken plainly. Like someone was willing to claim him in public. To not be ashamed. And a tiny part of him wondered, if you ever talk to him in public.
Then, you moved from the doorway like you’d been struck by lightning. Hair damp from the walk after you took some drizzled coming back, cheeks flushed, hoodie too big slung on. Your eyes zeroed in on Sharon’s hand, still on Bucky’s arm. Then they locked with his. His breath hitched, just slightly.
His hoodie.
It was like a silent declaration, louder than any words you hadn’t said in days. He watched you cross the room with that slow, certain confidence that always made his heart skip. When you finally stood before him, he could barely speak. His voice caught somewhere between disbelief and hope. Sharon slid his leg from him, and moved to the end of the couch.
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he said quietly, pulling himself up. Still sat, but easy to reach. And he saw it, a flicker of fire. Anger. Something primal and possessive, buried deep under all the restraint you usually wore like armor. He stood there sat, unsure of what to say. But you were already moving. You grabbed the front of his hoodie, and kissed him. Hard. Deep. Loud enough to silence the room. Sharon's mouth wide open.
The kiss was messy and breathless, your hands threading into his hair, your mouth claiming his with desperation. Bucky made a sound in his throat, startled, but he didn’t stop you. He kissed you back like he’d been starving. You broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his lips.
“You’re not going anywhere with her.”
His brows pulled together. “What?” He asked you, completely forgiving Sharon just asking him out.
“I heard her asking out. I don’t care.” You kissed him again. Softer, slower. “You’re mine. And I’m done pretending I don’t want the whole damn world to know.”
Beside you, Sharon cleared her throat and stood, awkwardly adjusting her sweater. “I should… probably go.”
“Not so fast, Carter.” You pulled out your phone and tapped the screen.
“Hey, Buck,” you said, voice sharp with something you couldn’t quite control. “Wanna hear something real funny?”
Sharon’s smile twitched. Just a little.
You hit play.
“Are you crazy? I’d never even consider going out with someone like that.”
“He’s weird. Broody. Soft in all the wrong places. It’s pathetic, honestly.”
“I don’t want him. I just want what Y/N wants.”
The audio echoed through the room.
Every syllable landed like a slap. The recruits in the corner stopped talking. Sam’s eyes widened from the kitchen. Even Natasha, reading on the other couch, lowered her book. Steve and Tony, just appeared on the threshold, stopped abruptly.
Bucky didn’t move.
Sharon went pale. “That’s out of context-”
“Don’t,” you said, eyes locked on her. “Don’t you dare lie again.”
“No,” Bucky said quietly, voice like steel. “You are.”
Sharon now stormed out of the room.
No one stopped her. Not Sam, who was silently chewing popcorn, eyes wide. Not Nat, who gave you the most knowing smile from the armchair. Steve passed behind the couch, where Bucky still sat with you bent down toward his face in front of him, and patted his shoulder smiling at you. Tony muttered a finally passing by.
Bucky stared at you, breathless. “What are you doing?”
You cupped his face. “What I should’ve done the minute I fell in love with you.”
His heart damn near stopped.
You kept going. Lips brushing his, hands cradling his face like something fragile. “I’ve been scared, Bucky. Of losing you. Of loving you too loudly. But none of that’s scarier than being without you.” He was trembling now, fingers twitching on your hips. “I love you,” you whispered, eyes shining. “Every part of you. The softness, the scars, the way you hold me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’ll still have me…”
He crushed you against him. “I never stopped having you,” he breathed. “I was just waiting for you to see it.”
You kissed again. The rest of the Avengers looking at you. Steve smiling seeing his best friends finally happy again. You didn’t care. You’d just claimed him. In front of everyone. And this time, he kissed you like he believed it.
His voice was rough with emotion, when you rushed him toward the bedroom. “You can’t just kiss me like that and expect me not to want to take you back to your room right now.”
You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Then don’t expect me to stop if you try. We have five days to recover.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and Bucky didn’t move. But you weren’t having it. You stepped up, took his face in your hands, and kissed him hard. A kiss full of frustration, relief, desire, and that aching, desperate love that had been burning in your chest for days. He didn’t resist. Couldn’t. He grunted into your mouth and kissed you back like he was starving.
“I missed you,” you whispered into his lips, yanking his hoodie up over his head. “Missed this.”
His breath caught as you let your hands explore him dragging your palms over his belly, his soft sides, your nails grazing lightly over the trail of hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. He tried to look away, but you grabbed his jaw and made him look at you.
“You are so fucking sexy, Bucky. You don’t get to hide this from me.”
“You want this?” He asked, hoarse, almost disbelieving.
You shoved him toward the bed.
“No,” you smirked. “I need it.”
He landed on his back, and you were already on him, straddling his thighs, ripping his sweats down over thick, muscular legs. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, leaking just for you.
“Fuck,” you whispered, running your tongue over your lower lip. “You’re already so hard.”
“Been hard since you opened the door, baby,” Bucky groaned, voice wrecked.
You leaned down, kissed his belly first soft, warm, him. He sucked in a breath as you bit lightly at the flesh, dragging your tongue over the curve where his lower stomach met his hip.
“God, I missed this tummy,” you murmured. “Missed kissing every inch of you.”
“Don’t say shit like that,” he gasped, watching your mouth trail lower. “Or I’ll cum before you even-“
“You’ll cum when I say you can.”
Bucky groaned, head hitting the pillow, metal hand gripping the sheets while the other fisted in your hair.
You wrapped your lips around the thick head of his cock and moaned at the taste already leaking, already twitching. You worked him slowly, inch by inch, until your nose was pressed against the soft patch of hair at his base. You kept him there, in your mouth, right where you wanted. You hands strolled up toward his chest, brushing his nipples.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart…”
He bucked his hips once, but you pushed him down with a hand to his stomach.
“Uh-uh. You’re gonna take it.”
You let your tongue drag along the underside of his cock, teasing the vein there, then focused on the head again swirling, sucking, watching him fall apart.
Bucky was panting, eyes wild. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
“That’s the plan,” you said, lips slick with spit. “I want you to remember what it feels like to be worshipped.”
When you climbed back up his body, he caught you in a bruising kiss, hands gripping your hips like he never wanted to let you go again.
“Let me see you,” he whispered. “Need to see how you look when I stretch you open.”
You slid your panties off and lined him up, and when you sank down on him, slow and deep, his eyes rolled back.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moaned. “You fill me so good.”
You started to ride him slow at first, grinding down, letting him feel every squeeze of your walls. His hands clutched at your thighs then at your waist, lastly at your ass trying to ground himself while you rocked him into oblivion.
“You feel me, baby?” You panted, dragging his hands up to cup your breasts. “You feel how perfect we are together?”
He growled and thrust up into you, eyes dark with hunger.
“You’re mine,” he gritted out. “You’re fucking mine.”
You bounced harder, rolling your hips just right until the drag of his cock had your toes curling.
“Cum with me,” you begged, nails digging into his chest. “Fill me up, Bucky… show me how much you missed me.”
That was all it took.
Bucky surged up, wrapped his arms around you, and fucked up into you deep, fast, desperate until your moans became cries and your climax crashed through you like a wave.
He followed with a broken gasp of your name, pumping you full with thick spurts of warmth, arms locked tight around your trembling body.
You stayed tangled together, bodies slick with sweat and love and everything you couldn’t say in words.
“I love you,” you whispered against his neck.
He kissed your shoulder, your cheek, your lips.
“I know that now,” he breathed. “And I’m gonna spend every night reminding you that you’re mine too. I love you too.”
The next morning, you stirred lazily in the warm cocoon of sheets, the soft weight of Bucky’s arm curled over your waist. Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting his skin in gold. His hair was a tousled mess, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.
But his hand was moving slow and calculated trailing down your thigh, brushing between your legs. You exhaled a little sigh as he kissed your shoulder, your neck, his beard scratching just enough to make you squirm.
“Can I?” He murmured, lips pressed against your skin. “Please, baby. Need to taste you.”
Your breath caught. “Yeah?”
He nodded, kissing down your back as you rolled over to face him. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. How sweet you’d feel on my tongue. How soft you’d be.”
You smiled sleepily. “You want it that bad?”
Bucky looked up at you from the sheets, already between your thighs, eyes dark with worshipful need. “I need it. Need to make you cum on my face, sweetheart. Please… let me?”
God. You’d never heard anything so filthy and soft all at once.
“Take it, Bucky.”
You barely finished the sentence before he pulled the covers back and spread your legs with gentle but eager hands. He kissed your inner thighs, slow and reverent, as if he had all the time in the world. And then…
“Oh…fuck…”
His tongue slid between your folds, warm and wet and so fucking hungry. He groaned against your cunt like it was his favorite meal, like he’d die if you took it away.
“Goddamn,” he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe. “You taste so good, baby. So good.”
He dove back in, tongue circling your clit while his thick fingers slid inside you, curling just right. He didn’t rush. He worshipped. He moaned like it was heaven. Every sound he made sent vibrations through your core.
“You gonna cum for me?” He whispered, kissing your clit before sucking it between his lips. “Please, sweetheart. Want it so bad. Need to feel it on my tongue.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair and rocked against his face, chasing the edge he held you on with maddening precision. He was so fucking good at this. So patient, filthy, desperate.
“Shit- Bucky I’m coming…”
He groaned and doubled down, tongue relentless as your orgasm slammed through you. You cried out, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking into his mouth.
But he didn’t stop.
Even after you came, he licked you through it, savoring every drop, sucking on your clit until you whimpered and tugged at his hair.
“Sensitive,” you gasped.
“Can’t stop,” he groaned. “You taste like heaven, baby.”
He finally pulled back, face slick, beard drenched, lips swollen from how hard he’d been sucking on you. He looked completely gone. His pupils blown, voice wrecked, cock leaking against his stomach just from eating you out.
“You gonna let me fuck you again?” He asked, voice rough as gravel. “Or do I need to beg for that too?”
You smirked. “Beg anyway.”
Bucky’s grin was pure filth. He reached for your thighs again, lining himself up.
Summary: Told from Bucky’s perspective. Reader wants to have a baby and Bucky realizes just how badly he wants it to be his.
Warnings: discussion of pregnancy and IVF, cursing, very tiny body image issue moment. SMUT, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V), breeding kink (like so fucking much), very fluffy sex with just a little dom!Bucky, dirty talk
A/N: Idk why I love writing from Bucky's perspective so much, but here we go again...also, I do not apologize for the amount of smut I put in this thing. We've got a damn baby to make!
I really needed to learn how to express myself better. I always thought it was smarter to just keep my feelings to myself—that way, no one could hurt me. I’ve experienced enough pain to last several lifetimes, and I really don’t have the desire to experience any more. Unfortunately for me, I’m beginning to see that keeping my emotions bottled up might be one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made.
It all started 3 years ago when I met (Y/N). I’d never met anyone like her—she was unfailingly kind, gorgeous, intelligent, and very funny. Plus, she could definitely kick some serious ass if she needed to. She inspired me to be a better person and to deal with the dark stuff I’d buried deep in my mind. I credit her with helping me heal from the hell Hydra put me through. I owe her everything.
But that’s not why I love her--and I do love her. I fell in love with her for who she is, not what she did for me. I’d burn the world to the ground if she asked me to. My whole soul lives for her, but I’ve never told her. She deserves so much better than me—someone without all my baggage, someone who could give her the life she deserves. And apparently, I've decided I'm the one who gets to decide what she deserves.
At least that’s what I’d thought until this morning. Until everything changed. Until the moment (Y/N) walked into the kitchen, a small smile on her face, and plopped down across from me at the kitchen island. I was making myself an omelet, and I offered to make her one as well. I had no idea that my life was about to turn upside down.
“Sure! That’d be great.” She seemed to contemplate whether she wanted to say something else, but was unsure whether she should.
“Something on your mind, doll?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
“About?”
“The future.”
I slowed my movements. “What about the future?”
“I’ve been alone for a long time, Bucky,” she began quietly.
I was unsure where she was going with this, but I never suspected what she’d say next. Or what it would do to me.
“I doubt I’m going to find the love of my life anytime soon…but I’m getting older, ya know? I want a family—kids. So I’ve decided I’m going to do it myself.”
I nearly dropped the spatula to the floor. “Gonna do what yourself?”
“Have kids.”
“What?” No really--what the actual fuck did you just say?
“I’ve decided to have IVF—sperm donor and all that.”
“You—" I sputtered, trying to find the right words. “You’re gonna have some stranger’s baby?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, yeah—that’s how sperm donors work.” She giggled lightly.
“But…but the baby won’t have a father.” Smooth, Barnes.
“I know, but I can’t wait around for a man forever, Bucky. Plus, I have all of you hooligans to help me raise it.”
“Don’t you want to know who the guy is? What if he’s weird or crazy or something?” I had to ignore the feeling in my gut at the image of helping her raise a child--some random stranger's child.
She laughed again. “They screen the men, Buck. He’s not going to be a serial killer or anything. Plus, I’ll be able to pick some of the traits that are important to me.”
“Okay,” I mumbled. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.” Why do I feel nauseous? Part of me wondered what kind of traits she was looking for, but I didn't think it was my place to ask.
“It is.” The smile on her face underlined exactly how much she wanted this—and how excited she was about it.
I didn’t want her to know how I felt about the whole thing…I didn’t want to upset her. Besides, it wasn’t my place to tell her what to do, so instead I said, “That’s great, (Y/N).” Why doesn't it feel great?
“Thanks, Bucky,” she said with a wide smile that lit up her beautiful face. “I have my first appointment this afternoon.”
I suddenly felt even more nauseous, her admission hitting me in the stomach like a baseball bat. My chest felt tight in a way I couldn’t explain and I felt the strong urge to scream and throw shit--true temper tantrum style. Instead of doing any of that, I took a deep breath and forced a smile to my face. “That’s exciting.” Control your damn face, Barnes.
She nodded absentmindedly. I was grateful she wasn’t paying much attention to my expression or demeanor. I was struggling to keep my emotions in check. I focused on the task of making the omelets, pushing my emotions as far down as I could. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her. It's not my place. It's not my place. It's not my place. My new mantra played like a broken record in my head.
After breakfast, I went to the gym to try and workout my frustrations and feelings. After 2 hours of strenuous exercise, I was no better off than before. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything other than (Y/N)’s admission that morning. And the conversations I was having in my head were only making things worse.
I hated the idea of her carrying someone else’s child. I hated it. I hated the thought of her raising a child by herself—hated the fact she would be alone. I hated this entire thing, but most of all I hated the way I felt about it. I had no right to feel this rage or annoyance. It wasn’t my place—I had no right to her body or her life…no matter how I felt about her. No matter how much I love her.
There was only one person I could talk to. One person who always gave me sound advice and never judged me. I found myself standing in front of Steve’s door less than five minutes later, knocking before I lost my nerve.
The door swung open a few moments later. “Hey, Buck. Everything alright?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
Steve eyed me in concern, stepping back to allow me to enter the room. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s (Y/N)—she wants to have a baby.” Lead-in entirely unnecessary, I guess. I immediately started pacing the room like a caged beast.
Steve froze in place, surprise coloring his expression. “I, uhh, I didn’t know she wanted one.”
“She’s never said anything about it before. But she told me this morning. She’s got an appointment today with one of those sperm donor places or something.” And we're breathing...we're breathing. Fucking breathe, Barnes!
“Okay…so (Y/N) wants a baby…and this bothers you?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because it does.”
“That’s not a reason, Bucky.”
I sighed. “Because I don’t want her to have some random dude’s kid.” Look at that, getting even closer to honesty.
“Because?”
I glared at him. He knew exactly how I felt about her, so he had to know why it would bother me. “Because I hate the idea of her having someone else’s baby, okay?” I spit the words out like they burned me.
“And why is that?”
“You’re really starting to piss me off, Steve,” I grumbled.
“I know…but there’s a reason I’m asking. So answer the question.”
“Because it’s not mine!”
Steve offered me a small smile. “There. Was that really so hard?”
“Yes, actually.” Asshole.
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve been in love with her for years…I’ve told you a hundred times to just tell her and now you’re in a situation where you’re going to potentially lose her. Permanently."
I stared at the ground in silence. I hated how right he was…I’d pushed my feelings aside for so long, it’d become a part of my life. “I didn’t wanna lose her.” But now it seems inevitable.
“I know, man. I know. But you might lose her in the way you really want her. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes along that sees exactly how incredible she is—and then you’ll be even more devastated than you are now.”
“You think I don’t know that? I worry about it every damn day.”
“Then why do you keep pushing her away?”
“Because she deserves better than me!” Someone whole.
“Doesn’t she deserve the right to decide that for herself?”
I fell silent again, feet finally coming to a stop as I stared at the ground. I didn’t want to admit it—didn’t want to see how stupid I’d been.
“I know you’re scared, Bucky, but you should tell her how you feel. Before it’s too late.”
“What if she doesn’t want me?” I whispered. There it is. The truth I've never said out loud.
Steve sighed softly. “Then we’ll deal with it. I’ve got your back—always.”
I knew he was right. I needed to talk to her—be honest with her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being with anyone but me…and I certainly couldn’t stand the idea of her giving birth to a baby that wasn’t mine. Especially if there was even the slightest, tiniest chance she felt the same.
“I need to talk to her.” No shit, Barnes.
Steve nodded, a small smile on his face. “Go now. Before you lose your nerve.”
Taking his advice, I practically ran to (Y/N)’s door. I knocked with more force than I’d intended and she opened the door almost instantly, a worried expression on her beautiful face.
“Bucky? Are you alright?”
My face must have betrayed what I was feeling because her eyes were filled with concern. “You can’t have a baby.” Smooth start, you idiot. I mentally face-palmed the moment the words left my mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“You—you can’t have some random guy’s baby.”
She raised her eyebrows, annoyance oozing from her as she stared at me, hands landing on her hips. “Excuse me?”
“That didn’t come out right,” I mumbled. Can I just put my head through a wall and end my misery?
“I certainly hope not. Because it sounds like you’re telling me what I can and can't do with my body.”
“No—never. It’s just…I don’t want you to have someone else’s baby.”
“Care to explain why?”
I felt like a complete idiot—like I’d never spoken logically in my entire life. Did I suddenly forget how to speak English? “I don’t want you to have a baby with anyone else…anyone else but me.”
She froze, eyes wide and confused. “What are you saying?”
I took a deep breath before answering. “If you want a baby, (Y/N), I wanna be the one to give it to you. If you want 10 kids, I’ll make it happen. Anything you want—anything—I’ll give it to you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, nothing I wouldn’t give you.” Now we're getting somewhere.
Her lips parted in shock, not a single word leaving her mouth. She was clearly too surprised to formulate a response. Her hands dropped off her hips, hanging beside her as she tried to digest the truth bomb I just lobbed at her.
I, on the other hand, was on a roll. Once I opened my mouth, I couldn’t stop the words from coming. “I know I haven’t exactly been open about my feelings—ever—but I need you to know the truth. I’m in love with you, (Y/N). I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you. I knew you were special…but I was too damn scared of hurting you to do a thing about it. I’ve got baggage and damage that I never wanted to put on your shoulders. I thought it would be better if you found someone who deserved you—someone without all that history. But when you told me you wanted a baby…I envisioned you with someone else and I couldn’t stand it. I don’t want to see you with anyone else. I know it’s selfish, but I need you (Y/N/N). You’re the one I want—the only one I’ll ever want.” Pause for breath.
She took in my word vomit with a stunned expression, but once I finished talking, a small smile spread across her face. “You love me?” she whispered.
“That’s all you took from that?” I asked with a sharp laugh.
“I think that’s the most important part of your speech.”
“Well then, yes, (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I’m madly in love with you.” Always have been, always will be.
She grinned so wide my heart clenched in my chest at the sight. She was always beautiful, but she’d never looked more incredible than that moment.
“I wish you’d told me before…” she trailed off. “I have the appointment this afternoon and they charge a fee for late cancellation.”
My face fell as I took in her words. Did that mean she didn’t want me?
“I suppose you’re worth a $45 cancellation fee…” she teased lightly.
I grinned brightly, realizing she'd been joking. “You think so?”
She giggled and stepped towards me. “I do indeed.”
“So…does that mean you might like me too?”
“Like? No,” she said softly. “Love? With all my heart.”
My own heart skipped a beat at her words. “Really?”
“How could I not? You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Bucky.”
I blushed. “I don’t know about all that.”
She shook her head. “No—don’t you dare belittle yourself. I love you, Bucky. I. Love. You.”
The emphasis on her last three words sent a wave of joy through me. I wasn’t certain I’d ever really deserve her, but I would be damned if I didn’t try every day for the rest of my life. I took a step towards her, closing the distance between us. She loves me.
She looked up at me, eyes bright with emotion. “I didn’t know you wanted kids…”
“I never really thought about it—but if you want kids, I’m all for it. I meant what I said—I’ll give you 15 if you want them.” I'll make you a whole goddamn baseball team.
She chuckled. “I think 15 is a little much.”
I reached out and pulled her body towards me, savoring the feeling of those glorious curves beneath my hands. “Personally, I think you’ll be an incredible mother—and I’m definitely interested in seeing how sexy you look carrying our baby.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh? You are?”
I grinned. She had no idea how fucking sexy I thought she was now—and I'd had no idea how hot I would find the image of her pregnant until this very moment. “You have no idea, baby. You’re already gorgeous, but I’m picturing your belly all round, carrying my child…fuck. You’ll be so damn hot.” Jesus Christ, I'm never getting that image out of my mind.
She blushed a deep red. “Bucky…”
My cock was already throbbing with need, but the way she said my name kicked my desire into overdrive. I pressed myself closer to her so she could feel my cock against her stomach. “You feel that, doll? That’s what you do to me.”
Her lips parted as a breathless sigh escaped. “I-I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know how badly I wanted you? Needed you? That’s my fault…will you let me make it up to you?” Preferably for the rest of my life.
She nodded slowly, eyes still wide.
“Come on, doll, I need to hear you say it.”
“Please, Bucky. I want you.”
I leaned down, lips inches from hers as I whispered. “What do you want me to do, baby?”
“Fuck me, Bucky. Please.”
I groaned lowly. “It would be my pleasure.”
I gave in to my desires and pressed my lips to hers. I couldn’t breathe—it felt so fucking incredible. She felt so fucking incredible. I couldn’t get enough of her soft curves as she pressed even farther into me. I never wanted to let her go. Never wanted to stop kissing her. I would happily suffocate to death if it meant I could keep kissing her.
Unfortunately, she had different plans. She pulled away from me to catch her breath and I found myself chasing after her soft lips hungrily.
She giggled lightly and pushed against my chest. “I need to breathe, Buck.”
“I don’t,” I muttered, lips pressing against her neck affectionately. “I’d much rather be kissing you.”
“We’re not all super soldiers. Some of us need oxygen,” she said breathily. I nipped at her pulse point and she gasped softly. “But if you don’t need to breathe, you can keep doing what you’re doing.”
I chuckled against her skin. “With pleasure.”
I dug my fingers into her fleshy hips and held her as close to me as I could, lips never leaving her soft skin. I nipped and sucked everywhere I could while she was still clothed, desperate to leave my marks all over her. I wanted everyone to know she was mine.
"Take off your shirt," I demanded quietly. "I need to see more of you."
She was quick to comply, tossing her shirt onto the floor along with the rest of my sanity. No bra.
"Fuckin' hell," I groaned as my lips immediately attached to her breast, a needy gasp fueling my desires. "Trying to kill me, doll?"
A breathy laugh left her lips as her fingers came to rest on my head, holding me closer. "Hadn't planned this far ahead," she admitted.
I held her heavy breasts in my palms, giving them gentle squeezes as I nipped and sucked at her nipples. I'd imagined her naked more times than I could count and this was already a thousand times better than my imagination could ever be. Fucking perfect.
I felt her fingers curl into the waistband of my sweats, soft fingers brushing against my heated skin. I nearly jumped out of my skin when her small hand rubbed against my cock through my boxer briefs--what little self-control I had already at the breaking point.
I pulled back from her wordlessly and ripped my shirt off over my head before crushing my lips back against hers in a kiss one could only call possessive.
When I deepened the kiss further, tasting every inch of her mouth, she pulled her hand out of my pants to aggressively tug them down. I stepped out of them without leaving her mouth and started working on her leggings. Want more--need more.
Both of her hands flew to my shoulders as I suddenly lifted her up, placing her on top of her dresser. She was completely naked before me and I think I stopped breathing for a moment--possibly several moments.
"Buck?" she murmured shyly. "You're staring."
"Gaining my composure, doll. You look so fucking beautiful it hurts."
She blushed deeply and nibbled on her bottom lip.
I leaned in to kiss her, pulling her bottom lip into my mouth instead. I nipped at it gently as a little gasp escaped her. I laid my hands on her hips, feeling the warm skin beneath my palms. So damn soft.
I stepped closer to her, forcing her legs apart so I could stand between them. I slipped my hands down to her thighs, slowly parting them even farther so I could get a proper look at her pussy.
An involuntary groan left my lips as I stared in appreciation. She was already dripping and she smelled fucking heavenly. I could stay like this forever.
"Bucky," she whined. "You're staring again."
"I'm appreciating my meal before I enjoy it."
Her breath hitched and I grinned at the sound.
"You like that huh?"
She nodded, expression a little shy.
Sexiest fucking girl in the world. I gripped her hips and tugged her to the edge of the dresser and dropped to my knees. When I leaned in to lick slowly up her pussy, I groaned at the taste and she gasped at the sensation.
"Fuckin' christ, doll--you taste incredible." My words were barely more than a growl as I dove in properly. All I could think about was her taste, her smell, the way she felt...my brain was clouded with thoughts of her and nothing else.
I'd wanted to be between these legs a thousand times, but I never really believed it would happen. Now that I was here? I never wanted to leave.
"Bucky!" I felt her nails scrape against my scalp as she cried my name. It might well have been the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
I lost myself in her--the more sweet sounds she made, the more hungry I suddenly became. I wanted to hear every single sound she could possibly make and I ached to hear her scream my name. I wanted it more than anything I'd ever wanted in my entire life.
I tugged her even closer, pressing my face farther into her pussy, ensuring I didn't miss a single drop of her pleasure. I quickly learned she loved it when I sucked her clit into my mouth and flicked it rapidly with my tongue, so I alternated that with deep thrusts of my tongue into her core while my nose brushed against her clit.
After a few minutes of eating her out, I knew she was close. I could hear it in her breath, feel it in the way she clenched around me and the way her grip tightened in my hair.
So when she begged me not to stop, I listened. I focused on her clit, signing my name in cursive against it as I sucked firmly. Her gasps gave way to loud moans as she shattered above me, hips bucking wildly as I worked her through it.
I eased her down with slow, languid laps of my tongue, tasting her without overstimulating her. When I finally came up for air, she was breathless, eyes wild with a mixture of relief and need.
She said nothing as she pulled me into her, kissing me like she needed my air to breathe. And I would have given it to her--I would have given her anything.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, almost like she knew what my next move would be, and I carried her to the bed. I was gentle as I laid her down, but when I didn't join her, she finally looked at me with full attention.
I watched her expression change as I removed my boxer briefs--the last remaining scrap of clothing either of us had on. It shifted from hunger, to shock, to mild disbelief, then back to hunger tinged with a little worry. Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna lose my fucking mind.
"Was that the-the serum, or-?" she asked incredulously.
I couldn't help but laugh. I'd always been well-endowed, but the serum did enhance it. "The serum made everything larger, but I'd never had a reason to be self-conscious about it before."
She nodded shakily, eyes still glued to my cock. I quickly realized what her worry was and I tried not to laugh. "Where's your head at, doll?" You think it's too big?
"I don't think you'll fit."
The honesty in her voice was so endearing, but the words were so fucking hot I thought I was going to combust. "I'll try not to let that go to my head."
I crawled onto the bed, hovering over her as her gaze finally met mine again. "And I promise, sweet girl, it'll fit."
"You sure?"
I smirked. "We'll make it fit." Or die trying.
Her eyes widened and her breathing shifted just slightly. "I've never even had a dildo as big as you."
I had to bite my lip to keep from chuckling. It wasn't funny, but it was so goddamn endearing it made me want to laugh and kiss her senseless. "I promise I'll go slow."
She nodded slowly, eyes locked on mine. I saw the moment she got an idea, which she quickly voiced. "Bucky? Could I maybe, well if you'd be okay with it--um-could I be on-on top?"
She sounded so nervous to ask me, but the mere idea of her riding me was enough to short-circuit my fucking brain. "Fuck yeah, baby."
I rolled onto my back without a second thought. When she straddled me, she looked at me with such love in her gaze and for a moment I was stunned silent. She kept getting more and more beautiful and I just didn't understand how it was possible.
"How are you so perfect?" I whispered. How do I deserve you?
She blushed a deep shade of red and her eyes shifted away from mine. "Oh, hush."
"I'm serious." I sat up, gripped her chin, and turned her to face me. "You're perfect."
"Perfect doesn't exist."
I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. "Perfect to me." Perfect for me.
Her blush deepened. "I love you, Bucky." Her voice was barely a murmur, but I heard it all the same.
"I love you more, sweetheart." I kissed her softly, pulling her back down with me as I laid back against the mattress.
The movement shifted her body so her pussy brushed against my cock, sharp moans leaving both of us at the sensation.
"Jesus, doll. Need to be inside of you." Now.
She nodded rapidly and pulled herself up into a sitting position. With slightly shaky hands, she gripped my cock and lined it up with her entrance. She slowly--oh so fucking slowly--began to lower herself, soft whimpers and moans brushing past her lips with each inch she took.
Whatever coherent thoughts I'd had in my head disappeared along with my cock. The moment I was fully seated inside her, my brain ceased to work. All I could think about was how fucking good she felt--so tight and warm and wet and fucking perfect.
She didn't move at first. Her body was slowly adjusting to the stretch and the overwhelming feeling of fullness. She was breathless without having really exerted herself, but I was in the same boat.
It wasn't until she bit her lip nervously that I realized something wasn't quite right.
"You okay, doll?"
"Yeah, I just-um--"
I placed a hand against her thigh and rubbed it gently. "It's okay, sweetheart. Just tell me."
"Well, I've never-no one's ever let me--fuck," she groaned. "I've never been on top before."
I froze. "Never?"
She shook her head.
"Wait, what do you mean no one's ever let you?" I felt a little rage bubble in my gut before I even heard her response.
"Well, they said I was too big for that."
Both of my hands immediately went to grip her hips, almost instinctively. "Well whoever the fuck that was can go straight to hell. I love a lady who wants to ride--any time you want, sweetheart." Made to take my cock--I'd never say no to you.
"Really?" her face lit up a little and it made my heart clench in my chest.
"Really."
"I don't, um-well, I don't really know what to do."
Her admission was so sweet, it made me smile. "I promise you, you can't mess it up. Just do what feels good, okay? You can put your hands on my chest as leverage if you need to."
"I won't hurt you?"
"Super soldier, doll. I can pick you up and throw you across the room with one arm."
"Touché," she said with a giggle.
I smirked and shot her a little wink. "Now, doll. You're in control. Just do what feels right."
"Okay."
This woman--this goddess--must have been handmade for me and me alone. That first tentative movement, small as it was, made me see fucking stars. I knew I was going to embarrass my entire gender with how fast I was gonna come, but it felt too good to truly care.
She lifted herself until only the head of my cock remained inside her and dropped back down so quickly, we both cried out. "Jesus fucking Christ, doll," I groaned.
She stopped moving, eyes wide. "Was that bad? Did I hurt you?"
"Hurt me?" I pushed the words out alongside a breathless laugh. "Baby, that felt incredible. Do it again--please." And again, and again, and again.
The little smile she gave me was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I couldn't help but shoot her a smile in return--at least until she started to move with purpose and my brain short-circuited again.
"Holy fuck, baby. Just like that," I groaned. "Feels so good."
She placed her hands on my chest, tentatively at first, but once she realized it wasn't hurting me, she put more weight on them, allowing her hips to move more freely.
My left hand gripped her hip while my right skimmed up her body to her chest. I flicked my thumb against her nipple, making her moan as she continued to ride me.
"That feel good, doll?"
"Mhmm," she hummed. "More."
Her little demanding tone sent a shock wave straight to my cock and I was quick to give in to her request. Both hands massaged her breasts and toyed with her nipples--the sweet sounds she made only sent me closer to my own orgasm. Control yourself, Barnes.
"Baby, you keep making those sounds and riding me like that, I'm gonna come before we really get going."
"Then come for me, Bucky," she begged. "Fill me up."
I groaned, hands dropping to her hips to grip her tightly. I started to thrust up into her, and she dropped to my chest, sharp gasping moans shot from her lips with each thrust. I wrapped my arms around her, placed my feet flat on the mattress, and gave her exactly what she wanted.
"Fuck, baby--gonna fill you up. You feel so good. Wanna get you nice and full."
"Please, Bucky," she whimpered against my neck.
"Gonna make you a mama, sweet girl."
The sound that tore from her throat at my words was unlike anything I'd ever heard. I knew she wanted a baby--that was the whole reason we were in this situation in the first place--but I didn't know the idea would have this effect on her.
"You like that, baby? You want me to make you a mama? Get you so full of my cum you're dripping? Keep it in you until it takes?"
"Yes! Please, Bucky!"
Her pussy squeezed around me as she came, a soft cry of my name pressed into my skin. Her orgasm triggered mine--I hadn't even realized she'd been so close. I yelled her name as I bucked up into her, filling her as deep as I could. Fucking christ almighty.
As soon as she came down from her high, I flipped us over and hovered over her, hips still moving slowly, forcing my cum deeper inside of her. Don't wanna waste a single drop.
"Bucky," she whimpered, fingers gripping my arms. "Sensitive."
"I know, sweet girl," I murmured. "But we're not finished yet. Gotta fill you a couple more times--make sure it takes."
Her eyes snapped open, gaze going wide as she locked eyes with me. "More?"
I leaned down and kissed her deeply. "More, doll. Gotta give you every drop I have."
She moaned softly against my lips as I rolled my hips into her again. Her pussy was still fluttering, still squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe. I'd never been more thankful for the damn serum in my life. I wasn't sure how many times I could cum in one night, but I was determined to find out.
I pulled myself up and lifted her legs, resting one on each shoulder as I started to pound into her properly. Her pretty eyes rolled back in her head as she took what I gave her.
"Gonna give you everything you want," I promised. "God--you're gonna be such a great mama, baby."
She whimpered my name and gripped the sheets tightly in her hands. Her head was thrown back, as nothing but moans and whimpers left her pretty lips. It was an image I wanted seared in my brain for all eternity.
I slipped my right hand down her leg and began to trace gentle circles around her clit as I fucked into her. She started to claw at the sheets and her breaths came faster. Her sweet pussy fluttered around me as she clenched down on my cock like it owed her money.
"Fuck--doll, that's it. So fucking tight," I groaned. "Gonna fill you up again. Can't wait to see you all round and full--carrying my baby. You're gonna look so fucking gorgeous."
I barely got the words out before her back arched violently as she came, sending me spiraling along with her. I didn't ease my pace as I emptied into her, filling her with even more cum than the first time.
Her legs started to shake and her body shivered with each movement, so I slowly lowered her legs, whispering words of encouragement the whole time.
"That's it, sweetheart. You're doing so well for me."
"Buck--so full."
I chuckled darkly. "That's the point, doll. You gotta let me keep going--you want me to put a baby in you, right?"
She nodded rapidly, eyes glazed and unseeing.
"Yeah?" I growled as I lowered myself over her, practically folding her in half as I continued my slow, brutal pace. "Whose baby do you want, doll?"
She dug her nails into my shoulders, and attempted to use it as leverage to scoot farther up the bed. I held her in place, forcing her to feel each deep thrust.
"I asked you a question, sweetheart."
"Please," she whimpered. I don't think she even knew exactly what she was pleading for.
"Answer my question and I'll let you come again," I promised lowly. "Whose baby do you want?"
I punctuated my question with a particularly deep thrust and she raked her nails down my back as she screamed my name. "Yours, Bucky! Only yours!"
I groaned as I picked up my pace. "That's right, sweet girl. You're gonna have my baby--no one else gets to fill up this sweet pussy." You're mine.
"No one," she babbled, shaking her head rapidly.
I felt it then, the tension in her body, the way she gasped for air each time my cock hit her walls--that soft spongey spot so deep inside her I doubted any man had ever found it before.
"Too fucked out to speak, doll? My cock got you all dumb?"
She babbled something incoherent as her pussy squeezed me even tighter. Her nails clawed at my back, definitely leaving deep marks I would wear with pride.
"Yeah, my cock making you feel too good--can't even remember words." Hell, I can barely speak. I thrust harder and she wailed, head thrown back and chest arched up against mine. "Fuck, doll--gonna come."
I snapped my hips even harder, still hitting her sweet spot with each thrust. I came harder than I'd ever come in my life--so hard my fucking ears were ringing. Her orgasm came a moment after mine, pussy milking every last drop from my cock like it wanted to be full of me as much as she did.
It took us both a little longer to come down from our highs this time, but I still wasn't ready to pull out of her. My cum was leaking out around my cock, but I wanted to keep as much of it in her as I could for as long as I could.
"You still with me, baby?" I murmured as I pressed messy kisses all over her face.
She giggled softly and nodded.
"You're doing so good for me, sweetheart," I praised. "So, so good."
She practically preened beneath me, glassy eyes wide as she stared up at me affectionately.
"Gonna give you a couple more, okay?"
"What?"
"This baby ain't gonna make itself," I teased lightly.
"Buck--you've already filled me up three times."
"I think five is a good number." Please let me make it to five.
"James!" she gasped in shock.
I thrust into her accidentally, hearing my first name on her lips did something to me I wasn't fully expecting. "Fuckin' hell, doll. Say it again."
"James," she whispered.
"Fuck," I groaned. "That's it, baby."
I gripped her hips, pushed her legs forward, and flipped her onto her stomach, never once pulling out of her.
I heard her gasp and she tried to pull herself up onto her knees, but she was too weak.
"I've got you, baby," I murmured against her soft skin as I lowered myself over her. "You don't have to move a muscle. Just let me do the work."
"Bucky," she whimpered.
"I'm right here, sweet girl." I started to move and nearly lost my fucking mind. "Still so goddamn tight."
This angle had her pussy gripping me like a vise, so tight I couldn't breathe. I knew I wouldn't last long like this, not with how sensitive my cock was. I was pushing my own limits as much as I was pushing hers. Control. Control. Control.
"You feel heavenly, baby. Made for me." I kept up my slow, deep pace. "Made to carry my baby--our baby. Gonna be such a pretty mama."
She moaned softly, hand reaching out blindly for me. I gently gripped her hand, fingers intertwining as I continued to fuck my cum deeper into her. Her entirely body was shaking, wracked with aftershocks and oversensitivity.
"I've got you, doll. Never gonna let go." Never.
She whimpered my name and I pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
"Not gonna last, sweetheart. Not with how tight you're squeezing me."
"Think I'm gonna come too, James."
"Fuck!" I groaned as my hips started to stutter, thrusts falling apart with a single word from her. "Say my name again for me, baby. Say it again."
"James." That breathy little moan of my name had my cock fucking spasming as I came, filling her pussy up for the fourth time. I somehow kept my hips moving just long enough for her to come again, entire body shivering beneath me.
I slowed to a stop as I pressed soft kisses all over her back and shoulders. "So good for me, doll. So fucking perfect. Gonna be the best mama."
"Bucky," she whimpered, both hands trying to reach me now.
I knew she wanted to hold onto me, and god I wanted nothing more. I was so gentle as I slowly rolled her onto her back, our bodies still joined.
"You look so beautiful like this, sweetheart," I murmured.
She didn't say anything, just reached for me to pull me close. I let her without a second thought, feeling her arms wrap tightly around me. I kissed her deeply, sweetly--filling the kiss with every ounce of love I had to give.
She was still shaking slightly, but her breathing had leveled out as we slowly kissed. I brushed her hair back out of her eyes, gaze locked on her gorgeous face.
I didn't say a word as I took her in, appreciating this incredible woman I was blessed enough to be loved by. No greater honor had ever been given to me.
"I love you so much," I whispered softly. "So, so much."
She smiled warmly and ran her fingers through my hair. "I love you too, Bucky."
"Yeah?"
She chuckled. "Yeah."
"I'm a lucky man." The luckiest.
"I'm the lucky one, baby," she said gently.
I stared at her for a moment before realizing what she was referring to--and when I did, I realized that was the greatest honor I'd ever been given. Her love was incredible and I was so pleased to have it--but to want to have a baby with me? To give me the gift of fatherhood? No one could ever give me anything more special.
"You're everything to me, you know that?" I asked. "Everything."
I didn't need to explain what I was feeling--or even thank her for giving me any of this. She knew it. I saw it in her eyes as she gazed at me, a quiet love and understanding I was grateful to be in receipt of.
Instead of commenting on my admission, she whispered six words that were somehow just as meaningful as anything else she could have said. "Can you give me one more?"
My eyes widened in surprise. "You sure, doll?"
"Oh, I'm very sure, Buck. We want it to stick, right?"
My gaze darkened and I rolled my hips against her. "Damn straight, doll. My girl wants a baby--and she's gonna get one."
My pace was tortuously slow, each movement dragging my cock against her walls until only the tip remained, then pressing back in just as slowly. The gentleness of the moment settled into my bones--making me a little more emotional.
Her expression softened as she reached up to brush her thumbs against my cheeks, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were falling.
"You okay, baby?" she murmured.
I leaned into her touch. "They're happy tears, doll. I'm just so fucking happy."
She smiled and leaned up to kiss me. She rolled her hips up to meet mine and I groaned softly into her kiss, which she swallowed greedily.
"You're gonna be such a good father, baby."
Her words hit me squarely in the chest and my hips stuttered in response. I dropped my forehead to hers and continued a slow, deep pace. "You're killing me, sweetheart."
She chuckled breathlessly and ran her fingers through my hair before gripping the short hairs at the base of my neck. "You've already ruined me for all other men, so it only seems fair."
I groaned softly. "You'll never need anyone else, anyway. I'm gonna take such good care of you, baby." I promise.
"I know." She rolled her hips again. "Can't wait to have your baby, Bucky."
"Jesus," I whimpered as her pussy clenched along with her words. "Doll, I-"
"I know, Buck. I can feel it--you gonna let go for me? Fill me up?"
I nodded rapidly, head still resting against hers.
"Let go, Bucky. Fill me up one more time--make me a mama."
"Fuck," I whispered as I chased my high. "Gonna fill you up, baby. Make you a mama."
I felt her hand slip between our bodies and I knew the second she found her clit--her pussy fluttered around me and her words came out even more breathily than before.
"You're so good to me, James. Please fill me up--please."
I gasped her name as I came, cum filling her to the point of overflow one last time. She gripped onto me tighter as her orgasm washed over her, soft pants and gasps mingling with my breathless moans.
We laid like that for a few minutes before I finally pulled out of her. I moved shockingly fast for a man who'd just come five times in a row, lifting her hips and smoothly sliding a pillow under them.
She chuckled softly. "Bucky, what're you doing?"
"Gotta make it stick, doll." I gently pushed some of my cum back into her aching pussy with my fingers. So pretty filled with my cum.
She groaned softly. "Buck--sensitive."
"Sorry, doll. Don't wanna waste any."
She laughed and reached for me. "C'mere you weirdo."
I smiled and laid down beside her, pressing my lips to her temple and pulling her close.
She nuzzled against me, a soft sigh leaving her parted lips. "Thank you, Bucky."
"For what?"
She looked up at me. "For this--all of it. For...for loving me enough to give me a family."
"I should be the one thanking you."
She cocked her head to the side in confusion.
"I know I'm not the easiest person to love, so thank you for loving me. For wanting me. For wanting to build a life with me. For letting me be the man you deserve." For being my forever.
Tears filled her eyes and I wiped them away before they could fall.
"I love you so damn much," she whispered.
I grinned and kissed her softly. "I love you more than life itself, doll. Always will. Now get some sleep. You've got a baby to make."
Her laughter filled the room and my heart with joy and I couldn't help but join in. My last thought as she fell asleep in my arms was how lucky I was to be the man she wanted a forever with.
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