part 1: bucky falls in love with you slowly when he bumps into you at old stark tower; it takes the two of you a while to understand feelings are there
part 2: you flirt all weekend over texts
part 3: you finally fuck and make love on your first date
bonus scene:
notes: bucky/afab!reader; they/them pronouns for reader; vanilla; afab on top; missionary; condoms; joking/laughing/talking during sex; making men laugh is a kink
ao3 link
Monday
Bucky brought you flowers. He thought about it for a while. People in the building would laugh, but he couldn’t see you without anything. It didn’t feel respectful. The weekend of texting was intimate and deserved to be celebrated. You deserved to be celebrated and he wanted to celebrate the ever living heck out of you.
He waited outside the building for you and when you saw him with his flowers, you looked so adorably flustered.
He was wearing civilian clothing.
He walked toward you when he saw you. You barreled into him to hide your face in his chest. You clung to his open jacket with both hands. “Shut the fuck up, you did not bring me flowers.”
“I did. Are you okay?”
“I am mortified and refuse to move from this spot. Do not look at me!”
When you let go of it, he tucked you into his jacket. He had one arm around your waist, your flowers in that hand, and his other hand was at the back of your head. “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”
“No one has ever gotten me flowers before in my entire life. You do understand that’s, like, stuff that only happens in movies?”
“Before it happened in movies, it happened in real life,” he laughed. “If they bother you so much, I can throw them out.”
“Don’t you dare!” you escaped his jacket and grabbed the flowers from him. You hugged them like they were a stuffed animal, which was just not the way to hold fresh flowers. “They’re mine and I love them!”
He leaned over, holding your chin with his hand, and when you didn’t react, he allowed himself to kiss your cheek. “You are being very cute right now.”
“Shut the fuck up, Winter Soldier! Oh my god!” You stepped away from him and walked into the building.
Bucky was not used to how casually people cursed in 2026, much less how casually pretty people like you did it, but he didn’t say anything. If this is how you spoke to him when you were happy, he did not ever want to make you mad.
“Wait,” he stopped you before you got on the elevator. “Dinner tonight?”
You blinked at him a few times. “You’re not going up?”
“Day off,” he lied, grinning. He made his own fucking schedule, so all of his days were days off. “Dinner? Tonight?” he asked again.
You nodded.
“May I pick you up? 6PM?”
“7PM, I’ll need time to get ready after work, and yes.”
“7PM. Text me the address?”
You nodded, again.
“Oh, and good morning.”
You covered your face with your flowers.
He gently moved the flowers from your face, and then laughed when you covered it with your hands.
“Come on,” he urged, laughing, and leaned forward to whisper in your ear. “It’s my favorite part of the day.”
“Good morning, Bucky,” you told him, and smiled.
You were so nervous about the date. None of your clothes made sense anymore, so they lied tossed around your bedroom as you tried out different combinations of the same things. You kept asking yourself: what excited a 109 year old super-soldier?
When he arrived, you opened the door wearing a thin robe. He looked surprised, then worried. “You’re not dressed,” he said.
You took his hand and encouraged him inside your apartment, closing the door behind him. “I’m too stressed about what to wear. You have to help me. I’ve never been on a real fucking date, like to a restaurant or whatever. It’s always bars or coffee shops or people’s houses.”
You led him to your bedroom.
He took in the sight of it, covered in your rejected clothes.
“First I thought you’re old timey so you probably want me to wear a dress, but that felt like I was trying too hard, right?” You picked up two dresses and held them up against yourself by their hangers and showed him, but all he had on his face was a surprised expression. “Then I thought, fuck it, pants suit, but that felt too work-y, you know? All my shit is so corporate.”
He leaned against the doorway to your bedroom, watching you. It looked like he was biting away a smile. “You’re the neurotic kind of cute, aren’t you?”
You stopped tornado-ing all over your bedroom to look at him from picking another shirt up off the floor. “Excuse me?”
“May I come in?” he asked, like he was a vampire waiting for an invitation, like this room was somehow more special than the rest of the apartment.
You picked up some more clothes and put them back where they belonged in your closet. “Yeah, come in. Help me.”
He took off his jacket and placed it on your dresser. He kicked off his shoes, leaving them in the hallway.
He stopped you from running around picking things up by placing his hands on your hips and sliding them around your waist. “Would you like to order in?” he asked.
You exhaled loudly. “Oh my god, that would be amazing, yes, could we please?”
He chuckled. He looked so different when he smiled. You put a hand on his face. He was freshly shaved, and you thought he probably did that for you, which made your face flush at the idea that this gorgeous, powerful, and usually dangerous man thought so highly of you that he engaged in some archaic social norm you didn’t even understand, just to, what? Please you?
Fuck, that was hot.
“Um. I know you’re not from around this time, or whatever, but- I’m an easy lay. You don’t have to try so hard with the flowers and the,” you motioned to his face.
He laughed and, wow, it made you really excited.
“Easy makes it sound like I’m not special,” he touched the side of your face and caressed your cheek with his thumb. “I like to know I’m important to the people I bed.”
His gaze felt so intense. His eyes trailed from your lips back up to your eyes. The contact was as excruciating as it was intoxicating.
“I would like it if you considered sleeping with me something special, and if you thought of me as an important person in your life.”
What even were words anymore?
“Do you think you could do that? For me?”
You nodded, all the intellect completely drained from your body.
He slowly brought a hand to the belt of your robe. “May I?”
You shook your head, opening the robe yourself. You took it off and let it fall to the ground. You were wearing lingerie you bought maybe seven years ago and never wore because who the fuck ever actually wore lingerie. It was black and bright red and lacy and you couldn’t wait to take it back the fuck off.
His breathing was uneven. He swallowed so he wouldn’t drool. Was this man literally salivating over you? You bit your lip.
He sat down on your bed and led you closer to him with both hands at your thighs. You loved the way he looked at your body, each time ending back up at your eyes again.
You straddled his lap, with his gentle encouragement. He seemed very much into the fat of your thighs and the width of your hips, his hands and eyes constantly returning to these parts of your body.
“Kiss me?” he asked, his voice husky and low, his vibranium arm around your waist and his other hand in your hair, beckoning you closer.
You took his bottom lip into yours, gently sucking before pulling away. You did it again but ended with a little bite.
He followed your rhythm. When you parted his lips with your tongue, he made hungry and desperate sounds, and pressed his tongue to yours, begging you into his mouth.
“You’re overdressed,” you eventually said through your kisses, unbuttoning his shirt.
“And you’re dressed really sexy for me,” he started kissing down your face and neck.
“You don’t know that. I could be- mmm- this could be for my next date. Alexei’s coming over after you leave.”
He laughed into your skin and you loved it. You wanted to make him laugh all night. Once his shirt was unbuttoned, he pulled it and his undershirt off. “Please don’t cheat on me with any Avengers.”
“Compromise. Bob and Yelena only.” You allowed yourself to marvel at his naked chest.
“I see you have a type,” he struggled with your bra.
“Oh? What do you have in common?” You helped him with the clasp. Even decades of work as an assassin couldn’t make a man good at unfastening a bra.
“I thought it would be obvious. We’re the softies of the group.” He slid his hands to your breasts, fondling one and putting his mouth on the other with a groan and a delighted eye roll.
“You’re one of the softies?” You remembered the flowers and the text messages and all of the good mornings and how long it took him to not ask for your number. This huge, muscular man with his cybernetic arm and his years of work as a killer was too nervous to ask you for your number.
He stopped sucking on your tit to speak. “I’m very soft,” he flicked your nipple with his tongue before he lifted you off his lap to take the rest of his clothes off, and what was waiting for you under them was not soft at all.
“Clearly,” you said, relieved that it wasn’t sixteen fucking inches like you’d imagined. He was big, but it didn’t look like it would kill you. It looked like the threat of a great time.
He looked up at you with that gloating grin, his fingers at the sides of your lacy undies, slowly tugging them down.
You hopped off the bed to help, pulling them off entirely. Bye, bye, lingerie. You would probably never wear it again.
“Did you bring a condom? I don’t want any super-soldiers growing inside me.”
“I didn’t want to presume-“
“You’re joking! Bucky!”
“Yes, I’m joking,” your disappointment delighted him. He laughed as he reached over to his pants and pulled one out. “You have a funny way of making me feel desired,” he took your hand to urge you back onto his lap.
You straddled him again and ran your hand down his length. “What makes you think I desire you?”
“The nudity is a really mixed signal if you don’t.”
“I’m just very confident about my body,” you palmed the head of his cock.
He was breathing harder, his smile combined with parted, inviting lips. “And the touching? That’s not about desire?” His cheeks were starting to redden and it was the most magnificent sight.
You took the condom from his hand and unwrapped it. You put it on for him and then rubbed his cock against yourself.
“Oh, jeez.”
“Jeez? Oh my god, that’s so precious.”
“We didn’t curse a lot where I’m from.”
“That’s exciting! Bucky, tell me you want me to fuck you.”
Oh, what a delight to watch a powerful man struggle to speak. “I want you to-“
“Yes? What do you want me to do?” You positioned his cock at your entrance and prodded yourself with it while you waited.
“Fuck me.”
“What was that? Say it again?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
You bit your lip and put your hands on his shoulders as you slowly slid down on his cock.
“Oh, my god,” he groaned, his eyes locked on yours, his eyebrows raised, his breathing urgent. He put his hands on your ass and spurred you on to keep fucking him slowly, just like that, taking in all of him until he hit your cervix and then sliding almost but not entirely back out.
You could talk shit but the way he felt inside you short-circuited your brain.
“Kiss me, again, please. I want you in my mouth,” he begged, and how could you deny a starving man?
The sounds he made were so erotic. He groaned and maybe even growled. Despite yourself, you emitted similar noises, moaning your pleasure into his mouth.
“Your pussy feels so good,” he told you. You didn’t expect him to be so chatty during sex.
“I’m happy your cock isn’t 16 inches,” you told him.
“What?” he chuckled through his panting.
“I was worried the reason you weren’t having sex was because you were killing people with your dick,” you told him.
He laughed a little, and then more. He nodded, “okay, I can see you imagining that.” He fondled your ass as you fucked him, his breath hitching in his throat with a shiver in his abdomen. “Is my size to your liking?” he asked with an actual smirk.
“Shut the fuck up, you know you’re big.”
“Am I?” he pretended to doubt, still smiling. “We didn’t have porn where I’m from. You could never really compare.”
“I’m sure you’re very educated on cock sizes now,” you were starting to move faster on top of him, pulling out less of him with each bounce.
“Faster?” he asked you.
“Help me,” you told him.
He bounced you on his cock effortlessly with his super-strength, fucking himself with your body like you weighed nothing. You emphasized each thrust with a moan, getting louder and louder the better it felt.
“James!” you tried.
And it was like a fucking code word. He shoved you quickly and wildly onto himself and also bucked his hips up into you, one hand on the bed to help him. The combination was incredible. You were so fucking delighted, you screamed his name.
“James, James, oh my fucking god, James!” Your cunt squeezed and spasmed around him and when he came, you came again and again from the shocking halt of his movements.
He pulled out and took the condom off while you tried to remember who and where you were. Before you could, he lifted you gently and moved your bodies, placing you on the bed on your back and spreading your legs.
“Wh- what-“ you could barely even start your question.
“Tap me if you want me to slow down and let go if you want me to stop,” he put your hand on his shoulder and his face in your cunt.
“Oh fuck,” the pressure of his face against you as your body healed from your orgasm was fucking next level. He started cleaning you up with his tongue.
He pressed it to your clit and you squeezed his shoulder, hoping that would encourage him. You felt like your body was just made of nerve endings and every touch he graced you with was electrifying. You relaxed your grip on him and when you did, he returned to tasting you with that generous tongue.
You wanted his cock back inside you.
“You didn’t- happen to- bring two condoms?”
He lifted his head to look up at you. The sight of him grinning between your legs needed to be framed. “Yes, ma’am.” He shifted to where his pants were and took out another condom.
You beckoned with both hands.
He set himself up on his knees in front of you, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, taking his time rubbing his hands over your soft skin, and kissing your ankles and calves.
“I like when you call me James,” he had the audacity to remind you, and he said it so fucking sweetly you wanted to cry.
“But Bucky is so much cuter. You know that’s why I always smile when I say good morning? Because your nickname is so unsuitable, it makes me laugh. Here’s this fucking gorilla of a man and everyone’s like hey Bucky~. It drives me insane.”
“You’re kidding? I fell in love with you because you’ve been making fun of me?”
“I guess you’re a masochist deep down.”
“That’s how you reply to me saying I love you?” he laughed again.
“I figured it would be nicer than calling you crazy. You barely know me.”
“I know enough and I just made love to you.”
“We fucked.”
“Well then I’m about to make love to you.”
“Shut the fuck up, oh my god,” you pressed the backs of your hands to your cheeks, trying to cool down.
He laughed again. You wanted him to laugh while inside of you, again.
“Okay, James, make love to me,” you tried to tease him, but it came out sounding sultry instead.
“Are you sure you’re ready? I’m in no rush.” He kissed the side of your head until he found himself back at your neck. His vibranium hand felt interesting cupping one of your breasts, his thumb rubbing over your nipple.
“Can I ask you questions about the arm or is that rude?”
“Ask away, gorgeous,” his breath tickled your skin.
“How much can you feel with it?”
He focused on playing with your nipple. “I can feel what I touch, and temperature. It doesn’t handle texture, so these little bumps right here,” he ran a cybernetic finger on your areola, “I can’t feel as much, but this,” he gave your nipple a flick and a pinch and then rolled it in between his thumb and pointer finger, “I can feel perfectly”.
You reacted with a happy little sigh as he played with you.
“Okay, can you be inside of me again, now?” you asked, your cunt feeling empty without him in it.
He put on the second condom and slid into you, filling you up again phenomenally. He kissed your neck while slowly thrusting into you, his gestures feeling like a dance. You raked your fingernails down his back and relished in the sound he let out when you did.
“Your cock is amazing. I do think it’d be cool if it were cybernetic, by the way.”
Your dreams came true when he laughed while inside you again.
You ran your hands through his hair. “I love making you laugh,” you admitted.
“I love you,” he said again.
“You’re out of your mind, James,” you whispered through breathy moans, the length and girth of him feeling like what was missing from your body. You felt grief at the idea of him ever pulling out again.
“Two things can be true,” his vibranium hand was back on your nipple, twisting and playing with it again. His lips grazed your neck. His breath warmed and excited you. Every touch felt intentional and full of worship.
Your cunt tightened around him again, contracting wildly, burning with need. “You’re making me feel so fucking good,” you praised him.
He took your ear in his mouth, sucking on it and licking it, and giving it a little bite. “You can call me that thing you like,” he whispered.
“What thing?” What even were words anymore? All you could think about was his mouth and his fingers and his cock.
“Your good boy,” he whispered, and your cunt contracted faster, your body squeezing him, your back arching against your will.
“Oh, you really like that,” he was surprised. “Please, please, please tell me how good I am,” he pretended to beg.
Your body was not your own anymore, you were sharing it with him. You were struggling to breath and the sounds you made were pitching and louder without your intent. “You’re- you’re-” you struggled, afraid of what it might do to you to finish speaking.
“Do you like when I make love to you?” he whispered, his thrusts just a bit harder, but still phenomenally languid. “Am I pleasing you enough?”
“Fuck,” your hips were moving, your vocal emissions frantic. “You fuck so good, James. You feel fucking incredible.”
“Make love,” he corrected, and you could feel his smug smile against your neck.
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Come on, baby, say it. Tell me I’m your good boy when I make love to you like this,” he teased you.
You pressed your hands to your hot face. Your body was on fire. You repositioned your legs from being over his shoulders and wrapped them around his waist so you could thrust your hips back against him and speed up his movements.
He resisted you, maintaining the slower speed. “If you praise me, I will do everything you want,” he whispered, his face feeling incredible against your skin. “I’ll make you come again.”
“Fuck! Okay, yes! You’re mine. You’re being such a good boy for me. The way you- the way you make love to me feels incredible.”
He quickened his movements. He slid a hand under your ass and helped you thrust against him, as well. He made everything so easy with his super-strength. Sex had never felt so fucking wet and fast and intense before. It felt like those first times did, when you were fucking wildly in your parent’s basement, needing roughness because of how wet you would get.
He moved faster and faster, panting against you. You were already coming. You didn’t understand how he was doing this. Your orgasm was loud and intense against the backdrop of skin slapping. He didn’t come until your orgasm was finished, and tears were streaming down the sides of your head and you couldn’t recognize your own voice anymore.
He pressed his body down against yours as he came. You loved the pulsing feeling of his cock spurting his come into the condom inside you.
You couldn’t move a single muscle. Your orgasm depleted all of your energy.
He sighed happily and when he did you could feel his body relaxing. He didn’t rest for too long. In a moment, he was back on his knees removing the condom.
“What do you need? How can I take care of you? Where do you keep your towels?”
Super-soldiers were annoying, but cute, you decided with a laugh. You pointed to the hallway and to the right.
“Would you rather shower or do you want me to clean you up with a towel? I’d use my mouth again but I don’t know if you can take it,” he teased.
You showed him your middle finger, and his laughter filled the room again.
He cleaned the both of you up with towels from the linen closet and even brought you a glass of cold water from your kitchen. Then he got back into bed at your side, wrapping an arm around you and resting his head on your chest.
After a few minutes he fell asleep. After a few more, so did you.
❝ thunderbolts!bucky x assisstant!reader ❞
── when the new avengers' image needs repairing after the new york incident, you're tasked with organizing a massive coney island charity carnival. (un)fortunately, one forgotten booth assignment lands bucky barnes in the event's most popular attraction: the kissing booth.
⤷ tags: post thunderbolts (lowk is this a tower fic?), kissing booth, carnival/fair, slow burn, friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, overworked reader, grumpy x sunshine, he falls first AND he falls harder, mutual pining, idiots in love, semi forced proximity, one sided pining until it isnt, some emotional constipation, accidental date, the date was real though, touch starved bucky barnes + soft bucky barnes, domestic yearning, office romance, workaholic!reader, author has journalism geek speak, career burnout, acts of service love language, what if someone noticed as a love language, softness after survival, brief mentions of trauma/ptsd, feelings confession, lots of kisses (its titled accurately) fluff with a happy ending ⋮ warnings: 18+ MDNI! valentina is a toxic boss #freemygirlmel, coercive workplace environment, eventual smut, p in v, unprotected sex, thunderbolts bucky is a softdom ill die on this hill, reader is a pillow princess #notsorry, specific tags to be added in each part!
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── BDAY FIC!!!! you guys dont understand... i LOVE this bucky i was literally like so obsessed with him i dreamed about him i thought about him while looking at the sunset i want to marry him forever and ever and ever. i hope you like it and as always thank you for reading!
── chapters + extras
💋 part one ⋮ one for the money...
💋 part two ⋮ two for the show...
💋 part three ⋮ three to get ready... now go, go go!
Bucky is just a friend; Rebecca’s annoying older brother you’ve known for years. After asking him for help, things suddenly change when he decides he can’t keep watching you go from one bad date to the next.
٠࣪⭑ Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Rebecca and Winnifred Barnes, and Steve Rogers.
٠࣪⭑ Common Content Warnings: Fluff, mild angst, best friend’s brother trope, banter, friends to lovers. Pre-War, but I imagine Bucky is mid-20’s while reader is early 20’s. Each part will have its own individual warnings!
٠࣪⭑ Inclusivity: Reader has hair and is able-bodied. No use of y/n. Images do not reflect reader’s size or skin tone.
٠࣪⭑ This is not a planned series, so it will be updated whenever inspiration strikes. Entries may include drabbles, scribbles, or ficlets. Asks/requests are open if that’s your thing!
٠࣪⭑ Status: Complete
Main Masterlist || AO3
• Part 1 ⟶ WC: <550
⤷ Blind dates prove to be a disaster every time, so you do the only thing you can think of—ask Bucky Barnes for advice.
• Part 2 ⟶ WC: <3.1K
⤷ After watching you continue to have one bad date after another, Bucky decides he can’t take it anymore.
• Part 3 ⟶ WC: <3.9K
⤷ One date has changed everything. What should be an ordinary summer day at Rockaway with friends becomes the turning point between what was and what could be.
Updated Jul. 24 2026
Join my permanent taglist here, or comment on this post for updates on this series only.
٠࣪⭑ I do not consent to my work being reposted, plagiarized, or put into an AI of any kind. Let’s keep humanity in creative spaces, please.
summary: Steve's been pining for you since the day you walked into the tower, so how does he handle it when Bucky, who most definitely can't stand you, starts pining for you too? Not. So. Well.
warnings: profanity, objectification (by strangers, not by our beloved characters), mentions of gore/violence, inappropriate thoughts, pining, questionable lap dance, choking, threatening, MINORS DNI, 18+.
word count: 21.9k
a/n: No one proofread this so please let me know if you see any egregious mistakes. This has been sitting in my folder of unfinished works for a long time and I figured I might be more motivated to finish it if I posted part of what I have. I hope you guys enjoy!
Sometimes it’s all a little too much. The feeling that he’s living in the wrong time period combined with an indefensible amount of blood on his hands and a near perfect memory is enough to keep Bucky in therapy twice a week. Even now, as he sits through his second session of the week, he feels like it might not be enough.
Bucky leans back into the stiff gray cushion of Dr. Raynor’s couch, turning his head to look out at the rain pattering against the window to his left. He likes the rain, but his nightmares are worse when it rains after the sun has gone down. His brain has the tendency to pair the peaceful sound of raindrops on windows with the image of blood splattering over every surface.
“Is the rain still bothering you?” Dr. Raynor asks, tapping the tip of her pen against the small notebook resting on her lap. Bucky shrugs indifferently as he focuses in on the dark clouds taking over the sky. It’s only a little past eight in the morning, but he has a sinking feeling that the storm is going to linger and he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. “James?”
“Only if I’m sleeping.” He replies flatly.
“You seem a little bothered by it right now.” Dr. Raynor points out. She follows his gaze until the dark clouds are in her line of sight as well. She gets lost in them for a moment, thinking about how much the tortured soldier might come to relate to this kind of weather if he could get past the nightmares it brings. The looming, threatening clouds remind her of him in every way.
“I’m fine.” Bucky lies. Dr. Raynor rolls her eyes and clicks her pen open, quickly beginning to scratch the tip against the surface of a blank page. She isn’t writing anything of substance, but it’s a shameless trick that always gets a rise out of her patient. “I thought we talked about the notebook thing, doc.” Bucky grumbles, finally tearing his gaze away from the window to glare at her. She holds the tip of the pen against the page, letting the ink bleed a bit as she stills her hand and looks up at him.
“I thought we talked about saying ‘I’m fine.’”
“It’s a habit.” He admits, smoothing his flesh and vibranium palms over his jean-clad thighs. Thunder rumbles lowly in the distance and the hair on the back of his neck stands up.
“A habit you’re supposed to be breaking. Do you tell Steve that you’re fine when he asks how you’re doing?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether or not I’m fine.” Bucky’s being exceptionally difficult today. Though the session has only lasted a little over half an hour, it’s been unproductive thus far and Dr. Raynor knows that with this weather and Bucky’s particular brand of stubbornness this morning, she won’t be getting anywhere with him. She decides to cut her losses.
“Why don’t we try this again on Monday? Should be sunny then.” Dr. Raynor says semi-sarcastically, clicking her pen shut and moving her notebook to a small table next to her chair. Bucky lets out a half-hearted chuckle, shaking his head at the dig.
“Kicking me out early?” Bucky asks as he rises to his feet and fishes his gloves out of the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Consider it a favor. Do something more productive with the rest of your Friday.”
Bucky doesn’t take the elevator downstairs. He never does. He isn’t scared of them, but something about putting himself in such an enclosed space with potentially any other human being doesn’t sit right with him. He knows he isn’t the Winter Soldier anymore. The activation words don’t do much to his mind anymore, not in terms of mind-control at least. They might not activate the Winter Soldier but they sure as hell do a number on his PTSD. Who’s to say that some part of the Winter Soldier isn’t still ingrained in the fibers of his nervous system? So, he takes the stairs to avoid some unimaginable situation where, in an inescapable metal box, he becomes someone he wishes he could kill.
You should probably stop getting to your therapy sessions so early. It’s not doing you any good, and it sure as hell isn’t doing your car any good. You sit in the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition one last time as you listen to the sad sound of your car attempting to start up, but failing. You’ve only sat here with it idling for what, half an hour? And now here it is, completely dead as rain pours down on the windshield. You should’ve put on your big girl pants and just gone inside and sat in the waiting area like anyone else would, but small talk makes your skin crawl and every time you’ve gone inside early, you get roped into small talk with Dr. Raynor’s chatty receptionist.
You glance down at your phone to see that you have less than twenty minutes until your appointment begins, so you resolve to try and fix your piece of shit car afterward. You have no doubt that Dr. Raynor wouldn’t appreciate you sitting on her nice gray couch in rain-soaked clothes anyway.
He heard the sound of your engine struggling to turn over even from the stairwell. Why you always choose to sit in your idling car, knowing that thing is temperamental as hell is beyond Bucky. He doesn’t know much about you, but he knows that you give your car the benefit of the doubt more than you’d often than you’d give it to probably any human being. You’re already gone when he exits the stairwell and presses on through the mostly empty lobby. He glances over at the receptionist on his left, not offering her a smile but also not completely ignoring her existence. As Bucky pushes open the glass door to exit the lobby, he intends to head straight for his car on the far right side of the parking lot. He intends to slide into the driver’s seat and drive slightly over the speed limit to get back to the tower and take up the first activity he can find that’ll effectively drown out the sound of the rain. But he finds himself slowing to a stop in front of your car. He slows to a stop, narrowing his eyes at the raindrops rolling off of the hood of it.
He’d like to think that he decided to break into your car and pop the hood because it was the neighborly thing to do. You live across the hall from him, after all. Wouldn’t it have been rude if he simply walked past your car and left you potentially stranded in the rain? But as Bucky fixes the tiniest, most inconceivable problem a car could have, he bites down on the inside of his cheek a little too hard. His eyes are focused on the actions of his gloved flesh hand as it adjusts the connections between the black and red cables and your car’s battery. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, but his mind is stuck on the fact that if you had stood out here in the rain to fix this yourself after your session, you would’ve showed up back at the tower in a rain-soaked shirt that was so damn see-through Bucky would’ve struggled to look away.
He’s just starting to break a sweat as he lowers the hood down and latches it closed. Tugging off his leather jacket, he heads for the driver’s side and pulls the door open. As he slides into your seat, wondering how you comfortably sit so damn close to the steering wheel, he tosses the jacket into the passenger seat before removing his leather gloves and setting them atop it. As he stares at the dash of your car, he realizes just how stupid this is. How the hell is he supposed to make sure it starts when he doesn’t have the keys? Hotwiring it immediately crosses his mind, but he tamps down that ridiculous idea as soon as it surfaces. Hotwiring a woman’s car just to make sure it starts for her later, and then un-hotwiring it and pretending you were never here is a special brand of obsessed. Not that he’s obsessed in any way, shape, or form…but intrigued, sure.
Bucky shakes his head as he realizes just how untoward this whole thing would look to anyone beside himself. He climbs out of your car as quickly as he first got in, hitting the lock button on the door before shutting it quietly and heading for his own car across the lot. As far as you’ll be concerned, he was never there and your temperamental car decided to behave for once.
He’s just pulling into the underground parking garage beneath Avengers Tower when he realizes his mistake. His leather jacket and his fucking gloves. He left them in your car, in your fucking passenger seat. An audible groan escapes his lips as he leans forward and presses his forehead against the steering wheel. Fucking idiot. Any woman in this day and age would automatically assume they have a very dangerous, overstepping stalker if they found articles of clothing in their car. He runs his fingers through his hair, gripping onto the strands tightly at his scalp before leaning back against the headrest and letting out a frustrated breath. He should’ve taken the elevator, because if he’d taken the elevator, he never would’ve heard your pathetic engine refusing to do its job.
By the time he gets up to his room, his jaw hurts from how hard he’s been clenching it and he feels naked without his jacket and gloves on. The silver metal of his left arm is reflecting every bit of light he encounters and he keeps tugging on the sleeve of his red Henley in an attempt to cover more of his wrist and hand.
“Not wearing any gloves today, OJ?” Sam asks, raising a brow as the super soldier steps out of the stairwell door and into the main living area of the tower. Bucky glares at him, not quite understanding the OJ reference but knowing it probably isn’t a great one.
“Weren’t you wearing them when you left this morning? Did Dr. Raynor take them away?” Sam continues playfully from his spot on the sectional. Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek as he stalks through the living area, heading straight for the hallway to everyone’s rooms. “Come on, Buck, I’m just messing with you.”
Bucky doesn’t slow down as he barrels past Steve in the hall, ignoring his friendly ‘morning’ and not stopping until he’s reached his door.
“What’s with him?” Steve directs his question at Sam as Bucky disappears into his room and locks the door behind him. Sam shrugs, lifting a mug of coffee to his lips as he focuses in on the news broadcast in front of him.
“He’s trying out a new look.”
The day drags by. Bucky feels like he’s been staring at his empty bedroom wall for the entirety of it, only occasionally averting his gaze to glance out of his window and look to see if your car is rolling into the compound entrance when he hears a noise outside. He never sees it. He watches Tony’s car roll in around the time you’d normally be back from a session with Dr. Raynor. Then, he watches Sam’s car roll out a little later. At some point, Natasha’s car leaves too, followed by Sam returning shortly after. Not once does he see your piece of shit car come into view.
It isn’t until it’s nearly noon that Bucky hears the sound of footsteps coming down the hall and then three loud knocks against the surface of his door. It’s not you. He’s sure of that. So, begrudgingly, he pulls himself away from his absolutely pointless activity and tugs the door open, coming face to face with Steve.
“You’re hiding in here.” Steve says flatly, looking over Bucky’s shoulder as if he’s concerned about the contents of the room. “What’s going on with you?” Bucky lets out a sigh before stepping to the side and letting Steve in, knowing he can’t just shut the door in his face. Steve takes a few steps in, scanning the mostly bare room before turning back around to face his friend.
“Nothing’s going on.” Bucky lies with ease, shutting the door and running a hand through his hair. He’s been thinking about cutting it lately. He doesn’t mind the length of it, but sometimes he looks in the mirror and feels like he only keeps it in an attempt to hide his sins behind it. Steve studies him carefully, knowing better than to accuse him of lying outright.
“Is it the weather?” He asks, shifting his gaze to the window. It’s still dark and cloudy out, and the rain comes and goes every hour or so. Bucky shrugs, looking past Steve to focus on the clouds. Truthfully, he’s been so preoccupied by his mistake this morning that he’s somewhat forgotten about the weather. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
“The fridge is empty.”
“You want me to go grocery shopping?” Bucky asks, scoffing at Steve as if he’s just asked him to commit a felony. Steve lets out an annoyed sigh, tilting his head to the side to capture Bucky’s gaze.
“You didn’t buy groceries when you were hiding out in Bucharest?” Bucky doesn’t answer the question, but he returns Steve’s questioning stare with a look of disdain. “It’s just a supermarket, Buck.”
Two super soldiers in a goddamn supermarket. It’d be laughable if Bucky wasn’t so uncomfortable right now. He can feel the stares and lingering glances from everyone who happens to be near as he and Steve make their way through the produce section. Sure, they’re probably staring at Steve way more, considering his face has been on milk cartons and cereal boxes, but still. While Bucky’s wishing he was anywhere else, Steve’s trying to choose between three different kinds of potatoes like the wrong choice would be treason.
“Steve, they’re all potatoes.”
“Yeah, but she likes a certain kind.” Bucky freezes at the mention of she. He knows Steve’s talking about you. Bucky’s never once seen Natasha in the kitchen, and Wanda only ever cooks chicken paprikash.
“She only likes a certain kind.” Bucky repeats, narrowing his eyes at the selection before him. Russet, red, white, yellow. He remembers one specific night, when it was way too late for any normal person to be chopping up potatoes, you were there in the kitchen with a cutting board and knife. He spared you the briefest glance as he headed for the stairwell, your eyes meeting only for a moment as you drove your knife into the middle of a small, red potato. “Why are you so concerned with getting her the right kind of potato?” Steve’s silence speaks volumes. Bucky feels his own heart rate speeding up as Steve picks up a Russet potato and deposits it into a plastic bag. “Steve?”
“If you took the time to get to know her, you’d want to get her the right kind of potatoes too.” Steve answers. He doesn’t have to say it, it’s obvious. He’s into you. He’s so into you that he’s trying to figure out which type of potatoes you like to cook with so he can stock the communal kitchen with them. Bucky finds himself clenching his teeth. He thinks about pocketing a few red potatoes just to show Steve up, but he doesn’t.
“I’m good.” Bucky says stiffly, moving away from his friend and wishing he had his jacket on so he could shove his hands in his pockets. “Getting to know people isn’t really my thing.”
“Right, you prefer to get to know your bedroom walls.” Steve teases, bagging up a couple more Russet potatoes before setting his selection in the cart.
“If I got to know everyone else, you might have some competition.”
“Things aren’t like they were when we were young.” Steve points out, pushing the cart away from the produce section with Bucky following a few steps behind. “I might not have gotten a second look from a woman back then, but I think I could do pretty well now.”
“You got second looks back then, you just didn’t realize it.” Bucky argues. “You didn’t have confidence.”
“I was an asthmatic kid that could’ve passed for a skeleton even when it wasn’t Halloween.”
“But you were nice, and funny. You were smart and had ambition. Girls liked that.”
“If I remember correctly, every girl you ever introduced me to only ever wanted you, Buck.” A smirk plays on Bucky’s lips as memories flood in. Steve isn’t wrong about that.
“But look at you now. What girl is going to pick me over Captain America?”
You were in his room. Bucky stands still as his bedroom door falls shut behind him, his eyes are zeroed in on the leather jacket and gloves resting on the foot of his bed. He broke into your car and you broke into his room, each of you doing the other a favor. He feels something bubbling up from low in his stomach as he stands there staring at the worn leather, itching to reach out for it and put it on like it’s a security blanket he can’t stand to go without.
He turns on his heel, choosing to inspect the lock and handle of his door instead. He sees no sign of forced entry, not a single mechanism feels loose or out of place as he jiggles the handle and turns the lock repeatedly. You’re good.
You sink down onto your bed slowly, letting yourself fall backwards with your legs hanging off the end of the mattress as you stare up at the ceiling fan. The storm picked up again just a little while ago and the rain is coming down sideways against your bedroom window. You noticed someone made a grocery run while you were gone today, but even with your stomach grumbling, you didn’t feel like raiding the freshly stocked fridge for something to eat.
Your session with Dr. Raynor is still replaying in your head.
“You only say yes to solo ops.” Dr. Raynor had pointed out, tapping the tip of her pen against her notebook.
“That’s what I’m best at.”
“You don’t know that if you’ve never taken on a partner or been a part of the team.”
“I’m pretty sure.” You had replied indignantly, breaking her stare to glance out at the raging storm.
“The next mission that Fury tries to put you on, no matter what it is, you’re going to agree to it.”
She’s simultaneously a pain in your ass and the most reasonable person in your life. She gives advice that you constantly refuse to take, but it’s always good advice. You don’t want to say yes to whatever it is that Fury will try to put you on next, but you also know that you’ve been stagnant in your recovery. You’ve been stuck in the same place, dealing with your issues your own way while attending your therapy sessions and ignoring your therapist’s direction. At some point, if you want to get better, you know you have to give her way a try.
A soft knock on your door breaks you out of your thoughts and you’re on your feet within a second, kicking off your shoes at the foot of your bed before opening the door and coming face to face with Steve. He stands tall, keeping a respectful distance from your door as he offers a kind smile and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. Is he…is he flexing? Your eyes dart over to the pronounced curve of his bicep for a quick second before he catches you looking and drops his arm down to his side.
“I made a grocery run today.” He says, keeping his bright blue eyes trained on yours as you look up at him from your spot in the doorway. The way you’re looking up at him is enough to have the super soldier serum pumping through his veins a little harder and faster. He can feel his blood pressure spiking just from being this close to you, but he keeps an unchanging expression on his face. “I know it’s your night to handle the movie snacks, but if you don’t feel like worrying about it, there’s plenty of stuff in the kitchen.” The gesture is sweet, and you smile up at him politely before moving a bit of hair away from your face.
“I think you’re the only one here who does grocery runs voluntarily.” Steve laughs lightly before dropping his gaze to the floor for a second. When he looks back up at you, there’s a slight blush coloring his cheeks and a genuine smile painted across his face.
“You’re the only one who cooks voluntarily so it seems fair that I stock the kitchen.”
“We’re the only ones keeping everyone in this tower alive, aren’t we?” You ask jokingly. A loud crack of thunder resounds throughout the hall and the lights flicker for a moment before returning to their full brightness.
“Seems that way.” Steve agrees. His gaze lingers on yours for a second, hoping you’ll say something else to keep the conversation going. But as usual, you let it fade out and he gets the hint to give you another kind smile and take a few steps away from your door. “See you later tonight.”
For you, the interaction was nothing special. Steve’s a nice guy, really, he is. He’s nice and thoughtful. He does in fact keep the kitchen stocked, sometimes it even seems like he goes out of his way to buy things he thinks you like. He happened to see you chowing down on a granola bar on your way to the gym one morning and a few days later, there was a box of forty-eight granola bars in the pantry. You moved a pack of provolone cheese further back in the fridge once and reached for the colby jack instead. Two days later, the provolone was gone and colby jack had taken over. You never had the heart to tell him that you weren’t the biggest fan of those specific granola bars, or that you use different cheeses for different things. You’re sure he does the same thing for everyone else. You didn’t pay much attention, but surely he must’ve stocked up on chicken and paprika after Wanda made her favorite dish for everyone. The behavior couldn’t be limited to only you. But if you could see what everyone else in the tower sees, you’d know that yes, the behavior is strictly limited to you. Steve is into you.
“You’re not going alone.” Natasha says matter-of-factly as she sets a few unopened bottles of beer on the coffee table in the living area. When she stands up straight again, she shoots you a stern look, as if it’ll have any effect on you.
“It’s a Chinese restaurant twenty minutes away, not a field trip to the Berlin Correctional Facility.” You retort, turning your back to her and heading for the elevator. Steve clears his throat from the kitchen as his eyes dart between the two of you.
“I could go with you.” He offers, drying his hands on a dish towel. Your head snaps over in his direction at the same time that Natasha clicks her tongue disapprovingly.
“No, you’re supposed to be stealing that second couch from downstairs, and you’re not leaving that to me.” She gives him a withering glance, immediately ruining his chance of spending forty minutes in a car with you. Steve turns to you, offering an apologetic glance before shifting his gaze to the silent, brooding super soldier who’s making his way down the hall. Both you and Natasha turn to follow his line of sight, your eyes landing on Bucky in his recently-returned leather jacket and gloves.
“Bucky will go with you.” Steve offers, dropping the dish towel on the countertop and moving into the living area. You take another step toward the elevator, reaching out to press the button that will call it up to you.
“I don’t need anyone to go with me.” Your words aren’t at all surprising. You have a thing about people thinking you can’t take care of yourself. It’s ironic that the thought ever crosses anyone’s mind considering you only ever take on solo missions, but still, here you are.
“It’s storming and you ordered from the place on fifth street.” Natasha points out. Bucky raises an eyebrow at you from his place near the entrance to the hallway. He knows fifth street. He wouldn’t make a stop on fifth street any time of day if he could help it, but when the sun’s going down like it is now? You’re even stupider than he thought you were this morning when you sat in your car and let it idle for so long.
“I appreciate the meteorological and geographical reminders, but again, I don’t need anyone to go with me. I’ll be back in less than an hour.” The elevator’s halfway to you now, and as you turn your back to the group, you miss the glances they’re all three exchanging.
Bucky doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to sit in the car, in an enclosed space with someone he barely knows. He doesn’t want to listen to the sound of the rain pounding down on the windshield as he tries too hard to remind himself that it isn’t innocent blood. He has no problem with turning around and walking back to his room without saying a word, but…he imagines your car refusing to start on fifth street as you stand there, bending over beneath the popped hood trying to figure out what’s wrong with it. He imagines the looks that you’d get, the things people would be thinking as their eyes roam over your body and the rain soaks through your thin shirt. Where the hell is your jacket? Do you not fucking own one?
His feet are carrying him toward the elevator before his brain has a chance to tell his muscles no. Steve’s so far beyond surprised at Bucky’s forward momentum that he pauses between the living area and kitchen to stare. The elevator doors slide open and you step in first, unaware of Bucky being just a few steps behind you. Just as you’re turning around to reach for the panel of buttons on the inside, Bucky slips between the doors and moves to the opposite side of the elevator. The doors close before he realizes what he’s doing. He’s in an elevator with someone. He’s in a small, enclosed metal space with a girl he doesn’t know a thing about. How has he ended up doing two things today that he’d normally never do? He watches closely as you hit the button to bring the elevator down to the parking garage. First, he went out in public without the veil of his leather jacket and gloves. Now, he’s trusting himself not to end up triggered and kill some innocent girl during a ridiculously long elevator ride. How has he broken two barriers in one day?
“You broke into my car.” Bucky narrows his eyes at you as you lean back against the far wall of the elevator. You remain facing him as you cross your arms over your chest and stare into his blue eyes.
“You broke into my room.”
“I assumed you wanted your jacket and gloves back. Or did you mean to leave those for me?” You ask, with sarcasm dripping from your words as you glance up to see the floor counter slowly ticking down. Bucky scoffs, shaking his head at you. When you look at him again, his tongue is running over his bottom lip as he stares back at you with a cold expression. “Right, you don’t go anywhere without them.”
“It’s raining.” Bucky says flatly.
“We both know that’s not why you wear the jacket.” The look in your eye tells Bucky that you’re able to read him a lot better than he’s able to read you, and he hates it. Maybe it’s a byproduct of your sessions with Dr. Raynor, you can’t help but become as insightful as she is.
The elevator reaches the parking garage after a few more seconds of the two of you staring at each other, and you rush out first. You beeline toward your car, hitting the button on your key fob to unlock it, not even looking over your shoulder to see if Bucky’s really about to try going with you.
“It’s pretty stupid to stop on fifth street alone.” His voice echoes off of the concrete pillars and walls all around, surrounding you as you wrap your fingers around the handle of the driver’s door. You look over your shoulder and your eyes land on him as he walks slowly in your direction, keeping his gloved hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket and his expression unreadable.
“No one would give a shit if I took a solo mission on fifth street, but everyone gives a shit when I go there for takeout?”
“I don’t give a shit.” Bucky responds dryly, shrugging his shoulders as he comes to a stop at the tail end of your car. “But Steve does, and I won’t hear the end of it if I let you go alone after coming all the way down here with you.” You let out a sigh as you tug the door open and purse your lips at the super soldier who almost seems bored with the situation at hand. His stare is penetrating. It feels like it goes right through you, like if he cared to learn anything about you, he could do so with one prolonged look into your eyes.
“I’m driving.” You mumble, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut before he has a chance to respond. Bucky shakes his head in the direction of your rearview mirror. He starts moving around the back of the car toward the passenger side.
“I didn’t offer to.” He mutters under his breath, just for his own satisfaction.
The rain doesn’t bother Bucky as much as he expected it to, not when you have the radio playing softly in the background and he actually sort of likes the music. He finds himself leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes, letting out a deep exhale and resting his palms over his thighs. Your eyes flit over for a moment, taking in the sight of the man you barely know sitting in your passenger seat. It’s as if you tried to fit a Ken doll into a Polly Pocket car. He’s thick in every way. You’d attribute it to the super soldier serum, but something’s different between Bucky’s build and Steve’s. Did they get different formulas of the same serum? While Steve’s build resembles that of a comic strip Superman, Bucky’s seems more natural. You can see the toned muscles of his thighs pressing against the fabric of his jeans. Even through the long sleeve shirt you know he’s sporting beneath his heavy leather jacket, you can see the pronounced curves of his biceps and defined muscles of his chest. If you didn’t know he was a super soldier, you’d assume he lives in the gym.
He can feel you staring but he never says anything about it. He’s used to being stared at, though normally, it’s just his silver arm. When you finally look away and turn your eyes back to the road, you flip on your turn signal and steer the car into the left turn lane, preparing to maneuver onto fifth street. Bucky opens his eyes and watches as you take the turn carefully, ensuring you don’t hydroplane and total your already shitty car.
“Cut the headlights.” Bucky says, scanning his eyes along the sidewalks. It’s a Friday night and the street is bustling with activity. He sees a handful of people in desolate states, slumped over against the various outer brick walls of abandoned storefronts. He sees a group of watchful men off to the left near a rundown laundromat pausing their conversation to stare as your car rolls by. You don’t make a move to listen to Bucky’s command, so he unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over the center console, coming so close that he can smell the perfume on the skin of your neck as he reaches past you and clicks your headlights off. You shoot him a warning look as he leans back into his seat once more. You go about halfway down the street before parallel parking between a couple of cars and turning off the ignition. The downpour of rain has slowed into a light shower, but as Bucky’s eyes coast down to the thin shirt you’re sporting, he knows the light shower may as well be a pressure washer. You’re going to get soaked and all eyes will be on you when that shirt turns see-through.
“Just stay in here, I’ll be five minutes.” You say as you drop the keys in his lap and push your door open. You’re out in the rain before he has a chance to say fuck no. He follows after you, pushing his own door open while holding the keys tightly in his left hand. You hear the car door slam shut but don’t waste any time turning around to look at the man who doesn’t listen. You jog across the sidewalk and rush into the Chinese restaurant, thoroughly soaked by the time you step in the door.
All eyes are on you, just like he expected. As Bucky steps in the door, his chest bumps against your back since you haven’t moved more than a foot into the storefront. You stumble forward and he reaches out instinctively, the fingers of his right hand curling into your hip as he steadies you. There’s a table of four men just off to the right, each one shamelessly focused on the wet shirt clinging to your chest. Bucky’s grip on your hip tightens and he clenches his teeth together, fighting the urge to flip their table and leave all of their bodies in a neat little pile by the door.
“If her pants were as thin as her shirt, we’d be getting dinner and a show, wouldn’t we?” One of the men snickers. He speaks so quietly that you can’t make out the words, but Bucky sure as hell can. Using the hand that’s still, for some unknown reason, holding onto your hip, Bucky pushes you forward. Your feet begin carrying you toward the counter a few meters ahead as Bucky’s hand falls away from you. He stays close, his presence hovering around you like a shield as the eyes of too many men follow you. He’s not even listening as you let the woman at the counter know which takeout order belongs to you. When you pull a debit card from the pocket of your jeans, he’s zeroed in on the voices of the men at that table by the door.
“She’s been here before, I recognize that ass.” A second man says, making Bucky wish he didn’t have such a heightened sense of hearing. The other men chuckle and Bucky’s seeing red as the woman behind the counter disappears in the kitchen to fetch your order.
“You’re standing really close to me.” You whisper, turning your head to the right to peer at Bucky over your shoulder. You can tell how stiff and uneasy he is just by the tension in the atmosphere. He’s maybe two inches behind you, with his arms hanging down at his sides and his hands curled into fists within his leather gloves.
“I’m not moving.” He says gruffly. His breath fans over the side of your neck and the wet fabric covering your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. You crane your neck a little further, looking around Bucky to see the table of men making no effort to hide their interest in you.
“I’m not worried about them.” Bucky lets out a low laugh as the words leave your lips and you turn back to face the counter.
“I’m not worried about them either.” He responds darkly. Something about the way he says it has your cheeks heating up and your shirt suddenly feeling far too thin. You looked all over for your rain jacket before you left the tower, but it was nowhere to be found. You should’ve grabbed a hoodie or quite literally anything else, but you didn’t. A man exits the kitchen with two large brown paper bags, setting them on the counter in front of you before offering you a polite smile. As you reach for the bags, his polite smile fades and his gaze drifts down your chest, lingering there for a moment too long. A commotion in the kitchen snaps him out of the questionable thoughts that were just beginning to form and he quickly turns on his heel, leaving you and Bucky at the counter in silence.
Bucky’s starting to wonder why, only around you, his body does things without him even realizing he’s doing them. He’s tugging off his gloves and shoving them into the pockets of his jacket before shrugging the jacket off and holding it up for you to slide your arms in. Catching his movement out of the corner of your eye, you start shaking your head immediately. You slide the two paper bags to the edge of the counter, refusing to turn and look at Bucky.
“I don’t need your jacket.” You say defiantly, preparing to lift the bags into your arms. Bucky lets out a quick huff through his nose before closing his eyes and mentally cursing Steve. Your fingers falter along the folded tops of the paper bags as Bucky suddenly leans in close, letting his lips ghost over the shell of your ear.
“If you don’t put it on…” He whispers, trying hard to ignore your sweet scent. “Those men back there won’t live to finish their fucking fortune cookies.”
Bucky’s jacket feels warm as he guides it over each of your arms and sets it over your shoulders. You watch the light reflect off of his vibranium forearm as he reaches around you and grabs both paper bags in his metal hand, lifting them from the counter with ease. Sure, it might’ve been fun to see the ogling men have their asses handed to them by an unexpectedly protective super soldier, but making a scene on fifth street would be beyond stupid.
When you start heading for the door, Bucky makes a point of looking each man in the eye as he walks closely behind you. To his surprise, not a single one of them is staring at you anymore. Instead, they’re all focused on Bucky’s silver arm. For once, he’s thankful for it.
Ever since he got away from HYDRA, Bucky has hated that arm. He hates the way it identifies him as the Winter Soldier. He hates the way it reminds him of every sin he’s ever committed. He fucking hates that blaring red star on the side and the way it forces him to represent a societal system that he’d never willingly be a part of. He hates everything about it. That’s why he’s always wearing that damn leather jacket and those gloves. That’s why it feels so odd that right now, he doesn’t actually hate it. He fucking loves the fact that no one is staring at you on the way out of the restaurant. Everyone’s staring at him. Even once you’re both out on the sidewalk, heading for the car, not a single pair of eyes settles on you. Every gaze is locked on Bucky’s silver arm and the red star that he’s always despised, but the fact that you’re safe from unwanted objectification for just this moment fills him with something akin to pride.
You don’t object when Bucky steps around to your right side and keeps you from crossing around the front of the car to the driver’s side. Your eyes flit up to his for a moment, but he only looks down at the passenger door, pulling it open for you with his right hand while carefully holding the paper bags in his left. You slide in quickly, wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out of there. Bucky leans down, setting the warm bags on your lap before shutting the door and crossing around to the driver’s side.
The ride back to the tower is tense and quiet. Neither of you says a word as the radio plays softly in the background. The rain has lightened up enough that Bucky doesn’t even have to turn on the windshield wipers for most of the drive. For the first time since the two of you got back in the car, you dare to steal a glance at him. He’s maneuvering the car through the gate at the edge of the Avengers property slowly, just coasting along the smooth downhill road to the parking garage.
You watch as he sits so comfortably in the driver’s seat, with his vibranium hand on the wheel and his flesh hand resting loosely atop the gear shift. His hair is a bit wet from the rain and his red Henley is too, and something about the sight of him like that makes your stomach flip. Is it the sight of him or the fact that he threatened to kill those men just for looking at you sideways? You swallow hard before turning your head away from him to look out your window again.
“I could’ve handled that myself.” You finally say, keeping your head turned away from Bucky as the car enters the parking garage.
“You shouldn’t have had to.” He replies flatly, his tone giving no indication that he cares that much about what happened back on fifth street. You shift the paper bags on your lap, not wanting the heat emanating from them to get uncomfortable on your thighs.
“The world isn’t like it was in the forties.” You turn your head forward and take in the sight of the fluorescently-lit parking garage. Bucky steers the car straight back to the spot you’d originally parked it in earlier today before slowing down and making a right turn into it. “That’s pretty normal shit for a girl to deal with nowadays, and I would’ve been fine if I was there alone…without your jacket.”
“You would’ve been fine.” Bucky repeats, shutting the car off and holding the keys out for you. You look into his eyes as you reach for the keys and he simultaneously reaches for the bags of food with his free hand. “And they would’ve seen straight through your shirt. They don’t deserve that.”
“You act like it’s a prize or something.” You scoff as he lifts the paper bags from your lap and pushes his door open. You climb out of the car already moving to shrug his jacket off of your shoulders.
“You act like it’s not.” He retorts. You can’t tell if he’s almost complimenting you or trying to tell you how to take care of yourself. He glances over the roof of the car as you’re sliding one arm out of his leather jacket. “Leave it on.”
“You want me to step out of the elevator and have everyone up there see me in your jacket?” You ask, making a disbelieving face at him. He shrugs, turning his back to you and heading for the elevator.
“You want to step out of the elevator and have everyone see the black lace beneath your shirt?” Your cheeks heat up instantly as you look down and realize just how see-through the rain really made your thin shirt. Fuck. You tug Bucky’s jacket back on before falling into step a few meters behind him. He’s satisfied. You’re keeping his jacket on and no one else gets to see the way your wet shirt is clinging to your perfectly lace-cupped breasts tonight. God, he wishes he hadn’t even seen it. He finds his anger subsiding a little as the elevator carries you both higher and higher up the tower.
When the elevator slows to a stop at the right floor, you step out first. Your eyes land on the sectional and oddly placed second couch that Steve must’ve brought up from downstairs. Everyone’s gathered there, mostly focused on the screen as Natasha scrolls through the various movie titles available on Netflix. Steve’s the first one to turn his head and look at you. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment, but his eyes are quickly cast down to your torso when he recognizes Bucky’s leather jacket wrapped around you.
Bucky shouldn’t feel as good as he does about the look on Steve’s face. He should feel like a piece of shit, like the worst friend in the world for having you wear his jacket like this in front of the man who’s obviously head over heels for you. Steve looks slightly confused as his eyes dart over to Bucky, who, for the second time today, seems to have no qualms about showing off his silver arm. Is he missing something? Has Bucky suddenly gotten over the incessant need to cover up that one remaining piece of HYDRA? Steve turns his focus back to you on more time as Bucky moves toward the kitchen with the two bags of takeout. Both of the super soldiers watch as you disappear down the hallway, quickly heading for your room without saying a word.
As Natasha and Wanda discuss which movies they most definitely refuse to watch tonight, Vision listens with such intense interest that one would think movies are a special study topic of his. Steve abandons his seat on the couch, stealing one more look at you down the hall before you disappear into your room. He moves into the kitchen next, standing a few feet away as Bucky empties the contents of the paper bags onto the kitchen counter.
“What?” Bucky finally asks, growing tired of his friend staring at him like he’s grown a second head. He sets the last carton of fried rice on the countertop before crumpling the paper bags and tossing them into the trash. Steve crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at Bucky, not even quite sure where his own train of thought is heading right now.
“Was that your jacket she had on?” Steve questions quietly, keeping his voice just low enough that no one else will pick up on the topic of conversation. Bucky shoots him a sideways glance. He finds that he kind of hates the way Steve shows so much concern over you. Even more than that, he hates that Steve showing concern over you really fucking bothers him.
“She was cold.” Bucky lies, opening a drawer and pulling out a handful of forks. He drops them on the countertop next to the various takeout items, making a clattering noise as he does so.
“It’s not cold outside.” Steve notes. Bucky shrugs, lifting his eyes to peer through the open-concept kitchen into the living room. He sees Natasha’s settled on some action movie that he’s sure he’ll leave halfway through. He’s really tried to get into movies and TV shows since being around here, but he still finds that he prefers old books and forties music more as his pastime of choice. Still, Steve and Dr. Raynor both emphasize the importance of team bonding and shit so he tries to be present sometimes. Tonight, he’s feeling like skipping it all.
“I didn’t say it was cold out.” The words leave Bucky’s mouth just as you’re stepping out of your room in the same jeans you had on earlier, but now missing Bucky’s jacket. His eyes land on you as you get closer to the end of the hall, nearing the living area. You’re wearing an oversized gray SHIELD sweatshirt that has the tension in Bucky’s shoulders instantly dissipating. Thank fuck you switched out of what you had on before.
“You said she was cold.” Steve won’t let it go. Sure, he knows Bucky’s a good guy. He’s even known Bucky to be a perfect gentleman in the past. But does he trust him to be one now that they’re both older and in a different time period? He isn’t so sure.
“You wanted me to go with her, so I went.” Bucky says through gritted teeth as you make eye contact with him. You watch as his gaze flits down to your sweatshirt before flitting back up to your eyes and remaining there. The feeling you get from his blue eyes staying on you is something you’re not used to, something you can’t quite describe. The air in the tower feels more tense than usual as you weave your way between the sectional and coffee table and settle yourself onto the small loveseat angled awkwardly beside the wall. No one’s seated there yet and you know Steve was seated on the end of the sectional next to Vision, so you imagine you’ll get the whole loveseat to yourself. As long as Bucky isn’t staying for the movie, which you’re sure he won’t.
“Where’s the food?” Wanda calls out, turning around on the couch to peer at the two men in the kitchen. Steve moves closer to Bucky and starts stacking as many of the takeout containers as he can carry into his arms, shooting Bucky a quizzical look before stepping around him and carrying the food into the living room. Bucky lets out a deep breath once he’s alone in the kitchen again before snagging a cold beer from the fridge and heading for his room. He’s just popping the top off of the bottle as he nears the hallway when Natasha speaks up.
“You’re not staying for the movie?” She asks, cocking her head to one side. Bucky slows to a stop and turns to look at her, but his eyes seem to gravitate to you naturally. The only empty seat is the one right next to you. You stare back at him with no expression on your face. You’re perfectly neutral as he takes in your uneasy posture on the couch. You look like you want to be there about as little as he does.
“You really should stay.” Vision says evenly, shifting in his own seat to see Bucky. He’s the only one that notices the stare between the two of you. Vision slowly turns to look at you, squinting just slightly before looking back at the super soldier once more.
“He’s not a big fan of movies.” Steve finally says. Bucky narrows his eyes at him as he leans forward and wraps his hand around a carton of sweet and sour chicken. When Steve leans back into the couch cushions between Vision and Nat, Bucky’s mind is made up.
“What are we watching?” He asks. You watch as he approaches, his silver arm glinting in the low light emitting from the TV screen. You don’t move a muscle as he sinks into the couch beside you, so close to your right side on that tiny couch that the metal of his left arm is nearly touching the sleeve of your sweatshirt. You sit with one knee pulled up to your chest and the other leg hanging down toward the floor.
It’s a weird night. The movie is hard to get into. It plays out slowly on the screen, capturing absolutely zero percent of your attention though everyone else seems fully immersed in it. You hate movie night. If there’s anything worse than small talk, it’s sitting around pretending to enjoy a movie. Working in a high-stress line of work does that to you, makes everything else seem so much less interesting.
Bucky’s about as uninterested as you are. If it weren’t for the way Steve basically tried to send him off to his room, he wouldn’t be here right now. Bucky fiddles with the cap of his beer bottle in his vibranium hand as he rests the bottle on his right knee with the other hand. Your eyes follow the movement, watching as he spins the cap between his thumb and middle finger over and over again. He can feel your gaze on him. He can also feel Steve’s occasional gaze in your direction. Maybe that’s why he does it. Maybe that’s why he gets a little more comfortable on the loveseat and spreads his legs just enough that his knee is brushing against your right leg. You stiffen up but don’t pull away, sure that he’ll pull away as soon as he realizes you’re touching. But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky sets the cap on his knee and stretches that shiny vibranium arm, moving it to rest along the back of the couch partially behind you. Steve’s pissed. Bucky can tell without so much as looking in his direction. He shouldn’t have asked Bucky to go to fifth street with you tonight, not when he knows how much Bucky hates being in an enclosed space like that with quite literally anyone. He shouldn’t have given a shit about Bucky lending you his jacket, especially not when it was for such a damn good reason. Bucky’s the one who’s pissed.
Bucky’s staring at the TV screen, trying to figure out what the hell is happening between these two characters who seem to hate each other, as you stare down at the bottle cap on his knee. Rain starts pattering down outside again just as you’re reaching over and taking the cap between your fingers. Your fingertips graze Bucky’s lower thigh as you take the small piece of aluminum. His head snaps toward you quickly, watching your hand as you start fiddling with the cap just like he’d been doing a moment ago. It’s mesmerizing watching your fingers move just like his did. The cap looks so much bigger in your hand than it did in his. Lightning flashes through the window behind the couch and he closes his eyes for a second. He can see those men from the Chinese takeout place ogling you, they were practically drooling while you didn’t seem to give one shit about where their eyes were lingering. Why did it bother him so much? Why is it still bothering him now?
When the end credits start rolling on the TV screen, you still have that bottle cap pinched between two fingers. Sitting on the same couch as Bucky feels every bit as abnormal as sitting in the car with him felt earlier, but neither of you have moved much since the start of the movie. He tugged his arm away from the back of the couch earlier, but your knees are still touching.
While everyone else engages in light conversation about the very mediocre movie you just watched, you’re more focused on the way Bucky’s breathing is faster than the downpour outside the window. You can see his chest rising and falling quickly out of the corner of your eye and hear his almost inaudible inhaling and exhaling, but only because you’re sitting right next to him. Steve and Nat gather up the trash and leftovers from the coffee table and head to the kitchen while Wanda and Vision disappear down the hall one after the other. As you continue to spin the bottle cap between the fingers of your left hand, you look up and notice Sam staring at Bucky. Turning your head slightly, you see Bucky staring straight ahead as if he isn’t even there. You’d recognize that stormy yet blank stare anywhere. His eyes are seeing so much while simultaneously seeing absolutely nothing in front of him. Sam’s only a moment away from saying something in an attempt to snap Bucky out of the trance he’s in, when you move first. You’re sitting with your right knee still brushing against Bucky’s left knee and his torso a few inches away from yours. You look down and see his vibranium hand gripping the middle of his left thigh so tightly that you wonder if he can even feel his foot. You don’t know why it’s your first thought, your only thought really, but you’re reaching for that silver hand instantly. Bucky doesn’t feel it, but out of the corner of his eye he sees your hand wrapping around his wrist. His tight grip on his thigh falters and the sound of the rain pouring down grows a little quieter in his ears as he focuses in on the movement. He lets you flip his hand over and watches with narrowed eyes as you gently set the bottle cap in the palm of his hand.
Sam’s studying every detail of the moment that’s playing out in front of him. He watches as Bucky’s breathing slows and his gaze shifts from that of someone who’s dissociating to that of someone who’s merely on edge. Bucky stares at the small bottle cap in his palm for a second before letting his eyes coast down to where your hand is wrapped around the underside of his upturned wrist. Something about your soft skin contrasting with the stark silver of his arm is almost grounding. Bucky curls his fingers around the bottle cap and lets out a deep exhale.
Sam almost feels like he’s intruding. You just singlehandedly dragged Bucky out of an episode of inner turmoil that he can’t even bring himself out of most of the time. Or maybe not so singlehandedly. You used the cap of a beer bottle. Sam has a feeling that it had a little more to do with the way you grabbed his wrist and let your touch linger rather than the inconsequential bottle cap that you placed in his hand. As you tug your hand away from Bucky’s wrist, Sam snatches the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, casting the entire living area in darkness. Sam rises from the couch quietly as Nat and Steve are heading toward the hall, chatting amongst themselves.
You sit next to Bucky for a minute, listening to the chorus of goodnights coming from down the hall as everyone goes their separate ways for the night. When you hear the last door shut, you let out a deep breath and sink into the couch cushion more comfortably than you ever would’ve with everyone still around. Your head rests against the back of the couch as you listen to the rain patter against the window. Bucky’s tense and uneasy beside you, still staring down at his vibranium hand. He uncurls his fingers slowly, shifting the bottle cap until it’s between his thumb and middle finger. He rolls it around a few times, listening to the way the patterned edges scratch against his metal digits, trying his best to ignore the sound outside.
The two of you sit there in near-silence for a couple of fleeting minutes. Neither of you would dare say that you’re enjoying each other’s presence, but it isn’t uncomfortable. When you decide to rise from the couch and head for your room, you look over your shoulder at Bucky just once, to find him already looking at you. He doesn’t avert his gaze. He keeps his eyes on yours as you head out of the living room, until you disappear into the dimly lit hall and leave him on his own.
When Bucky finally retreats to his own room, he lets his door fall shut with a soft metallic click and finds himself standing still. The bottle cap is still grasped in his vibranium hand and he doesn’t plan on tossing it out. He walks over to his dresser, dropping it on the surface and watching as it spins on its side before falling flat against the wooden surface. How the hell did that tiny piece of aluminum have such a strong effect on him? He doesn’t once stop to think that it was really you that had the effect. He wouldn’t leap to such a conclusion after one little encounter. In his head, focusing on that bottle cap brought him out of the dark headspace he was slipping into. You did nothing.
Is there anything worse than being woken by someone knocking on your door unexpectedly? It instantly puts you in a bad mood. As you throw your covers back, you raise your hands to your face and rub the heels of them against your sleep-laden eyes. No one ever knocks on your door besides Steve, and he hasn’t ever knocked this early before. Moving to sit on the side of the bed, you lift your phone from the nightstand and notice that it isn’t even seven on a Saturday morning. If you were a more unstable person, you might actually feel homicidal. You don’t bother to pull on a pair of sweats or give your appearance a second thought as you trudge through your dark room toward the door.
Bucky’s waiting impatiently in the hall, running a hand through his messy brown hair as he listens to the sound of your slow footsteps padding against the floor on the other side of your door.
Fuck.
When you pull the door open, the first thing he sees is the anger written all over your face. But the second thing he sees? The second thing he sees is your bare thighs peeking out from the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing. He can’t seem to lift his eyes back up to your face fast enough and you catch him soaking in your appearance.
“The building had better be on fire.” You say, the frustration evident in your tone drawing his eyes back up to meet yours. He didn’t want to wake you. He sat around for an hour hoping to hear you up and about so he wouldn’t feel like shit for waking you to ask for his jacket back. But he has somewhere to be and could only wait so long, and he sure as hell isn’t leaving without his jacket if he can help it.
“It’s not.” He drops his hand from his hair and narrows his eyes at you. “I need my jacket.” You let out a sigh, realizing you could’ve avoided this early morning encounter if you’d simply dropped the jacket outside of his room last night. Or better yet, you could’ve broken into his room a second time and left it on his bed again. You turn on your heel, pushing the door open a little wider, making it obvious that you’re giving Bucky permission to follow you in. As you take a few steps into your room, he fights the urge to let his eyes trail down your body. It’s still pretty gray and gloomy outside, keeping your room mostly dark, but the dim light from the hall offers enough visibility that if he really wanted to, he could fucking memorize the shape of your legs. Bucky slows to a stop just a few steps into your room as the door falls shut behind him and you continue walking off to the left toward your bathroom.
“Do you only have one jacket?” You ask as your eyes land on it. It’s hanging on the towel rack beside your shower and just the sight of it brings the fifth street situation to the forefront of your mind. You can almost feel him leaning in close to you and whispering in your ear, threatening to end those sleazy men who couldn’t keep their eyes or comments to themselves.
“Were you planning on keeping that one?” Bucky’s question has you rolling your eyes as you tug the jacket off of the rack and turn toward your bathroom mirror. Your hair is a mess and your t-shirt is a lot shorter than you remember it being. You’re quick to smooth out your hair the best you can.
“You’re the one who made me wear it.” You call out from the bathroom. Bucky’s glancing around your room, studying the details of it while he’s out of your sight. Your bed looks like a cloud. The thick bedding and multiple pillows strewn about make it look so well-slept in that he’s almost jealous. Your sweet scent swirls around the space and Bucky tries to breathe more shallow than normal.
“I did you a favor.” He points out. You step out of the bathroom with his leather jacket gripped in your right hand and an annoyed look on your face.
“I would’ve been fine without it.” You remind him. He scoffs as you stop a foot in front of him and hold the jacket out. He takes it from you, immediately starting to pull it on to cover his vibranium arm. Shit. It smells like you.
“You don’t give a shit about letting those assholes seeing straight through your shirt? Or letting Steve, or Sam, or anyone else see through it once we got back here?”
“Not as much of a shit as you seem to give.” Bucky stills in front of you, giving you a hardened look as he tries to figure out why you don’t care. Actually, he wants to know why he cares so much. Shaking his head, he turns to head for the door.
“I’ll try not to do you anymore favors.” He says flatly, reaching for the door handle. Just as he’s wrapping his flesh hand around it, a quiet knock reverberates against the other side of the door and he freezes. You both go silent as Bucky turns his head and glances at you over his shoulder. You stare at him, just as surprised as he is by the knocking. You shrug your shoulders, moving toward him and the door silently. Bucky can’t help himself. He leans in and steals a look at the visitor through the peephole. Of course it’s Steve. Bucky inhales a deep, unreasonably annoyed breath. He could continue being a bit of an asshole like he was last night. He could stand in your way and open the door, let Steve catch him in your room this early while you’re in nothing but a t-shirt. You don’t know why Bucky’s still standing in front of the door, why he’s still holding onto the door handle, but as you watch his grip on the door tighten and his knuckles turn white and you know exactly what he’s about to do.
You move quickly, lunging forward and kicking Bucky in the back of the knees, causing his legs to buckle and his hand to slip away from the door handle. He straightens up quickly, turning around to face you with a very what-the-fuck-was-that kind of look on his face. You shoot him a threatening glance before shoving him toward the hinge-side of the door, a little closer to your bed, and reaching for the door handle yourself. With Bucky out of sight of the hall, you start to pull the door open. Bucky watches from the side as you put on such a fake sleepy smile, rubbing your eyes with one hand as the door inches open. Bucky would almost find it amusing if his eyes didn’t drift down to remind him that you’re in nothing but a t-shirt. He moves toward you quickly, grabbing the fabric of your shirt near your waist and giving you a harsh tug. You give him a look that could kill, but keep the lower half of your body hidden behind the door as you finish opening it just enough to stick your head out.
“Did I wake you? I thought I heard you up.” Steve sounds apologetic and truthfully, Bucky feels a little guilty, though he’s done nothing wrong.
“I was just going back to bed.” You answer honestly. Something about having Bucky standing behind the door while you talk to Steve and pretend that you’re alone is the tiniest bit exciting. Though you’d much rather neither man be in your space this early in the morning, you can’t ignore the adrenaline rushing through your veins.
“Understood.” Steve replies, taking a step back from your door and rubbing the back of his neck almost nervously. Is he nervous? “Sam and I are going to be down in the gym, if you can’t sleep and want to join for a workout.” Before you have a chance to come up with a polite declination, Steve is heading down the hall toward the elevator and Bucky’s pushing the door shut for you.
“Why are you the only one who gets to see me in a wet shirt or in a t-shirt like this?” You ask in a harsh whisper, giving Bucky a mild shove. He lets it happen and his back hits the door with a soft thud. Steve’s steps down the hall falter and he turns his head, straining his ears to listen for any other sounds coming from your room. After a couple of seconds, when he hears nothing, he continues on to the elevator. “You don’t own me. Fuck, you don’t even know me.” You cross your arms over your chest as a smirk spreads over Bucky’s features. He continues leaning against your door, mirroring your position and crossing his arms over his own chest.
“Why didn’t you let me answer the door?” He asks, that stupid smirk staying put on his face.
“Why do you think? You know how that would’ve looked.” You’re only a few inches in front of Bucky and as you stare at each other with heated glances, you’re suddenly sure that you won’t be going back to sleep this morning. Letting out a frustrated sigh, you lean to the side and flip on your bedside lamp. “Why are you still in here?”
“He hasn’t gotten into the elevator yet.” Bucky says it so casually, like it’s no big deal that he can hear that far away. You narrow your eyes at him, partially impressed but mostly just ready for him to leave.
“You can hear that?” You question, looking up into his eyes.
“Unfortunately, I can hear a lot of things around here.” You swallow hard, hoping he isn’t insinuating that he’s heard anything specific from your room. You tend to stay pretty quiet, but if he can hear all the way to the elevator…surely he can hear you even just taking a deep breath across the hall. You can tell he’s listening for the elevator as he looks past you for a second, staring at the bedroom wall somewhere behind you. “Are you going to work out with them?” You take a step back, glancing over at your bed as Bucky turns and reaches for the door handle. Steve must be gone now.
“I said I was going back to bed.” You remind him, narrowing your eyes at the back of his head. Where is he even going this early?
“I heard you.” Bucky pulls your door open a few inches before looking over his shoulder at you. “But you lie.” He’s gone in an instant, shutting the door silently behind him and leaving you alone in the dark. His scent lingers in the air, swirling around you and sinking into the fabric of your t-shirt. Heaving a deep sigh, you sink into bed, not bothering to pull the covers back over your body. Who would’ve known that the quiet, damaged man who lives across the hall from you would be kind of insufferable? Also, who would’ve guessed that he isn’t always so quiet? You’ve gone months barely interacting with him, and now you’ve interacted with him more than enough in just the last twelve hours.
Bucky takes the stairs down to the parking garage two at a time, reaching the fluorescently-lit concrete space in record time. He smells you all over him. Your sweet scent is stuck up his fucking nose as it emanates from his jacket, his hair, every part of him. He can’t shake it, and he didn’t even touch you. He hopes you don’t get any more sleep this morning. Sure, he initially felt guilty about having to wake you up so early and unexpectedly. But for some reason, you’re driving him mad and he hopes you suffer a little bit for it.
Bucky’s gone for most of the day. He had an appointment on the SHIELD base with a biotechnology team first. They did a few scans and tests on his vibranium arm, trying to gain a better understanding of how it works so they can eventually start to formulate a plan to remove it and give him something new in its place. He’d like to get his hopes up, but he won’t be that stupid. If he hadn’t grown so used to living with both arms, he’d rip it off himself and throw it off of the roof of the tower. However, he can see how that might land him a few extra sessions with Dr. Raynor. The appointment in the biotech department took up more than half of his Saturday, and then he had a ridiculously long debriefing to type up. He chose to sit in his car on base and type it up because he knows he looks technologically-inept, he hates working on debriefs around other people. By the time he’s finally arriving back at the tower, it’s nearly sunset and he wants nothing more than to lock himself in his room and stare at a wall.
Bucky’s dragging his feet as he heads for the stairwell door of the parking garage. He finds his mind drifting back to this morning. One would think that he’d be thinking about the way you looked wearing just that oversized t-shirt or the fact that he still fucking smells like you as he wears that damn leather jacket he took back from you this morning. But Bucky’s thinking about your room. Though it’s a mirrored image of his own, it’s completely different. Sure, the layout is the same. The walls, the floors, the fixtures are all the same. Even the furniture is the same. But your room has life that his doesn’t have. Yours looks lived in and normal, where his looks devoid of all life and personality. It never bothered him before, but he seems to be dwelling on it now.
With Bucky’s mind some place other than the present, the sound of someone coming down the last set of stairs behind the stairwell door doesn’t register in his mind until he’s pulling open the door.
“Fuck.” He mutters, his voice low and rough as you barrel into his chest. His hand falls away from the door as he instinctively reaches for your arms to steady you. He curls his fingers into your sleeve-covered biceps and pushes you back from him by a couple of inches, keeping his hands on your arms as he looks down at you.
“I thought you could hear everything.” You quip sarcastically, looking up at him with a disapproving expression. Bucky shakes his head, quickly letting go of your arms and taking a step to the side to give you room to fully enter the parking garage.
“Be a little louder next time.” He responds emotionlessly. You brush past him, heading straight for your car. Bucky reaches for the stairwell door again but can’t keep himself from craning his neck in your direction. Curiosity gets the best of him as he studies your outfit. You’re dressed in dark jeans and a dark sweatshirt, but your hair and makeup are both perfectly done and he can see the outline of a handgun tucked in the back waistband of your jeans. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” He can’t help the sigh that escapes him at your unreasonably lacking response. Why do you have to be so damn difficult? Bucky lets go of the stairwell door handle as he turns his body fully around to face you.
“With your gun?”
“Stop looking at my ass.” You cast a glare over your shoulder as you reach your car and slow to a stop. Bucky scoffs and then drags his tongue across his lower lip, moving his hands to his hips as he watches you unlock your car.
“Tell me where you’re going.” Your eyebrows raise at his almost demanding tone. You look in his direction again as you slide your hand over your car door handle. There he stands, with his dark jeans, gray t-shirt, and that leather jacket of his. Surprisingly, you don’t see any gloves covering the hands that are so attitudinally resting on his hips.
“Tell me to drive safe, and then stop talking to me.” You retort, popping the door open and narrowing your eyes at Bucky. He lets out a deep laugh and for a moment, it sounds genuine. Bucky turns toward the stairwell door as if he’s really going to leave you alone, but then, in an instant, he’s heading for the passenger side of your car. “Bucky—”
“Get in the car.” He says gruffly, shooting you an annoyed look over the roof of it as he yanks the passenger door open and inserts himself right where he doesn’t belong. Your options are limited. What the hell are you supposed to do here? Drag him out of the car yourself? Abandon your plans and go back upstairs? You’d look stupid no matter what you decide. For the tiniest, most fleeting moment, you contemplate pulling your gun out and pressing it to his temple. You wouldn’t shoot him, but maybe you could persuade him to mind his own fucking business. But even that sounds stupid. Heaving a deep, exasperated sigh, you slide into the driver’s seat and slam your door shut.
“Do you remember this morning when I told you that you don’t own me?” You ask, fiddling with your car keys. You make no move to stick the key into the ignition. Instead, you waste time, hoping Bucky will come to his senses before you start the car. Bucky remembers it. He remembers it and of course, you’re right. He doesn’t own you. You also said that he doesn’t even know you, which is also true.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you’re going somewhere you shouldn’t be going alone to do something that you probably shouldn’t be doing alone. And you’re bringing your weapon because you’re pretty fucking aware of both of those facts.” Bucky completely disregards your question. He sinks into the passenger seat a little further, seemingly getting comfortable as you turn your head and glare at him. You take in the little specks of stubble decorating his lower jaw and jawline, his chin-length cut hair looks clean and almost styled, and his blue eyes stare straight ahead at the concrete wall in front of your car. You wonder if this is what he looks like on Dr. Raynor’s couch. Is he this at ease in her office? Or does he sit stiffly just like you, counting down each passing minute and wishing he was anywhere else? You can’t imagine someone like him actually being accepting of therapy, even though he probably needs it even more than you do.
“I do a lot of things alone, Bucky, and I bring my weapon most places.”
“You didn’t bring it to fifth street last night.” He points out. He would’ve felt it when he had his hand on your lower back. Fuck, he probably would’ve been able to see the damn serial number on it with how see-through your shirt had become in the rain. He catches himself clenching his teeth together and quickly relaxes his jaw and presses his head back into the headrest. His eyes angle in your direction as you slowly lift your hand and stick the key in the ignition, turning it until the engine roars to life. Bucky instinctively reaches for the volume knob at the center of the dash, turning it down to make sure that the conversation continues. His vibranium hand retreats to his lap, and he catches you eyeing it as he settles it on his left thigh.
You could keep going in circles. You could keep letting Bucky point out the obvious while trying to ascertain details of your Saturday night plans, or you could just spit it out and see if it gets him out of the car. There’s no way this 1940s man will be up for a field trip to where you’re headed.
“I’m going to the Blackbird to drop something off.” You’re being intentionally vague. You could have said I’m going to a high-end strip club to give a bad man a private dance so I can steal his keys and bug his car. But for some reason, you have a feeling Bucky can put two and two together without even having two to begin with. You do shit like this all the time. Solo missions are all you agree to, and this one is no different…except for the fact that it’s slightly off of Fury’s radar. You don’t have a surveillance crew sitting a block away from the club tonight, you don’t have a strike team on standby in case anything goes sideways.
There’s just one thing that isn’t sitting right with Bucky: your outfit. You’re wearing dark jeans and a baggy sweatshirt to a strip club, with a full face of makeup and hair that you probably spent an hour perfecting. He has no doubt that the inside of the club won’t see one inch of the outfit he’s seeing right now.
“Where are you going to hide your gun?” He asks nonchalantly, keeping his gaze trained on the concrete wall ahead. Confusion sweeps across your features as you stare at the side of his face.
“What?”
“If you’re wearing what I think you’re wearing under your clothes, where are you going to hide your gun when you go inside?” Bucky’s too perceptive for his own good. You chew on the inside of your cheek, turning your head forward to stare at the same wall that Bucky seems so interested in. Putting the car into reverse and backing out of your parking spot with Bucky in the passenger seat goes against everything you believe in. You don’t take risks with other people involved. You don’t let other people put themselves in danger to help you. Yet, as you roll out of the parking garage with Bucky beside you, the voices in your head aren’t beating you up over letting him tag along for this impromptu mission. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that putting him at risk doesn’t feel quite as wrong as putting anyone else on the team at risk. He has a past, and it’s a pretty dark one. He isn’t some saint that’s only ever fought for justice and peace, right? Bucky Barnes is no saint at all.
Bucky isn’t really sure how your missions usually go. He isn’t even sure what kind of missions you usually run. For all he knows, you could simply be someone who slips in somewhere undercover and nabs important bits of information to feed back to SHIELD. You could be someone who heads up operations that take down some of the most notorious criminals in the U.S and he wouldn’t know. He knows nothing about you. The one thing he does know is that you like to work alone. If it wasn’t evident before, it’d sure as hell be evident now as you get closer and closer to the club’s address and you still haven’t clued Bucky into what the fuck you’re doing here tonight. He knows that your little lie about dropping something off was nowhere close to whatever you’re actually planning to do.
You brush a bit of hair behind one ear and reach over to turn the radio volume up when Bucky’s vibranium hand moves suddenly, blocking you from touching the radio knob. You shoot him a pointed look, but slowly bring your hand back to the steering wheel.
“What’s your plan here?” He finally asks, after fifteen minutes of wondering in silence.
“You’re going to stay in the car while I run inside.” You’re already expecting an argument from him. Bucky sighs, but relaxes back into the passenger seat like he’s so used to you and your solo vigilante shit.
“Do I need to bring up the gun thing again?” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose between his flesh thumb and middle finger as the question rolls off of his tongue.
“If everything goes right, I shouldn’t even need my gun.”
“And if—” He starts, but you cut him off, knowing exactly what he’s about to ask.
“If things go wrong, you’ll be waiting in the car and you can say ‘I told you so’ when I get back.” Bucky lets out an unexpected chuckle at your response as you maneuver through the busy nightlife downtown.
“Tell me exactly what we’re doing here and I’ll stay in the car.” Bucky’s lying, but he needs the details. You shouldn’t have let him tag along. You honestly can’t figure out why you did it. Why did you put the car in reverse and leave the parking garage with him in the passenger seat? How has he somehow been inserted into your life in the last two days after living across the hall as a stranger all of this time?
As the Blackbird comes into view at the end of the block, you slow the car and prepare to make a right turn at the end of the street. You always park in the private lot behind the building, the one only staff and dancers are allowed to use.
“I’m just here to give a regular a private dance. I’m going to lift his car keys while I have him, so I can upload a tracking software to the navigation system in his car. Then I’ll leave the keys with the bar staff and say I found them in the parking lot.” It’s as simple as it can get.
“How long have you been watching this guy?” Bucky scans the entrance to the club as the car rolls past it, noting the two bouncers outside and the heavy looking black wooden doors atop three concrete steps.
“Three weeks.” You respond. You steer the car through the right turn slowly, nearing the entrance to the private parking lot behind the club.
“Who is he?”
“Genius turned piece of shit who sells high-tech weapon designs and plans to the wrong side.”
“And he isn’t going to notice you stealing his keys?” Bucky turns to face you now, uncertainty bubbling up inside him as a sly smile spreads over your face. You park in the half-empty lot and take your key out of the ignition. Bucky’s still staring as you turn toward him and drop the keys in his lap.
“A lot of things go unnoticed when a girl is wearing nothing but black lace.”
Bucky has a feeling that your statement is beyond false. It’s so far beyond false that he almost laughs as you’re climbing out of the car and shutting the door, leaving him there in the parking lot. Do things really go unnoticed when you’re in nothing but black lace? Because he just barely got a glimpse of the black lace you had on under your shirt last night and he noticed every fucking thing. He finds himself gritting his teeth as you press a button to be buzzed into the back door of the club. When a tall, muscular man with tattoos down both arms ushers you inside, Bucky thinks he might actually hear the bones of his jaw cracking. Is this what you do all the time? Is this where Fury has you spending your years of training and skills? At the fucking Blackbird with the scum of the earth?
It’s not that deep to you. You do find your mind wandering as you stand in one of the changing rooms, stripping off your sweatshirt and jeans beneath the low lights. The body glitter carefully powdered across your chest and shoulders glimmers as you touch up your hair in the mirror and adjust the straps of your black corset top. Why does the job feel deeper when you have someone waiting for you outside? What is it about having someone on your side that makes this feel so different?
You don’t ever feel particularly unsafe here. You can handle yourself and you do it often, routinely snapping the wrists of men who are too handsy or tranquilizing men who are a little too aggressive to put up with. You always get your job done. But tonight? You feel inexplicably safer with Bucky sitting just a few meters from the back door of the club. As you go through the motions of a sultry dance, letting the weapons designer get up close and personal with your lace-cupped breasts, you remind yourself that Bucky’s not a saint. That’s the only possible explanation for why it doesn’t bother you that much to have brought him along for your solo mission. If it had been anyone else from the team, you would be feeling guilty and worried about the possibility of putting them in harm’s way right about now. But you don’t feel guilty about Bucky being here.
You run your palms down the man’s chest, grazing over each pocket of his suit jacket as you lower yourself down. Your knees are on either side of his hips, resting on the couch as the thin lace over your cunt makes contact with the hardened crotch of his pants. The man lets out an unfettered groan and a string of curses as you grind against him. It doesn’t take long for a wet spot to begin forming on the fabric of his pants and sweat to begin beading across his brow.
“I’m…oh god, I’m—” The man isn’t capable of finishing his sentence as he blows his load, cumming in his pants like he has no self control whatsoever. His head falls back on the couch and his arms go limp at his sides as you continue to grind against him, feeling equal parts disgusting and proud of yourself for getting him off so easily. You lift the car keys from the side pocket of his jacket as you lean in close to his ear and slow the movement of your hips.
“You might want to sit in here for a little while and let your pants dry.” You whisper, letting your lips scrape against the shell of his ear as you speak. He lets out a fatigued grunt in response, keeping his head back and his eyes closed. You slide off of him carefully and make your quick escape with the keys clutched tightly in one hand and your target basically incapacitated from the most minimal work you’ve ever done.
Bucky’s growing impatient. Normally, he’d consider himself to be a very patient man. But you’ve been inside for half an hour and he has no way of finding out what’s going on without busting down the back door to the club, which is becoming an increasingly tempting idea. He fidgets with your car keys for a moment, keeping his eyes trained on the back door to the left of the car. He’ll give you three more seconds to start turning the handle of that door before he makes a move.
Three. Bucky stares down at the two singular keys on your keychain, knowing the second one is the key to your room in the tower. It looks just like his. Two. He can tell just from that sad little keychain that your life isn’t much different from his. The tower is the only home you know. One. He hates that he’s getting to know you. Bucky shoves the car door open, climbing out soundlessly as he shoves the keys into the back pocket of his jeans. He’s just about to shut the car door when he falters for a second, thinking back to last night when he felt gazes shift from your chest to his vibranium arm. Then he thinks about what you’re probably wearing right now, something that shows off every inch of skin, every curve, every feature. Bucky’s pretty sure he feels nothing but hate for you as he starts shrugging his jacket off. It lands in your back seat with a soft thud before he shuts the passenger door as quietly as possible and heads for the back door.
He’s only a foot away from the back door when he hears your soft voice, sounding a lot kinder than he’s ever heard it before. You’re talking with the man who let you in the back door earlier, Bucky has no doubt. He leans in a little closer, eavesdropping on the conversation without an ounce of guilt.
“I’m not asking for a relationship, just a date.” The man says confidently, as if he isn’t begging. Bucky can hear his ego dripping from each word.
“I don’t date.” You reply sweetly. Bucky hears a few steps as if you’re approaching the door, but then you stop. He can tell just from the tiniest scuffle noise that the man has grabbed your arm in an effort to get you to stop moving toward the door.
“Just a drink then, let me buy you a drink?” He’s a persistent motherfucker, Bucky will give him that. Bucky hears you freeing your arm from the man’s grasp and then another few steps are taken toward the door. Bucky’s reaching out and wrapping his flesh hand around the door handle, not giving a flying fuck that it can only be opened from the inside, but he doesn’t try to open it yet.
“I don’t drink.” You lie, but Bucky can hear your steps faltering again.
“Okay, then spend a night with me. No dating, no drinking.” The man has officially taken it too far. Bucky didn’t mean to rip the door off of its hinges, but it could’ve been worse. He could’ve tossed the door onto any of the nice cars sitting around the private lot, but he let it fall to the ground instead. Wild-eyed and caught off guard, the man with the tatted arms stares at Bucky from over your shoulder, frozen in place.
“What the fuck?” The man spits the words out before shoving you to the side, getting ready to bolt past you and lunge at Bucky. Bucky reaches out in an instant, sliding his flesh hand against your bicep and holding you firmly, keeping you from hitting the wall in the narrow back hallway. His vibranium hand moves even quicker, locking around the man’s throat and stopping him in his tracks. Bucky’s gently pushing you out of his way as he backs the man further into the hallway, seemingly lost in the moment.
“Bucky—”
“Do what you need to do so we can leave.” He says harshly, not sparing you a single glance. You look between the super soldier and the club security guard, getting the eerie feeling that Bucky won’t release him until you’re ready to go. You rush out of the back door, bounding toward your target’s car. It takes you all of thirty seconds to get in, plug in the little electronic device and upload the software to his navigation system. When you get back to the hallway, you catch the tail end of a conversation you know you’re not supposed to be hearing.
“If you ever step foot in here again, I’ll rip the skin off of your arms and pin your tattoos to the fucking wall.” Bucky hisses lowly as he holds the man against the wall by his throat. You stop at the doorway, watching the moment unfold as you clutch your targets car keys in your right hand. “You think your inked up sleeves make you look scary?” Bucky tightens his grip around the man’s airway, making the guy flail his arms in panic as his oxygen supply diminishes. “Try a vibranium arm next time, that’ll really scare the shit out of people.”
Bucky catches sight of you out of the corner of his eye and slowly starts to let the guy back down to his feet, loosening his hold on his throat just enough to let him take in a noisy gasp of air. The next minute goes by in a blur. You rush past Bucky and the security guard, dropping the keys off with the bartender in the main part of the club and telling him you found them outside in the back parking lot before heading back to the back door with a racing heart.
The security guard is nowhere to be found, and Bucky is leaning against the damaged back doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest when you step into the back hallway. You slow to a stop, staring at his side profile that’s made into a silhouette by the mix of moonlight and street lights in the parking lot. Your eyes drift from the side of his face down to his vibranium arm, coasting over the red star and silver plates. Something stirs deep inside you. You’d like to think that it’s hate, that seeing him standing there so protectively, as if he’s guarding the now permanently open backdoor just for you is making you hate him. You can take care of yourself. You take care of yourself all the time. That’s why you have this feeling, because you’ve met someone who thinks they need to take care of you, and you fucking hate it.
Bucky doesn’t offer your car keys back when you breeze past him without uttering a word. He watches for a second as you head for your car, but he lifts the detached back door and sets it back over the doorframe the best he can before following you.
“I’m driving.” He calls out, just as you’re nearing the car. You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but head for the passenger side without putting up a fight. Just like you thought before, Bucky’s no saint. He’s no saint at all, that’s for fucking sure.
It’s a tense, quiet ride through the lively streets of downtown. While you’re normally one to fight tooth and nail against any semblance of small talk, you’d kill for it right now. And yet, you refuse to be the first one to talk. Bucky’s figuring out it’s not very hard to read your mind.
“Say something.” His voice comes out raspy and tired, like he’s had a long day and this entire situation is only adding to it. It frustrates you to no end, especially considering you didn’t even want him to come with you in the first place. Heaving a deep sigh, you rub your right palm across your forehead and squeeze your eyes shut.
“I need a drink.” That’s all you have to say? Though Bucky hates that you’re avoiding talking about what just happened. He feels like shit. He feels like he lost control and you’re probably sitting there in the passenger seat thinking about how dangerous he is, thinking about how unpredictable he is and how he shouldn’t be out in the field. Whatever you’re thinking about him right now, he’s sure it’s right.
Bucky says nothing in response, but spots a little hole-in-the-wall bar a few storefronts ahead and maneuvers the car into the first street parking spot he sees. You’re out of the car before he’s even shut it off, not even looking back to see if he’s following as you approach the entrance to the place. He keeps his eyes on you as he shuts his door and moves around the tail end of the car. He’s just made it to the sidewalk when you’re disappearing into the bar. He hates himself. Maybe he should add another weekly session with Dr. Raynor for the foreseeable future, because what the fuck is wrong with him? Sure, he was protective of Steve back in the day when he wasn’t really able to watch his own back. But the way he’s been protective of you the last few days is something else. He might not be kicking anyone’s ass in an alley, but the threats he’s been letting loose and the rage he’s been feeling are two very dangerous things. Bucky pulls open the heavy wooden door of the bar and is immediately thrust into a bustling, dimly lit atmosphere. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming as it swirls around in the air.
There you are, leaning forward with your elbows resting on the mahogany bar and a bartender standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re the first woman he’s ever laid eyes on. Bucky feels nauseas and he can’t figure out why. Is it the stench of inebriation that’s heavy in the air or the fact that he left his jacket in the car? He makes it three steps into the bar before he starts to feel eyes on him, on his silver appendage and the red star that brands it. Bucky’s just a few feet behind you when the bartender catches sight of him and his previously friendly smile drops quickly. The man is scurrying away, busying himself with making your drink as Bucky moves to your left side and rests his vibranium arm on the bar, keeping his body aimed toward you.
“I guess you were right.” You say softly, watching as the bartender’s shaky hands work to pour liquid into a small round glass a few feet away. Bucky raises a brow at you, but you don’t turn your head to look up at him.
“About what?” He sounds tired. Bucky sounds like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and for a second, you feel bad about it.
“That vibranium arm really does scare the shit out of people, doesn’t it?”
Bucky takes in the question, mulling it over slowly as the bartender slides a drink to you and turns his gaze to Bucky. Bucky orders his usual type of beer and watches as the bartender skitters away again, looking very on edge.
“Out of everyone.” He replies stiffly, turning to face the bar and mirroring your position. You choke back a laugh as you lift your glass to your lips, taking a tiny sip so you won’t accidentally aspirate the clear liquid inside.
“What’s funny about that?” Your laughter caught him off guard, so off guard that when the bartender passes him his bottle of beer, he nearly drops it. Your eyes settle on the bottle cap that the bartender left in front of you both.
“It doesn’t scare the shit out of me.” You say, finally turning your head and looking up at Bucky. He meets your gaze, searching your eyes for a further explanation. “It’s a piece of metal attached to a person. I’d only be afraid of the arm if I was afraid of the person it’s attached to.”
“And you’re not afraid of me.” Bucky clarifies, watching you closely. You let out another short laugh before sipping on the side of your glass. You shake your head as you lower the glass back down to the surface of the bar. For some reason, that laugh melts him a little bit. He doesn’t know if it’s because it seems like a hard thing to come by with you or if it’s because of the meaning behind your previous words.
“Should I be?” You ask, giving him a curious look.
Yes. The word is blinking in the forefront of his mind like a flickering neon sign on a street corner. Yes, you should be scared of him. Yes, you should be fucking terrified of the man attached to that damn arm. But Bucky only shrugs in response to your question. He shrugs his shoulders in such a simple, careless way that one would think the topic truly has no effect on him. You should be afraid of him and he shouldn’t even be here with you right now. What the fuck is he doing?
The way you sense Bucky’s energy change is inexplicable. He’s tense beside you, clenching the beer bottle so tightly in his hand that you wonder if it’s made of glass. When you look up at him this time, he’s staring straight ahead, staring right through the bartender’s back, lost in his head. It’s not your problem, you know that. He’s not your problem. But on some level, you relate to him more than he’ll ever know.
The bottle cap is cool in your hand, rubbing against your fingertips in a familiar way. You twirl it around in your fingers for a moment before reaching over and wrapping a hand around the neck of Bucky’s beer bottle. He snaps out of his trance, dropping his gaze as his grip weakens and you slide the bottle away from him. You press the bottle cap against his now empty flesh palm, but before you can retract your hand from his, he’s closing his fist around it.
Your fingers and the bottle cap are both pressed against Bucky’s palm as he grips your hand. He stares down at the contact, letting out a deep breath, grounding himself slowly before releasing you and watching your hand float away from his.
It’s silent as you finish off your drink and Bucky fidgets with the bottle cap, ignoring his cold beer completely. It’s still silent when he pays for both drinks and follows you out to the car a few minutes later. But he has shit to say when the car doors are closed and he’s steering the vehicle back toward the tower. He has so much shit to say.
“I’m not a good guy.” Bucky’s voice is gravelly when he finally speaks about ten minutes away from the tower. You shift in the passenger seat, not necessarily uncomfortably but not sure where this conversation might be going. You turn your head and focus your gaze out your window, watching the trees fly by along the side of the highway.
“I know.” Your response is simple, it’s knowing. It stings a little when you say it out loud. Bucky would think something like that would roll right off of his back, but it doesn’t. He presses down on the gas pedal a little harder, surpassing the speed limit by fifteen miles per hour without even realizing it.
“What do you know?” He asks, but he really doesn’t think he wants your answer. Bucky inhales deeply as you decide on what to say. Your scent is all over this fucking car. It’s all over his leather jacket that’s still lying in your back seat. It’s all over his whole fucking weekend.
“You have a past, like everyone else in this line of work.” That’s a nice way of putting it.
“No one here has a past like mine.” Bucky says emotionlessly, moving into the right lane after passing a semi-truck. You catch a smirk sliding over your features and quickly tamp it down.
“Right, you’re not a good guy.” You repeat. He can hear something in your voice, something almost playful and it piques his curiosity. He looks over at you with a raised brow and a look of annoyance painted across his face. You only look in his eyes for a second before pushing the back of your head into your headrest and squeezing both eyes shut. “You killed people because someone else had control over you, over everything you did. You didn’t have a choice.” Bucky looks over at you again before maneuvering the car into the left lane to pass another truck. You keep your gaze trained on the road ahead, refusing to look over at him a second time. “I killed people because I was good at it.”
It takes Bucky all of three seconds to figure out that you’re no better than he is. No other words are exchanged between the two of you. When Bucky parks your car in the tower’s parking garage, he leaves without so much as a passing glance in your direction. You wait a moment before heading for the elevator and pressing the button to call it down to you. You get the feeling you won’t have to deal with Bucky forcing his way into your car or your solo missions after tonight.
Eighty-four. The number bounces off of the inside of Bucky’s skull repeatedly, giving him a headache between his eyes. Eighty-four successful assassinations on your record. He couldn’t help himself, he had to look into you after what you said in the car. He actually feels stupid for worrying about you. You probably wanted to laugh when he watched your back on fifth street. You didn’t need him at all. And tonight, that security guard at the club could’ve been unconscious in a second if you’d wanted to take him down. Bucky rolls over in bed, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. He’s still figuring the technology shit out and he has the tendency to leave his phone in his room every time he goes out. He simply forgets it exists.
Steve: Don’t forget your session with Dr. Raynor tomorrow
The text is frozen on Bucky’s lock screen, having been sent to him around the time he was rubbing elbows with you at the bar. Bucky really should back the fuck off. In Bucky’s memory, Steve very rarely set his sights on a girl. He was so driven and focused, too grown up for his own good. The fact that he’s making it so obvious that he’s into you is huge. Bucky doesn’t need to get close to his best friend’s love interest.
But then again…what would Steve even do with an ex-assassin that has eighty-four fucking kills on her hands? Bucky can’t picture you with him. Does Steve even know about your history? There’s no way he’d be buying you potatoes if he knew. Letting out a hiss of air through clenched teeth, Bucky sets his phone back on the nightstand and rolls over to sit on the edge of his bed. He’s made his decision. He’s going to stay away from you, far away. If Steve wants you, he can have you.
As the thought of Steve having you crosses Bucky’s mind, he feels an unfamiliar ache settle in the pit of his stomach and a wave of tension rolls through the muscles of his shoulders. Yeah, he’s staying the fuck away from you and whatever is eventually going to happen between you and his best friend. He’s got his own shit to deal with.
Dr. Raynor needs a new couch. Bucky has sat on it upwards of a hundred times and it never gets any more comfortable. It keeps it’s stiff, unconforming shape and causes him to shift uncomfortably as Dr. Raynor takes her seat across from him. She’s dressed more formal than usual today, in a dark pantsuit with dark heels and her hair pulled back into a low bun. Bucky watches her carefully as she lets out a breath and crosses one leg over the other, paying attention to the way she sets her pen atop the small notebook that rests on her knee. He hates that notebook, and that pen.
“It’s not raining today.” She starts, tilting her head sideways toward the window, but her eyes never leave Bucky’s face. He nods along, making eye contact with her and holding it. “Tell me about your weekend.” Bucky lets out a long exhale, knowing that there isn’t a single part of his weekend he wants to share. His whole weekend seemed to revolve around a girl he barely knows, a girl he’s never interacted with before Friday. How would he even begin to explain that?
“My weekend was uneventful.” Bucky lies effortlessly, smoothing his ungloved hands along his thighs. Dr. Raynor’s eyes flit down, following the movement and taking notice of Bucky’s exposed vibranium hand. She raises a brow, pursing her lips together in curiosity.
“No gloves today?” Bucky follows her gaze. He casts his head down, silently counting the silver digits on that hand over and over again. He only offers her a shrug. “No gloves today.” She repeats the words without making them a question this time. When Bucky continues sitting on the couch, staring down at his hands and saying nothing, Dr. Raynor’s mind starts wandering back to the early morning meeting she got out of less than five minutes before this appointment. She wasn’t going to bring it up, not today, not before Fury handled it himself. But if Bucky is really going to sit here and say his weekend was uneventful and refuse to talk yet again…
“You took part in an unauthorized mission this weekend.”
Bucky’s floored. His face gives his surprise away as his eyes widen and his gaze snaps up to his therapist’s face. She studies him closely, watching as his brows furrow and he searches her eyes for answers.
“I wouldn’t call it that.” He huffs quickly, holding eye contact for longer than usual.
“What would you call it?”
“A bad decision.” Bucky mumbles, curling his hands into loose fists for a moment. He extends his fingers slowly before flattening his palms against his thighs once again.
“Tell me how you ended up taking part in that.”
It’s quiet for a beat. The sound of the air conditioner flowing lightly, circulating just the right temperature throughout the room is a gentle buzz in the background as Bucky gnaws on the inside of his cheek and Dr. Raynor waits patiently. For the first time out of all of Bucky’s sessions, she feels like she might be able to get somewhere with him.
“She was going to do it alone.” Bucky finally answers, locking eyes with Dr. Raynor again.
“Do you two know each other well?” Bucky immediately shakes his head in response. “So, you don’t know each other well, and yet, you felt the need to follow her out into the field.”
“Like I said…” Bucky rubs the back of his neck, struggling to come up with the right words to explain himself here. “She was going to do it alone.”
“Was this mission your first interaction with her?” Bucky’s mouth runs dry as he shifts on the couch. He isn’t really feeling the coolness from the air conditioner as much as he’d like. Bucky shakes his head slowly. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s one of your patients, Doc.” Bucky snaps back, feeling much more on edge than he normally does in his sessions, which is really saying something. “You know more than I do.”
“I want to know what kind of relationship the two of you have, because she has adamantly refused to take on a partner in the field for years, and you have adamantly refused to do anything outside of your routine since I’ve known you.”
“You can ask her.” Bucky says flatly. He could easily explain the situation, tell Dr. Raynor that Steve basically forced him to ride out to fifth street with you on Friday night. He could tell her that he saw you leaving the tower with your weapon on Saturday evening and something about it didn’t sit right with him. None of it sounds that bad, but still, he finds himself not wanting to share anything about you with anyone.
“I’m asking you.” Dr. Raynor replies calmly. Her stare is piercing and Bucky knows she sees right through him. He scoffs, shaking his head in annoyance before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
“I’m not saying anything about her.” Bucky’s answer is final. He wouldn’t normally be so pissy in therapy. Honestly, he’s sure he’ll feel guilty about it later. He doesn’t have much control over his body when he finds himself rising to his feet and heading for the door.
“Our session isn’t anywhere near over.” Dr. Raynor calls out as his flesh hand wraps around the door handle.
“I’m going to do something more productive with my day.” Bucky has a bad habit of using peoples’ words against them. He’s stalking toward the stairwell door at a rapid pace, taking long strides as anger boils up inside of him. He can feel it threatening to spill over the edge as he rushes down the concrete stairs. Why is he so fucking angry? The brief conversation with Dr. Raynor replays in his head and still, he finds no reason to be as angry as he is over it.
Bucky takes a few calming breaths as he reaches the bottom of the stairwell and throws open the door to the lobby. When he exits the building, he doesn’t make any effort to look in the direction of the receptionist. It isn’t until the sun hits his face and he inhales a deep breath of fresh air that he feels his heart rate begin to slow.
“You look like shit.” At the sound of your voice, his heart rate starts picking right back up. Bucky shifts his gaze to the left and finds you standing in front of your car with the hood propped open and black grease smeared over your hands. You give him a onceover with what almost looks like concern in your eyes, but he’s sure that isn’t it. He lets out a soft groan that you can’t hear from your spot fifteen feet away. He told himself to stay away from you. It’s his own fault for abandoning his session so early, he probably wouldn’t have run into you if he’d just suffered through Dr. Raynor’s inquisition.
“Yeah.” Bucky breathes the word out. He won’t engage with you, he won’t let himself get sucked in after how this weekend went. He especially doesn’t want to get sucked in if Dr. Raynor’s involving herself. But as he tells himself to go to his car, his eyes start drifting over to your car.
“It’s fine.” You say quickly, waving a hand in dismissal as you catch his eyes lingering under the hood of your car. He looks back to you with frustration evident all over his face. Frustration is actually woven all throughout his body language right now and you can’t help but wonder what the hell went down in his therapy session this morning. You wonder if Dr. Raynor is feeling especially confrontational today, and the possibility sets you on edge a bit.
“Right.” Bucky quips, nodding his head curtly. He looks in your eyes one last time, the stormy look in his own is obvious even from fifteen feet away. You rub your dirty palms together and watch as he turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction, making a beeline for his car. Something feels off, but you know it isn’t your place to try and figure it out. This weekend was more than enough interaction for you. Maybe he’ll go get himself an early morning drink and fiddle around with a bottle cap. He’ll be fine.
Bucky makes it to his car and mashes the button on his key fob to unlock it, but he doesn’t reach for the door handle. He lets out a shaky breath through his teeth. He can feel every cell in his body already choosing to betray his good sense. Stay the fuck away from her, Dr. Raynor’s probably watching from her office window right now. He tries his best to reason within his own mind, to tell himself to get in the fucking car and head anywhere but here. But then he makes the mistake of glancing over the hood of his car, he makes the mistake of letting his eyes land on you as you’re bent over analyzing the shitshow under the hood of your piece of shit on wheels.
There’s some sort of newfound lack of inhibition coursing through his veins since storming out of his session only moments ago. Dr. Raynor was right, he never breaks routine. Though he knows he shouldn’t, he lets his eyes roam from the back of your head down the rest of you. He traces every part of you with his gaze and it feels as though he’s been staring for a minute straight when in reality, only two seconds have passed. Steve has frustratingly good taste, he decides. Fuck it.
“You need a new car.” Bucky says flatly as he steps up beside you. Frankly, he’s surprised Steve hasn’t bought you one yet. Stepping out from under the hood and straightening yourself up, you narrow your eyes at Bucky.
“You need to go back upstairs and finish your therapy session.” You snap back.
“Have you ever had to sit through a therapy session after taking part in an unauthorized mission?” Your face falls as soon as he’s finished speaking. Here you were thinking it was no big deal to let him tag along for your stupid little mission last night because who gives a shit if the Winter Soldier risks his life a little? You were so sure you wouldn’t feel guilty at all if something were to happen, simply because he’s not someone to feel guilty over. And now here you are, feeling guilty as hell.
“What did she—” You start to ask about Dr. Raynor’s inquisition but Bucky cuts you off abruptly.
“It doesn’t matter. Do you want to sit through it?” He can see the answer in your eyes. You don’t want to sit through it any more than he did. Bucky lets out a long sigh and lifts his flesh hand, running his fingers through his hair. The length of it really is beginning to be a little too much for him. He watches as your gaze drifts upward in the direction of Dr. Raynor’s office. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing or why, but for some reason, he finds himself really hoping you’ll skip your session. He has no further plans than this exact moment, but he wants you to stay as far away from Dr. Raynor as possible right now. He doesn’t even know why he feels that way. Is he trying to protect you from her potentially revealing line of questioning? Is he trying to get himself more time with the girl that he keeps gravitating toward? He doesn’t have a damn clue.
“I think I have to.” You finally respond. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t feel immediate disappointment. He runs his fingers through his hair one more time before giving you a brief nod of understanding and taking one step back, remaining facing you. “I don’t think my car will get me very far.” He stops moving again.
“I’ll drive.” What? He’ll what? Bucky swears he can feel every ounce of his self-control shriveling up into tiny little curdled pieces. What the fuck is he doing? Actually, what the fuck are you doing? Bucky watches with semi-widened eyes as you turn your back to him and latch the hood of your car closed. You move around to the driver’s side door and pull it open, retrieving your car keys and a small bag from the seat. When you’re standing only a foot in front of Bucky, looking up at him almost expectantly, he feels a bit of warmth spreading low in his stomach. Your voice is unexpectedly soft when you speak again.
“Where are we going?”
Steve is used to feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s used to being the only guy strong enough to carry that kind of weight. You wouldn’t think that it’s a physical sensation, but Steve can actually feel the heaviness at all times. There are some days where it’s a little less noticeable, some fleeting moments where gravity seems to lessen and his steps feel lighter. Those are the days he finds himself at your door, the days he needs the load to be a little lighter.
He stands there now, in the hallway outside of your room, staring at the door he knows you should be behind. You usually come straight back to the tower after your sessions with Dr. Raynor. He knew as soon as he knocked ten seconds ago that you weren’t there. He finds himself more bothered than he should be that you’re straying from your routine. He’s stupidly considering knocking one more time, just in case, but Sam rounds the corner of the hallway just as Steve’s about to raise his right hand.
“I don’t think she’s back yet,” Sam says from down the hall, pointing out what Steve already knows. “Bucky either.” Steve’s blood runs cold. He turns on his heel, now facing Bucky’s door just across the hall from yours. Bucky’s appointments with Dr. Raynor are always first thing in the morning, and he sure as hell doesn’t hang around outside of the tower if he can help it. Both of you breaking routine on the same day, at the same time, after having been in the same location this morning can only mean one thing to Steve. You’re breaking routine together. Suddenly he sees you in Bucky’s leather jacket, the image flashes in the forefront of his mind like a warning sign. Sam senses the change in Steve’s demeanor and slows his steps forward, squinting his eyes as he tries to read the room. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m going to figure that out,” Steve says gruffly under his breath as he turns on his heel yet again, heading toward the elevator. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows whatever may or may not be going on between you and Bucky is none of his damn business. You deserve privacy and Bucky deserves his trust. But for some reason, Steve finds himself wanting to invade your privacy and say to hell with his trust for his best friend. The only thing he trusts right now is that that the two of you are together. He can feel it deep in his gut. His best friend is stealing the girl he’s been pining for since day one, and Steve’s not having it.
You probably should’ve just sat through your session with Dr. Raynor. What were you thinking climbing into the passenger seat of Bucky Barnes’s car? As you sit there now, seatbelt across your chest and hands folded over your lap, you can’t help but steal a glance at the super soldier in the driver’s seat. He looks as tense as you feel. You’re both in uncharted territory. Or is it really uncharted? You’ve been in the car together a total of three times now, you just seem to keep ending up in moving vehicles with each other.
“You’re overthinking it,” Bucky says suddenly, loosening his grip on the wheel. He drops his flesh hand down to rest on his thigh while keeping his silver hand on the wheel.
“What makes you think that?”
“I can hear you grinding your teeth,” he points out, cutting his eyes sideways at you for the briefest second.
“Dr. Raynor’s going to be pissed.” You pick at a fraying strand on your jeans, not bothering to pay attention to wherever Bucky’s decided to take you.
“She was already pissed. She knows we took part in an unauthorized mission this weekend.” Your hand falters against the loose thread and you glance up just in time to see Bucky turning into the parking lot of the grocery store nearest to the compound.
“What does that mean for us?” Us. What a weird choice of words to use. Us doesn’t feel right. There is no us, no you and a super soldier. There is separately you and separately him. Bucky raises a brow at your choice of words but you don’t notice it. “Wait, why the hell are we at the grocery store?” Bucky’s already parked in a spot about fifty meters from the entrance and shutting the car off when you just barely hear him mumble his answer.
“Potatoes.”
He doesn’t know why he felt the need to buy those goddamn red potatoes. He doesn’t know why he felt the need to invite you into his personal space, to drive you to the grocery store, just to buy those fucking potatoes. What he does know is that the red star on his arm hasn’t crossed his mind even once today and the gray clouds looming in the distance don’t seem to have him as on edge as normal. He doesn’t feel like blood is going to pour from the sky, or like his hands will turn as red as the star on his arm. He feels like himself. And he fucking hates that he can only attribute that feeling to being near you.
Bucky drives a little faster than normal as he maneuvers his car into the parking garage beneath the tower. His tires screech as he comes to a stop in his usual parking spot. He can feel your eyes cutting sideways to look at him but he ignores it.
“Was it that bad?” You finally ask, after spending both the supermarket trip and drive back to the tower in silence. Bucky cuts off the ignition and reaches into the backseat for the bag of red potatoes he can’t stand that he bought.
“It was…uncomfortable,” Bucky replies slowly. He doesn’t make a move to get out of the car yet. He holds the potatoes in his lap and his keys in his right hand, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of the garage. You absorb his words, his tense aura, and the fact that Dr. Raynor is going to kick your ass the very next time she gets ahold of you. You don’t even want to check your phone. You’re positive she’s already called you at least once and left a voicemail, she’s probably even left a follow-up voicemail with the details of your punishment for missing a mandatory session. “You’re doing it again,” Bucky quips, turning his head to look at you. You snap your head to the left and meet his searing gaze.
“Doing what?”
“Grinding your teeth.”
“We don’t all play with bottle caps when we’re stressed,” you retort. Bucky chuckles lowly, letting his head fall back against the headrest. The plastic bag of potatoes crinkles in his lap. Just as Bucky’s mind starts wandering back to the last time he fiddled with a bottle cap in your presence, the sound of footsteps in the garage breaks his focus. He can tell from the weight and pace that it’s Steve, and he isn’t happy.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathes the swear out quietly right before Steve appears at his window.
Steve’s stomach drops into his ass when he realizes the two of you are sitting in Bucky’s parked car, neither of you making a move to get out. Images flash through his mind. Images of Bucky’s hands up your shirt, your hair getting all messed up, lips moving together in unison. In this exact moment, he thinks he hates his best friend. He can’t stop himself from heading straight for the car. It isn’t until he finds himself standing right outside of the driver’s side door, looking down at Bucky as Bucky looks up at him with annoyance through the glass, that he realizes he’s acting insane. Or is he? When his gaze shifts to the bag of red potatoes in Bucky’s lap, he feels a bead of sweat forming along his hairline.
Bucky wants you. Steve is sure of it. And now he has to compete with his best friend.
summary Bucky loves to take care of you; not just outside but in bed too. He takes his sweet time making sure you feel comfortable and completely devoted to. It's only fair you let him feel special too.
warnings mdni; explicit content; soft!bucky; body worship; oral (m!receiving); pwp; very soft; slow romance; care; nicknames; barely rough; mentions of unprotected sex; a little fluff?; i don't know how to tag
author's note I always read such feral Bucky fics, and yet I'm unable to write anything but soft bucky. lol. anyways, I also found all Bucky worshipping reader fics, so well, here is Bucky getting what he deserves too.
I'm always open to criticism. Let me know what you think. love-love.
1.3k
masterlist ; read on AO3
Bucky had been the kind of boyfriend that always prioritized your pleasure over anything else. His hands—big and calloused—ran over your body gently despite the obvious strength they held.
He always demanded eye contact, holding your gaze with those sincere ocean blue eyes swimming with desire and something very close to devotion. One of his hands—metal or flesh, he didn't care—would always hold yours, reassuring you, or maybe himself, that you were there. With him. Happy. Satisfied.
And sometimes, fucked stupid.
He was never painfully slow. His pace was fast enough for your drooling pussy, thrusts delivered firmly to attack that soft, erogenous spot inside.
He'd come only after he was pleased with your releases, smirking silently when your overstimulated body trembled underneath him. When your thighs shook against his hips, and he unhurriedly buried his cum deep in you.
His nimble fingers would always find your puffy slit even after pulling out, making sure no drop slipped out while you cuddled post-sex.
You loved it.
The care.
The douceur.
Him.
Perhaps, it was time you made him feel just as worshipped.
"God, I missed you", he whispered against your neck, his hands finding your hips, pulling you closer like he could no longer handle any distance between you two. Your lips curled, head tilting to give him better access to the smooth skin, letting him plant kisses at the delicate slope.
"You were out for an hour."
"Mm, too much", he shot you a playful grin, turning you just enough to face you properly now. You looked gorgeous. Hair tied back to cook in peace. Skin glowing with whatever expensive moisturizer you used.
His eyes gave you that look—requesting, looking for any hint of reciprocated desire. You only responded with a smile, hands sliding up his chest as you closed the distance. The muscles felt taut and warm beneath the sweat-stained shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric to pull him further.
Grabbing your waist, essentially hoisting you, he deepened the kiss. His tongue sought yours, beard scratching the skin around almost pleasantly. The raw food lay forgotten in the back.
Without breaking apart, he gently guided you around, finding a blind way to the bedroom. His arms tightened their grip as he finally stepped you both inside, his foot kicking the door shut behind.
But before he could try to lay you comfortably on the fluffy mattress and ravish you like he intended, you pulled back. He made an almost inaudible noise, chasing your mouth instinctively.
Your palm pressed itself against his midriff and he immediately quietened. His voice faltered mid-sentence, every muscle seeming to freeze as though someone had pressed pause. His brows knit together, his expression tightening and eyes flicking downward to check you with panic.
"What's wrong, doll? Do you not—"
"I just..."
You sighed. Your cheeks tingled with the blood rushing there with embarrassing speed. So, instead of voicing your request, you pushed the hem of his shirt.
The moment he yanked the fabric off, you pressed a deep kiss at his chest. Satisfied with the hitch in his throat, you slowly descended, your lips trailing wet kisses in their wake. You ever so often licked away at his skin, your body tingling at the feel of his abs tense against your tongue.
Trusting your boyfriend's brain to understand your wordless want, you sank. Your knees hit the plush carpet with a thump, toes curling in anticipation.
Your eyes—wide with the need to study his expression and glossy with neediness—met his.
His breath stopped. His soul left his body. God knows what all happened to the poor man in a split of a second.
One moment he was simply hard. The next, he was about to come in his pants like a teenager at the very sight of you kneeling before him.
"Doll, you don't have to—"
You cut him off firmly, a hand gliding up to his thigh, "I want to, Sarge."
Your mouth hovered over the zip of his pants, lips tentatively—teasingly—brushing the hardness straining under. His head tipped back, chest heaving with uneven inhales.
Your nails dragged a slow path past his abdomen, nearing his belt but never hooking. His hips bucked over, chasing friction.
With a deliberate bat of your eyelashes, you finally unbuckled the leather from its loop, discarding it mindlessly on the floor. You unzipped the jean, the fabric sitting a little looser on his hips now.
Your teeth sunk into the waistband, dragging the easy fabric down. Eye level with his erection, it was your turn to swallow hard.
Months of dating Bucky and yet, you could never get used to the size.
Reverently, you removed the boxers along, gasping quietly at the sight. His cock sprang out, hard, throbbing, and very angry at the tip—leaking precum.
"It'll be okay."
You nod at the reassurance, leaning forward to pepper light kisses over the length. He hissed loudly, his right hand threading itself through your hair. His grip tightened with every teasing lick and swirl.
Having enough, he wrapped his metal fingers around the thick shaft, guiding it to your inviting plump lips. The salty taste greeted you first as you worked your jaw open, the stretch almost overworking.
The second your wet warmth enveloped him, he let out a groan, his head falling backward. He tried—he really did. But his hips moved out of his control, thrusting into the tight expanse mindlessly.
"Oh fuck. So—So tight. My perfect girl."
His cock sat heavy on your tongue, pushing its way to your throat despite your obscene gags. You slurped and choked around him, the vibrations of your pretty sounds only spurring him further.
He couldn't hold back.
"Just like that, doll."
Both palms—large and tepid over your head—held it in place as he sped up. With every stuttering thrust, his heavy balls slapped against your chin, saliva pooling there alongside his own precum.
He dared make the mistake of fluttering his eyes open to look at you. Because fuck—
You were brimming with tears at the strain, lashes damp as they blinked at him. Your cheeks, flushed with a beautiful shade of rose, were hollowed, struggling to take all of him in.
"Oh baby, those eyes—shit—gonna be the death of me."
His flesh hand left your hair, dropping as he instead flexed his fingers. Your gaze caught the movement, your own hand moving over to hold his. Such a sap.
You would smile if you could.
His cock had started pulsing at the back of your mouth now. Insistent. Signaling.
With a broken moan, he abruptly pulled out. Fisting himself, he finally let go. Hot liquid spurted over your face, sticky globs painting your cheeks. Your lips. Your forehead.
Your tongue darted out to lick some off the corner of your mouth, watery eyes glancing at him.
"Shh doll, you okay?", he murmured into your ear, strong, steady arms easily carrying you to the bathroom.
You made a tiny noise of discomfort, jaw evidently sore. He gave you a small pat on the head, gingerly settling you on the marble counter.
"Let's clean you up, yeah?"
He reached for the washcloth hanging neatly beside the sink, the faucet hissing softly as warm water rushed into the basin.
He worked slowly.
One careful swipe beneath your chin.
Another across your cheek.
Every few moments he'd pull back to inspect your skin with heightened concentration, scared of bruising your skin with the water temperature.
His thumb brushed your chin lightly, turning your face just enough to catch a stubborn little smear near your jaw.
"There."
He smiled faintly.
"Much better."
You tilted your head to look in the mirror. Still disheveled. Still messy.
But....taken care of.
"I love you."
Your eyes flew back to his. The startled sound that escaped you wavered, slowly dissolving into an airy, weak laugh.
⤷ music producer!bucky x singer!reader
summary: as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star. ft. Yelena Belova, your manager!
word count: 10,8k
── .✦ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; no use of y/n, bucky doesn’t have a metal arm in this au, smut, bits of angst, curse words, lots of manipulation, alcohol, toxic „relationship”, slight corruption kink, reader is a mess, power abuse, mean!bucky, praising kink (but it’s barely there), degradation, dry humping, pussy slapping, dumbification, choking, size kink, tummy bulge, spanking, office sex, rough sex, dom!bucky, PiV (unprotected sex), orgasm denial, overstimulation, creampie, breeding kink.
⁀➷ sophie's note: back to back to back to bwa! this fic is my contribution to the bwat summer collab <3! the fic gave me a headache but in the end i really like it so a win is a win. big thanks to bri @iamthatonefangirl for co-hosting this collab with me, and for brainstorming the ideas which ended up in creating our little alternative universe, paul @superbassbuck who encouraged me to write mean!bucky, and gave me some ideas, and ken @heldbybarnes for beta-reading 💚 i love you guys
LA is not what you expected.
You thought it'd be much different—endless possibilities, and that effortless glow of the city that everyone seems to have in the Instagram stories.
Instead, it feels like a whirlwind that never seems to slow down.
Don't get it twisted—you love this life, you really do.
You love the rush of new songs hitting number one on the charts. You love when your phone explodes with messages from your manager Yelena that are just a string of fire emojis followed by "we're going platinum, babyyyyyy". You love the arenas full of people singing your words back to you. You love the sparkly outfits, the stage light, and the pride that comes with finally making it… it's everything you dreamed of.
But god, it's exhausting.
Your DMs are a war zone of thirst, hate, and brand deals. Everything you say or post has to be consulted with your PR team first. The paparazzi hide around every corner, everytime you step outside there's this weird pressure to look like a filtered version of yourself 24/7, even when you're just trying to buy matcha in sweatpants, and oversized hoodie.
There's eyes on you all the time, and everywhere you go.
But now, there's different set of eyes that pierces through you.
"You ready?" a familiar voice brings you back to reality from the mess that are your thoughts. Bucky's standing behind the mixing console with broad shoulders, separated by the plexiglass vocal booth window. His brown hair is freshly trimmed but still somehow manages to look soft, and a little fluffy. The sharp line of his jaw is tense with concentration, and those striking eyes—in probably the most beautiful shade of blue you've ever seen—are locked on you.
There were times when you used to be nervous around him. You still sometimes are, but it's different now. His bossy demeanor doesn't feel so scary anymore. There's something grouding about it actually.
"Yeah," you respond, a little unsure, but he just nods once, professional as always.
"Okay… we start in 3… 2… 1…"
The music begins to play through your headphones — synths layered under a more gentle beat that feels like it was made for the exact mood you've been carrying lately.
You close your eyes, letting the melody wrap around you as you start to sing. Your voice fills the booth, growing stronger with each line. The words Bucky wrote for you just a few weeks ago feel different sang out loud. They're strange, but you try to pour the emotions—both wonder and exhaustion—into the verse, swaying slightly as the song builds.
When it ends, and you ease into pre-chorus, you chance a glance trough the glass.
Bucky is leaning forward, one of his hands is adjusting a knob while the other is resting on the console. Those blue eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief second, and the corner of his mouth twitches in what might almost be approval. The edges of his face seem a fraction softer under the low studio lights, letting you breathe a little easier which is life changing when you try to hit the right note. Trust.
You're supposed to flow right into the chorus, but for some stupid reason, the words catch in your throat. Your voice fades out mid-line, and you stop completely.
Bucky pauses the track immediately, and the sudden silence rings in your headphones. He straightens up, brows furrowed.
"What's wrong?" he asks, looking down at the waveform on his screen for a moment before looking back at you. "That was perfect."
The dissapointment in his tone hits you harder than you could expect.
"I… I don't know," you admit, cheeks warming as you fidget with the edge of your sleeve. "I just don't feel it, Bucky."
Bucky exhales quietly. It's not quite a sigh, but still, it's enough to let you know you fucked up without saying it directly.
"I'm telling you it was good," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, and you can clearly hear that underlying impatience in his voice. "Let's try again," he orders, and hits the rewind, then play button on the console. The music surrounds you again, and Bucky leaves you no room for discussion.
The truth is, what Bucky wants, Bucky gets. It doesn't really matter that your singing doesn't feel right to you. He is the one to decide everything. You are only here—in this fancy ass studio, with your name starting to mean something in the industry—because of him.
It all started with the covers you used to post online—you in your bedroom, singing to simple acoustic versions of big songs with both video audio quality so bad it was embarrasing.
Bucky found one of them one night, months ago. He'd told you later that something in your delievery made him stop scrolling, and that he saw potential no one else had bothered to look for. Whatever that meant.
Within weeks, he was pulling all the strings he could—flying you out for meetings, getting you in front of the right people, and quietly taking care of the mountain of family debts that had been weighing on you for years. He didn't make a big show of it. He just… said he handled it because you needed it to move on. So he paid for what was needed to be paid, and cleared that path for you.
Now here you are—attached to him because it feels like the right thing to do after everything he's ever done for you, despite the fact that agreement you signed with his label was probably equivalent to a deal with the devil.
You have to admit though, Bucky himself is not so bad.
He's your boss, and owns the entire label you're signed under, yes. But besides that, he's also produces your songs and helps you write them.
And although you have to follow what he says, and do what he wants, it seems like he's the only person in this world beside Yelena that genuinely cares for you. He always makes sure you're well rested, even if that means rescheduling a session when he notices the exhaustion in your eyes. He tries to reassure you when the doubts creep in, offering quiet, gruff encouragement in that low voice of his, and "It's okay, I know you can do it" that somehow cuts throught the noise in your head.
Bucky somehow always seems to know what to say or do, and he is the only one who still makes you feel looked after.
Because of that, you two got pretty close… as some would say.
And maybe you're mistaken. Maybe that is just an another illusion in the world full of fame, and lies. Or maybe you just want someone to care because despite thousands of fans, you still feel very fucking lonely.
But then, Bucky wouldn't be doing all of this, right?
The thoughts swirl too heavily in your chest. Your voice catches again mid-line, weaker this time, and you stop singing completely, eyes squeezing shut.
Bucky stops the track right away.
"I'm sorry—" you apologize, voice small.
His gaze softens when he looks at you through the glass. "You have nothing to apologize for, doll."
You swallow hard. "I don't like how it sounds, Buck. How I sound… It's not like… me."
He watches you for a beat, then steps out from behind the console. A moment later he's opening the door to the vocal booth, and steps inside, making the room feel so much smaller with him in it.
"I told ya, it's good, though…" he says casually, as you try your best to not break down in front of him. "I think my opinion should matter to you."
"I know… I'm sorry."
He reaches out, and his hand gently rests on you arm, warm through the sleeve of your sweater.
"It's okay. Let's take a break, and start again, hm? Does that sound good?"
You nod, and that insufferable knot in your chest looses a little.
"Thanks," you whisper, and your eyes flick down to where his thumb is now brushing lazy circles against your sweater.
"You know…" he starts "We can always scrap what we have and start over… it would take more time, and I'd have to rewrite the lyrics probably , and—"
"No!" you cut him off quickly. Your uncertainty shifts into guilt.
The idea of wasting his time — his money, his effort — after everything he's done for you makes your stomach twist. No matter how much you hated the outcome, you would hate yourself more if you let that happen.
"I'll sing it… It's fine."
Bucky studies you for a second, those deep blue eyes search your face like he's trying to read everything you're not saying, The line of his jaw is relaxed now, not longer tense with that earlier impatience, which makes you feel more at peace.
"You sure," he asks? "We've got time, doll. Doesn't have to be today."
"I'm sure," you exclaim, trying to give him a reassuring smile.
The next afternoon, you're in the back of a sleek black Range Rover as the city's traffic crawls outside the tinted windows.
Yelena sits beside you with legs crossed, flipping trough her tablet, and checking a schedule that's somehow more packed than LA's streets. She'd been your manager since the very beginning — hired by no one other than Bucky, of course — but the two of you had clicked almost immediately.
Yelena was quite good at her job. In fact, she was probably one of the best in the business. She kept your calendar organized down to the minute, booked interviews months in advance, made sure you never missed a fitting, a rehearsal, or a meeting, and somehow always knew exactly what you were supposed to do before you did.
But she did far more than what was written in her job description.
She was fiercely protective of you.
Whether it meant shutting down reporters who asked questions that crossed the line, pulling you away from fans who refused to respect your boundaries, or making sure you actually ate something between back-to-back appearanes, Yelena always seemed to have one eye out on your career and the other on you. You'd lost count of how many times she'd marched into your dressing room with breakfast plate in one hand, and a coffee in the other, declaring that no interview was happening until you finished both.
She never tried to replace your family that you ended up leaving in search for a better life, nor did she pretended to be your friend but you'd earned each other's trust, and that means a lot, when everyone around is fake nice just to benefit from you.
"So," she says, swiping to the next page, completely in her element. "radio interview tomorrow morning, rehearsal in the evening, photoshoot got pushed to Thursday… which, honestly, saved everyone's ass because your stylist was about to have a breakdown. She was threatening to quit after yesterday…"
A smile tugs at your lips. "I think she says that every week."
"She does." Yelena nods, matter-of-factly. "But this time I think she actually meant it."
You let out a quiet hum in response, while your attentions drifts between her voice and the endless line of brake lights stretching ahead.
"…Then there's…" she continues, squinting at the screen. "Two press interviews, one magazine cover shoot… Another rehearsal right before an event with the Barnes Records executives Wednesday night…. Writing session with Bucky the next day… Then you've got—"
Your phone vibrates against your thigh, stealing your attention immediately.
You fish it out of the pocket of your jacket, and glance at the glowing screen.
Bucky | 1:41PM
hey. here's the sample from our last session. let me know what you think.
sample_1.mp3
Before you can stop yourself, a breathy ironic laugh escapes your lips, echoing in the car, which actually makes Yelena look away from her tablet.
"What was that?" she asks, both confused and concerned.
You quickly lock your phone, and toss it onto your lap as if she'd caught you doing something embarassing.
"Nothing," you respond, shaking your head dismissively, but that only makes her narrow her eyes at you.
"Mhm…"
"It was just Bucky," you explain, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of your jacket before speaking again. "He sent me the demo from yesterday's session."
"And?"
You lift your phone again, reading the message once more.
"Let me know what you think," you repeat, umable to hide sarcasm coating your voice, and another dry laugh slips out. "As if my opinion changes anything."
Yelena's brows knit together ever so slightly. "Did something happen yesterday?"
You hesitate for a moment, and the memory of your own voice carrying lyrics that suddently stopped feeling like yours comes back.
"I don't know," you admit quietly. "Something just felt… wrong." You lean your head back against the seat, watching skyscrapes dissapear behind the darkened glass. "I couldn't get into it."
"You've had off days before," Yelena says, nudging you on the shoulder, as if that was supposed to bring you some comfort.
"This wasn't that, Lena," you pause, searching for the right words. "It sounded good. At least that's what Bucky kept saying but I didn't believe him." You shrug helplessly, and your fingers start to absentmindedly trace the edge of your phone. "I stopped halfway through because I couldn't sing it anymore."
"And what did he say?"
You sigh, replaying the scene in your head.
"He rewound the track," you say at last. "We tried again. And again. Until I lied and finally said I like it" Your shoulders rise and drop again.
Yelena is quiet for a moment, and you don't even expect her to respond right away because that's the thing — even though Yelena may be your friend, she would never question Bucky, and his decisions.
That is exactly what kind of person Bucky is in this industry. No one would dare to say a bad word about him because that man had more connections than you could think of, which meant he could probably ruin your life by making just one call to the right person.
"So…" Yelena's watching you like she's trying to figure what to say without either judging you or defeding Bucky. "Are you going to listen to it?"
Your thumb hovers over the audio file, and the play button stares back at you. Eventually, you lock your phone again with a soft click.
"I already know what it sounds like."
"Come on, you haven't even played it!" she tries to encourage.
"I don't have to," you offer a tired smile that doesn't really reach your eyes. "If Bucky thinks it's good then it's enough…" The sentence feels heavier the second it leaves your mouth, and again, Yelena doesn't respond, although you can feel her eyes on you. Your own attention is fixed outside the window instead. The palms sway lazily against the perfect California sky, almost mocking how chaotic everything always feels beneath it.
Before she says anything, the car begins to slow. The soft hum of the engine changes as the driver turns into the entrance of your hotel. The tires roll over the smooth pavement leading toward the front door.
The concract pages lay open on the marble table in your hotel suite, and your fingers tremble slightly as you trace over the clauses you'd signed months ago.
Section 4.2. — Exclusivity
Artist agrees to grant Barnes Records exclusive worldwide rights to all sound recordings, performances, and related materials created during the term of this agreement. Artist shall not release, perform or distribute any musical content independently or through any third party without the prior written consent of Barnes Records.
Section 5.1 — Creative Control
Barnes Records shall have final approval over all recordings, songs selections, arrangements, mixes, and final masters. Artist's input shall be considered advisory only.
Section 7.3 — Promotional Obligations
Artist agrees to full compliance with all promotional, publicity, and appearance requirements as determined by Barnes Records, including but not limited to interviews, photoshoots, live performances, and social media activity.
Section 9.1 — Non-Compete
During the term and for twelve (12) months thereafter, Artist shall not engane in any conlicting musical or entertainment activities without express permission.
…Well, you're fucked.
You're staring at the piece of paper with tears in your eyes.
You should be grateful. People would kill to be in your spot, and you're probably being selfish. You should be kissing Bucky's feet for everything he did for you, and you know it.
Because what are you supposed to do? There is no fucking way you're escaping this agreement, so maybe it's time to make peace with it, and just listen to Bucky. Produce songs you hate, and be someone you're not.
You wipe at your eyes quickly, even though no one's here to see you fall apart. Maybe this is just what growing up in this industry looks like. Maybe the version of you that sang freely in your bedroom was never meant to survive here. Maybe the only way forward is to smile, nod, and let Bucky steer the wheel.
Your phone sits on the table beside the contract, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you pick it up, and open your messages with Bucky.
Your thumb hovers for a long moment before you start typing a message.
You | 3:08PM
hey. actually i don't know if i love it. i'm sorry. i feel like i'm missing everything up lately.
You hit send before you can delete it, then immediately regret how vulnerable it sounds.
The typing bubbles appear almost right away.
Bucky | 3:09PM
you're not messing anything up. come by the studio tomorrow morning if you want. we can talk it through. no pressure.
You let out a shaky breath, stare at his message, then finally respond.
You | 3:10PM
I have an interview tomorrow morning… sorry…
And the reply comes faster than you'd expect.
Bucky | 3:10PM
then maybe i'll come pick you up after? we'll get lunch together. you need time off too ;)
You read the message twice. A small flutter blooms in your chest.
On one hand, you're nervous to actually talk to him about the song. On the other hand… work aside, spending time with Bucky doesn't sound so bad. It probably shouldn't excite you as much as it does, but the idea brings you some comfort. After all, he is right — you do deserve some time off.
You | 3:11PM
yeah! that sounds nice, actually. thank you.
The dressing room mirror is still lit up with those harsh light bulbs as you sit in front of it, catching your features to the point where it's almost blidning.
The inteview had gone well — at least according to everyone else, including Yelena who leans against the vanity beside you, arms crossed, looking pleased.
"You killed it," she says with a satisfied nod. "They loved the story about the upcoming album. And the way you teased them with the upcoming feature with Dazzler was perfect," she extends the word, making her russian accent slip out. "That's exactly what we needed for the promo. The clip is already getting traction online. We'll have the full segment up by tonight."
You manage a small smile, nodding along as you slip your jacket back on over the cute interview outfit.
"That's good."
"Ratings are going to be solid. A few more like this and we'll even have more buzz for the release. You should be proud of yourself." Yelena keeps talking.
You're just about to reply when there's a light knock on the dressing room door. It opens a second later, and Bucky steps inside.
He looks unfairly good for someone who probably woke up way too early just to spent the entire morning working in the studio. The black simple shirt he's wearing has some designer logo you can't really recognize because of the dark jacket atop of it. His hair looks much more styled today, and his steel eyes find you immediately, making the corner of his mouth lift.
"Hey," he says. His gaze flicks over you for a second. "You ready?"
You stand up, smoothing down your skirt, suddenly very aware of how your heart picks up at his presence.
Yelena glances between the two of you, one eyebrow raised slightly.
"Well…" she grabs her hoodie, and slings it over her arm, ready to slip out. "I guess my job's done for now. Gonna leave you two alone."
Before she can fully step out the door, Bucky stops her.
"How did the interview go?"
Yelena pauses in the doorway, flashing quick but confident smile, and you know he's not asking if it actually went well. He's asking if it's making good numbers, and if he's going to benefit from it.
"It went really well!" she answered charmingly, telling him the same thing she did to you.
Meanwhile you stand there quietly, watching Bucky's reaction.
He ends up giving a small nod that looks satisfied but not so surprised as if he excpected nothing less. Then he turns his head toward you. Your eyes lock instantly, and he smiles at you.
"Always knew my girl has it." he says casually, and the praise makes your knees feel a little weak. Heat rushes to your cheek and you have to look down for a second, biting the inside of your lip to keep from completely melting on the spot.
It's ridiculous how much those few words affect you. Especially after the spiral you had last evening, but coming from him, they feel like they matter more than anything else.
"Okay!…" Yelena nods, unsure what to say in such awkward position, then clears her throat. "Call me when you need something." She gives you both a goodbye smile and leaves, closing the door behind her.
You grab your purse, slinging it over your shoulder, and follow Bucky out.
The hallway is quiet as you walk side by side toward the back exit where his car is waiting. The black SUV with a driver inside is already idling. Bucky opens the door for you before sliding in after, settling beside you in the back seat.
The car pulls smoothly into traffic. You're both silent for a while, letting the hum of the engine take over the quiet.
Eventually, Bucky shifts slightly, turning his attention to you instad of the city outside.
"You still feel like you don't want to release that song?" he asks, picking up where yesterday's iMessage conversation left off.
You nod, cheeks burning with shame as you look down at your hands. "Yeah…"
"That's okay," he says without hesitation. "We can scrap it."
"I don't wanna cause you troubles," you murmur, hating how small your voice sounds compared to his.
Bucky chuckles softly. "You could never."
Unexpectedly, Bucky reaches over and places his hand on your thigh. His palm feels warm against your bare skin where your skirt had ridden up just a little when you sat down.
Your eyes drop instantly to the spot where his fingers rest, and your heart slams against your ribs while heat begins to pool low in your belly.
Bucky keeps looking ahead at the road like it's the most natural thing in the world when his thumb starts brushing slow absentminded strokes against your leg.
You press your lips together, trying to stay composed, but you're body's compeltely shut. Your thighs press closer instinctively, and you wonder if Bucky can notice.
It makes you so fucking horny it's ridiculous, and that makes you realize just how freaking busy you've been with your career lately.
There was no time to date. No time for anything, so no one touched you in months. You're fucking touch-starved, and here's the result: you squirming in your seat with ache between your legs caused by your boss. Great!
"You know…" Bucky starts talking again. "You've been doing great lately. Your latest single is still climbing in the charts… The interview today went well too according to Yelena…"
You try to listen, but his hand still caressing you is making it really difficult, sparking up your skin, and getting you desperately wet.
"I feel like you're really trying your best for my label. Am I right?" he asks, glancing over at you.
You nod quickly, suddenly more nervous under Bucky's gaze. "Yes— Of course, Bucky."
He just smiles, more to himself than to you, with a hint of mischief in it. Then he turns his head away, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding until now.
The restaurant Bucky picked is one of those upscale places tucked away in a hidden corner of the city — all dim lightning, white table cloths and waiters who move with so much grace.
Of course he chose it. Another small irony. Even something as simple as where you eat lunch is under his control. Just like everything else.
You're both done eating now, plates cleared away, leaving just half-full glasses of water. The conversation has stayed light so far — safe territory. Bucky asked about the interview again, and you asked about a track he's been working on for another artist.
You can't help but wonder if he's this close with all the artists he works with but unfortunately, you can't ask him that.
Bucky leans back in his chair, looking relaxed. His jacket is off now, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing his muscular forearms. They look much better here, in the daylight than in the studio, and you probably shouldn't be glancing at them every few moments, but you do anyway. In the end, he's the one who made a mess out of you in the car. And this is just one of the consequences of it.
"You're getting better at all of this," he begins, picking up his glass. "The spotlight, the press… the performance of it." He pauses for a second to take a sip. "Doesn't mean you have to like every part of it, though."
The words hit a little too close. You trace the rim of your water glass with your fingertip, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Yeah… some parts are still harder than others."
Bucky lets out a low tsk. He draps one arm over the backrest, looking every bit the man who holds all the cards. The soft restaurant lightning catches the sharp line of his jaw, that now seems more tense than just minutes ago, and his blue eyes look even more intense asa he studies you across the table.
"You can't always get what you want," he says, voice calm and steady like he's stating a simple fact, which… he is, but you know damn well that this talk is definitely leading somewhere. "We all have to pay a price for our decisions. This is how this business works, doll."
You look up at him, a bit scared now where the hell this conversation is heading. You catch how his tone changed — more authoritative now.
Bucky continues without missing a beat, swirling the last bit of water in his glass before setting it down. "I have another deal for you. A friend of mine, she's a director. She needs a single for her upcoming movie. I already told her you'll do it."
Your mouth opens, and then closes again. Words fail you for a second.
Your schedule is already packed to the brim — interviews, photoshoots, rehearsals, studio time. You're barely keeping your head above water trying to finish your own album, and now this?
"But— my album," you start, voice coming out shakier than you wanted.
Bucky cuts you off smoothly, leaning forward slightly. "You scrapped a song, baby. You need to make up for it." His tone is somehow still gentle on the surface, although you know what's underneath. "I need my money back or we won't proceed with your album."
Your worries from yesterday come rushing back, even harder than before. Your thoughts spiral back to the conctract clauses, and the fear you're losing all the control. The words keep being stuck in your throat, so you just nod, deafeated.
"Okay," you whisper.
Bucky's expression softens with satisfaction. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his knuckles along your cheek. The touch is far too tender contrasted by what he just said.
"That's my girl,"
You almost choke on your own saliva, hearing that. You hate how fucking good his praise makes you feel, even now, with your stomach twisting, and your eyes stinging. It's pathethic, really. He just tightened the leash, and here you are, once again melting at his approval like some desperate idiot.
You wish your head wasn't such a mess of different thoughts. You wish that part of you — the one that felt genuinely grateful for everything Bucky had done for you — could stand up, and fight for herself, but there was no way you could bury that sentiment. You don't know why. You don't know why he is making you feel like this, and it's fucking annoying. You're nothing, but his fucking puppy, and while you hate it, why does it feel like that other part of you enjoys it?
"Fuck!" you're pacing back and forth in your hotel room, still in the clothes from lunch, frustration bubbling over the second Yelena walked in. "I can't make a song for that fucking movie, Yelena. I need my album to be finished by the end of summer. The promo is already out. I can't fucking reschedule it."
"Yeah. You can't," she says, sitting on the fotel with arms crossed. "The sales will go down, and Bucky will be even more pissed."
You drop face-first into onto the bed with a dramatic groan, burying your face in the pillow.
"Fuck! This is exactly what he wants, Lena. He'll then have another excuse to drag me into more projects."
Yelena sighs, standing up. and walking over to sit on the edge of the bed just to give your back a light, sympathetic pat.
"Listen… You'll make that song he asks for, and then we'll get you back to work on your album," she pauses, tilting her head. "What movie is it for again?"
You lift your head from the pillow. Strands of hair fall messily across your face as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Your voice comes out tired.
"I don't remember the title… Bucky mentioned it but I don't think I registered it. I think it's made by the same director who made Rendezvous, though…"
Yelena freezes the moment she hears it. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she stands up, shaking her head, before dragging her hand slowly down her face.
""Oh. My. God…" she mutters, sounding genuinely horrified. "Please tell me you're joking…"
You blink at her, eyebrows lifting in confusion, heart already sinking at her reaction. "What?"
"The woman who produced it just had a whole ass cancel party on Twitter," she says, voice dropping.
"What?! Why?!"
"I don't even know. but there's crazy shit going on," Yelena sighs deeply, rubbing her temples as she starts pacing the same path you were earlier. "Jeez, your name is going to look so bad signed under her movie. You need to talk to Barnes."
"Me?!" you point at yourself, sitting up fully on the bed now. "You're my manager."
"Yeah but he doesn't fucking listen to me!" she throws her hands up. "You're his favorite. You need to talk him out of it… somehow."
You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle, and the sound escapes you before you can stop it. Your brain gets stuck on that one word Yelena said, looping over and over like a catchy hook. You sit up fully on the bed now, pulling your knees to your chest as you tilt your head at her.
"Favorite?" you ask, voice softer now. "What does that mean?"
Yelena's expression changes in an instant. Her eyes widen just a fraction when she realizes she said too much, and suddenly, she becomes very interested in smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on her sleeve. She clears her throat, still avoiding your gaze.
"You know what it means, " she mutters, trying to play it casual but the slight flush on her cheeks gives her away.
"No, I don't" you insist, leaning forward a little.
Yelena lets out a long, defeated sigh, running her fingers through her perfectly styled hair, and messing it up slightly.
"Just convince him, please," she says, giving you a pleading look. "That'll save both of us a lot of work."
You stare at her for a second, then slowly nod.
"I'll see what I can do…"
You repeat before you can fully think those words through. Inside though, you're already overthinking it.
How the hell are you supposed to change his mind?
You know damn well, Bucky doesn't exactly do "no." Once he decides something, it's set in stone. Especially when it involves money or deals.
The idea of walking into his office or calling him up, and somehow talking him out of this movie single feels laughable.
You may be his favorite like Yelena said — whatever that meant — but that doesn't guarantee you anything.
You need a different approach, and you better find it quickly.
The next day, you're in the middle of dance rehearsal. The studio mirrors each of your movements, every turn and tired expression. Sweat sticks your tank top to your back as the choreographer counts out the last eight-count of the routine.
When she finally calls for a five minute break, you almost collapse against the barre. You have been practicing the choreography for your upcoming tour for a month now, making sure it's perfect in every detail but today? It definitely isn't.
You're not sure if it's from over exhaustion or your thoughts are still somewhere else, and that's why you cannot focus. Maybe you're trying to dance out your annoyance, and helplessness instead of actually doing your job.
You grab your water bottle, and take a long sip, letting the cold liquid soothe your dry throat. Your phone sits on the floor near your bag, and you reach for it with your other hand, just to see it's already lit up with some notifications.
Yelena | 2:11PM
Did you talk to him?
Yelena | 2:11PM
??
Yelena | 2:12PM
Pleaseeee tell me you at least texted him
You read the messages, then instantly lock your phone without answering.
Of course you haven't talked to him. You haven't even sent a single message asking if the two of you can meet because just the thought of opening your chat with Bucky and typing anything about the movie single makes you sick. Honestly, you have no idea how to deal with it.
You take another sip of water, when your phone buzzes, and the screen lights up again.
Yelena | 2:35PM
well, he's going to be there at the event we're having today. maybe try your luck then! :D
Brilliant idea. There's no better circumstance than solving this in public at a packed industry event with cameras, and executives. Absolutely zero pressure!
You type your response fast.
You | 2:36PM
you are out of your mind
The event is already in full swing by the time you arrive. The clink of champagne glasses fills the elegant space, followed by the low hum of charmistatic conversations. Investors, label executives, and other more unknown faces mingle around polished tables, and big windows covered by big curtains that are supposed make the place feel more private.
You're wearing a fancy dark dress that hugs your figure just right, making you look expensive and put-together even when you're a mess underneath.
Yelena stays close at your side. Her eyes scan the room like she's already mapping out every important person in here, then leans in slightly to your side, nudging you.
"You can at least try and be nice to him tonight," she whispers, and you glance at her, adjusting your dress by pulling it up at the bust.
"Play up to him?" your eyebrows lift, and you cannot help a little smirk that's forming in the corner of your mouth.
"Yeah," she says with a small shrug. "I mean… before you actually talk to him about the single. That doesn't sound like a bad plan, does it?"
She's right. It doesn't. You need to play it right, and today may be the first step.
You straighten your posture, and your gaze drifts across the room, searching for a familiar broad-shouldered figure with unforgettable eyes.
Yelena's hand lightly touches your arm as she nods toward the far side of the room.
"There he is."
You follow her line of sight, and spot him almost immediately. Bucky stands near one of the windows, deep in conversation with a small group of people.
From distance he looks completely at ease, one hand loosely holding a drink while the other rests in the pocket of his black suit.
Yelena starts walking towards them, dragging you along with her, and you follow a step behind, your heart already picking up its speed.
As you get closer, Bucky's attention shifts to you. His eyes flick over, and the second they land on you, they stay there, dragging down the length of your dress before coming back up to your face.
It's quick, and subtle enough that the others might not notice, but you do.
His eyes still don't leave you when Yelena greets the group with a bright, professional smile, already launching into polite introductions, and Bucky nods along, smiling at you, before cutting through the conversation.
"She looks gorgeous, doesn't she?" he says to the group, smooth and confident. "One of my greatest discoveries. Real presence on stage. You only come across such artists once in a while."
You force a soft but nervous chuckle as heat creeps up your neck, and others smile as well, nodding in agreement. His praise — again —does something to you, and just like always, you're not entirely sure how to take it.
So you just stand there, not sure how to react, what expression to wear, or whether you're supposed to say something or not.
You obviously know what he's doing — promoting you in front of his investors, polishing the story of his "greatest discovery" so they keep writing checks, and stay interested. Right now, you're just a shiny reminder of where their money is going which makes you feel like some animal in a zoo, while Bucky gets to show you off.
In the end, you stay quiet beside him, smiling carefully, and when eventually the conversation topic changes — someone brings up an upcoming festival and its sponsorship — the focus slowly moves away from you. The pressure eases just a little as the group starts talking among themselves again.
Bucky turns slightly toward you then, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His voice drops low, meant only for you.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "You look fabulous."
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A real blush rises to your cheeks this time, much warmer and harder to hide, and for once the smile that follows it is genuine.
"Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself," you whisper back lightly.
That earns you a chuckle from Bucky, which seems to soften the sharp edges of his expression for a second. He turns a little more to your side, keeping his voice low so the others don't fully pull you back into their conversation yet.
"Long day?" he asks. "Yelena messaged me your rehearsal ran late."
You nod, careful to keep your tone warm, and easy, just like Yelena suggested — play nice, be pleasant, be nice to him.
"Yeah, it did," you reply with a small smile. "The choreography's coming together though. I'm just hoping my legs still work by the end of the week."
Bucky hums in amusement.
"You'll be fine. You always pull it off," there's confidence in the way he says it — more like it's a fact than a compliment. Then he tips his head slightly toward the group still talking nearby. "These people are already impressed. Just keep doing what you're doing."
You force yet another soft smile, trying to form another appropriate response but for a second you hesitate, then decide to push a little further — testing the waters, maybe even playing into whatever this thing between you is.
"You really think I'm worth all of this?" you ask, avoiding his gaze when the words leave your mouth.
Bucky lets out a short laugh, taken aback by the question like the idea of you doubting yourself is somehow ridiculous to him.
"You're serious?" he mutters, still smiling.
Before you can answer, your fingers brush against his as you both shift slightly. It's nothing more than just a light, accidental touch, but Bucky's eyes immediately drop to where your hands nearly meet.
It sends a shiver up your arm, and you instinctively pull your hand away — not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it did the opposite.
You pretend to fix the delicate bracelet on your other wrist, fingers fussing with the clasp even though it doesn't need adjusting.
Bucky watches you for a moment, then reaches out.
"Let me help you."
His hand is gentle as he takes yours. Warm fingers steady your wrist while he carefully tightens the clasp for you. Instead of letting go right away, his thumb brushes over the soft skin of your wrist in small circles.
The simple gesture is enough to make your breath catch. Heat blooms under your skin where he's touching you, and when you lift up your gaze from your hand, Bucky looks back up as well, still holding you.
"Answering your question…" he starts, ticking his jaw. "I think you're worth much more than that."
The next morning, you wake up to soft light filtering through the curtains, and a quiet ache behind your eyes.
You lie there for a long while, staring at the ceiling, genuinely not knowing what to think about yesterday.
You feel… wrong.
Not because of what happened, if anything, the opposite is true — just thinking about the way Bucky looked at you yesterday is enough to send you a flutter of butterflies through your stomach.
The problem is everything else, or more specifically — everything Yelena's said.
You roll onto your side, and pull the blanket higher, biting your lip as the thoughts in your head begin to overwhelm you again.
Maybe you should just sing that stupid single for Bucky like he asked.
Maybe Yelena is overreacting. Maybe the controversy will blow over. Maybe the easiest thing — the safest thing — is to stop fighting, and just do what he wants.
Especially because he can be so nice to you it hurts.
The idea settles uncomfortably in your mind, carrying equal parts resignation, and something that feels a little too much like wanting to please him.
You hate yourself for how mixed you feel.
You want more freedom — to make your own choices, write your own songs, and scrap them without guilt, to not feel like every decision has to go through him first.
But at the same time you cling to Bucky so tightly it's almost stupid. His approval still means too much, and his voice still settles something restless inside you.
Even now, lying alone in this expensive hotel bed, some pathethic part of you is still seeking his validation like it's the only thing that keeps you steady.
And the worst part is knowing just how deep that need goes.
Maybe it's not just a need. Maybe you actually feel something towards him.
Your thoughts drift further. You start wondering how he actually feels about you.
He can't be completely casual… not with the way he looks at you, not with the way he touches you like it's natural, and not with the way he says things that get stuck in your head.
If he does feel something… then he should understand. He should get where you're coming from.
If he cares about your career the way he claims to, then he shouldn't be pushing you into that single. He should see the risk. He should understand why you don't want it.
So maybe it's worth to at least discuss it with him.
You're sitting across from Bucky in his office. The afternoon light is diffused by the blinds, making the room look warmer, and much more comfortable.
Bucky's been talking to you for a few minutes now — details about the movie single, the timeline, the expected deadling, and something about the director's vision — but the words barely stick.
Your mind is too loud. Every sentence he says slides past you while your thoughts keep circling the same worried loop.
"… so if we lock the track by next week, we'll still have enough time for the mix, and—"
Bucky stops mid-sentence. His blue eyes narrow slightly as he studies you.
"Hello? You there with me?"
You blink, snapping back into the moment. "Yeah, sorry… I just…"
"Just what?"
Your fingers tighten in your lap. For a second you almost swallow the words, but they slip out anyway, hesitant.
"… Do you think being a part of this movie is a good idea, Buck?" The question is so quiet it's barely audible. You force yourself to keep going. "I've heard from Yelena that my name may not look best signed under that movie… because of the connections with the director."
Bucky shakes his head once — a short, annoyed motion — and leans back in his chair.
"Don't worry about it," he says flatly. "They pay a lot. That should be enough."
You shift in your seat, and you know you either say it all out now, or never.
"But— I don't know, Buck… I thought we could at least discuss it—"
He interrupts before you can finish, standing from his chair with a sharp push. He starts pacing through the length of the office, shaking his head again — this time in clear disbelief.
"Discuss it?" He repeats after you. "What do you want to discuss, huh?"
You swallow hard.
"I just wish I had more to say. That's all…" you pause, looking for the right words. "I wish I could write my own songs like other artists. Decide what I want to take a part in, and what not."
You can't look at him while you say it. Your head is low, and your gaze is fixed on your lap where you hold your hands, and nervously pick at your nails.
Bucky lets out a humorless chuckle.
"You gotta be kidding me…" his jaw clenches, and his gaze is almost piercing through you. "After everything I did for you?"
The words hit you harded than you expected. Your head snaps up immediately.
"No… No, no, Bucky… That's not what I meant." You stand up, and cross the room, moving closer to him, hands slightly raised like you're trying to calm down the storm before it starts. "I didn't mean it like that—"
He's still mad. The frustration hasn't left his face.
"Like what?" he snaps. "Like I didn't fucking create you?"
Your hands drop uselessly to your sides. The sting of his words settles deep in your chest, feeling like a thorn.
At first you just look at him, brows scrunching together as your face slowly turns into a pleading expression.
"I just thought I actually mean something to you," you manage to admit quietly.
Maybe it's stupid — standing right in front of him like this, voice small, eyes burning. Maybe it's even pathetic, but you cannot help it. Tears are already pricking at the corners of your eyes as you just stand there, feeling completely exposed, and helpless under the weight of everything that's just been said.
Bucky watches you for a moment, then sighs. His voice is lower now, softer. He steps closer, and places his hands on your shoulders, gently trying to get you to look up at him.
"You do mean something to me."
You let out a shaky exhale, and Bucky's right hand drifts to your face, wiping away a tear that managed slip out.
"But business is business, baby. You have to understand that."
That only makes you want to cry harder. What is that even supposed to mean? That you matter… but not enough? That he cares… just not when it comes to things that actually hurt?
You look up at him with glassy eyes, tears finally starting to spill over freely.
Bucky's expression softens further. His thumb brushes gently across your skin.
"I know you can handle it, honey…" he encourages, and a broken little sob escapes you.
"I'm tired, Bucky."
That's all it seems to take for Bucky to pull you in without another word. His strong arms wrap around you as you bury your face against his chest.
Fresh tears soak into the fabric of his shirt while he holds you there, one hand coming up to caress the back of your head, smoothing over your hair in slow, steady strokes.
"There… There..." he murmurs soothingly against the crown of your head.
You don't even realize how tightly you are clinging to him — fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like it's the only solid thing left to hold onto, and for the first time in what feels like forever, for once, you feel so fucking at peace.
And not because anything is easier. Not because the pressure of everything — the single, your album, or your entire career — is lifted, but because he's here, allowing your to fall apart against him.
You don't care if it's genuine. You don't want to think about it now, just enjoy this one moment, when you don't have to be the polished artist or the grateful discovery or the girl who always says yes.
"Shh… it's alright…" Bucky whispers, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of your head. His hand slides from your head to his jaw, and he tilts your face up toward his.
You try so hard to avoid his gaze, ashamed of yourself.
"I know it's hard," he says as his eyes search yours. "I know you've been stressing a lot lately..."
There's a pause before Bucky speaks again.
"Maybe I could take some of that stress off ya, hm?…"
Your eyebrows lift at that, finally meeting his eyes. At first you think you didn't hear him right, then you notice how his gaze drops to your mouth.
Bucky bites his lower lip softly, then looks back up at you, and the intent in his eyes is clear as a day.
Heat floods your cheeks as understanding hits. Your legs feel wobbly all of the sudden, and you can already feel yourself getting wet at the mere suggestion.
The truth is, you've been craving this more than you want to admit. You've been so lonely, drowning in schedules, and expectations that the idea of someone touching you feels almost desperate.
And it's not just anyone though. It's him.
You do want Bucky's hands on you. You want him to take you apart and put your back together, even if only for a little while.
You could only imagine how it feels like to be wanted, and worshipped like you matter beyond the songs and the stupid contract.
So you nod in response shakily, but Bucky only leans closer to the point where his lips brush against the shell of your ear.
"I wanna hear you say it, baby,"
You don't even try to hold it together. Tears are still wet on your cheeks as you look up at him.
"Please," your voice comes out cracking, and messy. "Please just fuck me, Bucky. I don't care anymore. I need it— I need you. Please, just— touch me…" you pause, sobbing. "Use me, I don't care, just please—"
The rest spills out of you in a broken, pathetic rush. You truly don't care if you look like some desperate whore as long as you get to have this.
Shame and need are tangled so tightly in your heart that you cannot tell then apart anymore, making you cry harder.
You try to say something more. Explain yourself maybe, but Bucky doesn't let you.
He shuts you up by crashing his mouth against yours in a hungry kiss, cutting the rest of your pleading. There is nothing gentle about it anymore — Bucky from just a few seconds ago seems to be gone, as your tongues meet almost instantly, teeth grazing while his hand slides into your hair to hold you in place as he deepens it.
You melt into him with a shaky sound, still tasting salt from your own tears.
Bucky walks you backwards until the edge of his desk hits the back of your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lift you up onto it, stepping between your legs as he never stops to kiss you like he's starving.
You feel him begin to rock against you. It's just a slow roll of his hips that's barely there but it presses the hard line of him right against your core, and the seperating you layers of clothes are not enough stop you from gasping into his mouth.
Bucky pulls back just enough to speak, but his lips are still brushing yours.
"Just like that," he murmurs. "Let me hear you, baby."
His hand drops to the waistband of yours pants. He pops the button open, drags the zipper down, and starts working them off your hips.
You lift up to help him, already so far gone it's embarrassing. You're so worked up you can barely think straight.
"Please, Buck…" you whine breathlessly as he tugs your pants the rest of the way down, and lets them drop to the floor.
"So fucking impatient," he mutters, eyes dragging down your body."Quit whining or I'll stuff that pretty mouth with my cock."
Before you can react, Bucky hooks his fingers into your panties, and yanks them roughly to the side. The cool air hits your bare, dripping cunt for half of a second, then his hand comes down in a sharp, stinging slap right against your soaked folds.
The sound is wet, and filthy. You jolt with a broken gasp, and thighs twitching around his hips as the heat of the slap blooms between your legs.
"You think you can always get what you want, don't you?" Bucky asks, voice rough.
Another slap lands harder against your pussy. You cry out this time, hips jerking.
"Please— Fuck!"
"Well that's not how things work," he continues, eyes locked on yours, carefully watching your reaction. "I've told you that before, remember? You are mine."
He raises his hand again, and slaps you one more time.
You jolt once more, and a broken sound rips out from your throat, but somehow your body reacts to it different than you'd expect. Your hips twitch towards his palm like you're chasing the next hit.
The stinging only makes the pulsing between your legs worse. Every slap seems to wind you up tighter instead of scaring you off. You're almost dizzy with how turned on it's making you, and some distant part of your brain can't believe you're actually into this.
You don't even realize when Bucky's hand move to the top you're wearing. He tugs it up, and over your head. The fabric catches for a second before he pulls it free, and tosses it aside.
His eyes drop to your chest, where your bra is, and Bucky stares at it like it offended him. Bucky's fingers are on you within seconds, touching, and grabbing your breasts through the material before the bra follows your top just as roughly — straps dragged down over your arms, until you're completely naked on his desk.
Then he's back between your thighs, gripping your hips as he starts humping against you again.
This time, there's nothing between you, and the hard bulge in his jeans. Your completely exposed, and obscurely wet slit drags against the rough fabric, leaving a dark, damp stain on the denim.
Bucky's so fucking hard it almost hurts to not feel him inside you just yet. You whimper, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to grind back against him.
Your hands slide down his chest, fingers already working at the edge of his T-shirt. You want to feel more of him — skin to skin, the warmth of his body pressed fully against yours.
But Bucky catches your wrists before you can get very far, pinning them lightly against the desk with a low warning sound.
"No," he mutters, jaw clenching slightly. "You don't get to decide. Is that still so hard for you to understand?"
You shake your head. Still, you manage to tug the fabric just enough to catch a glimpse of what's underneath — muscular, defined abs flexing as he keeps moving against you, and a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
The sight only leaves your hungrier. You try again, fingertips brushing over the warm skin of his stomach, but he doesn't let you go further, keeping full control.
Bucky had clearly had enough of you not listening.
With a low, frustrated sound he pushes you back so you're fully spread out on the desk. Your shoulders touch the cold surface, and your legs stay open around him. One of Bucky's hands presses lightly on your sternum to keep you there.
"Goddamn, you're so fucking stubborn…" he mutters under his nose, but loud enough for you to hear it.
He reaches down with his other hand, and finally unzips his pants. He shoves them, and his boxers down just far enough to free himself, and your breath catches at the sight.
He's thick — heavy, and flushed, and so big it makes your stomach flip. You almost drool looking at him, and your thighs tremble at the thought of feeling every inch of him stretching you.
Bucky gives himself one slow stroke as he looks down at you with dark eyes, pupils blown wide. He spreads the bead of precum over his length, then positions himself at your entrance.
The blunt head of his cock nudges against your soaked folds, and even the lightest touch is enough to make you whimper.
Bucky pushes inside you, but there's no slow stretch or careful adjustment. He drives forward in one hard thrust, and buries himself to the hilt, filling you so completely it punches the air out of you as your body is forced to take every thick inch at once.
The sudden fullness borders on too much. Your walls clench tight around him while he stays like that for a short moment, hips flush against yours.
He pulls almost all the way out, and slams back in, setting a rough, relentless pace that makes the desk creak beneath you.
You yelp at the first few thrusts, then the sound melts into loud helpless moans as he pounds into you. Every snap of his hips drives him impossibly deep, and you fucking love it.
Bucky looks completely lost in it. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are focused on the way your tits bounce with every move of his. His right hand is gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other stays planted on the desk beside your head for leverage.
"Didn't know you're such a slut," he rasps between thrusts. "Always playing so shy, but you're actually just a whore, hm?"
"Mghhhh—" is all you manage, and the sound is punched out of you on a particularly hard thrust.
Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.
"Oh yeah? Going dumb for that cock?" he smirks. "Can't form words now? You were so open for discussion just moments ago."
You just nod frantically, because he's right, and you can't deny it.
"’s good Buck—" you somehow moan out, although the rough pace has your thoughts scrambled.
His hand leaves your hip, and wraps around your throat instead. He doesn't squeeze it hard, but just rests his palm there while he keeps fucking into you without pausing for even a second.
Your eyes flutter shut from the intensity of it.
"Look at me," Bucky orders, and when you don't immediately obey, his fingers press tighter around your neck, making his message clear.
Your eyes snap open and lock with his.
"You're mine," he growls. "Fucking mine. I made you, and you're nothing without me. Do you understand that?"
"Yes! Yes, Bucky—!" Your hands clutch at his forearm, as he keeps you both filled and pinned.
The pressure builds fast. Heat coils tight, and low in your belly. Your walls start to flutter around him, and you realize that you're already right there, seconds from falling apart.
Bucky notices. His grip on your throat tightens just a fraction, as he leans closer.
"Don't you fucking dare come yet," he commands. "If you come before I say you can, I'll never fuck you again."
The threat sends a helpless shiver through you. Your eyes become glassy, as you try to force the building orgasm back down even as every roll of his hips may just sent you over the edge.
You try to focus, but your eyes drop down to the place where you're connected. You see how his cock is disappearing inside you, and the subtle bulge it creates low in your tummy every time he sinks all the way in.
The sight is almost too much. You cry out, not being able to hold it much longer.
"Bucky… I can't— I can't take it, I'm gonna—"
"You can," he growls, grabbing your face in his hand by the jaw, and squeezing it tightly.
You look completely fucked out like this — dazed like you're high on pure ecstasy, barely holding yourself together while you tether on the edge. Your lips are parted around soft, needy sounds, and it's so difficult for you to keep your eyes open.
"Please—" you beg, voice wrecked. "I'll be good, Buck… I promise you—"
Bucky laughs darkly, and the sound vibrates against your face, as he keeps fucking into you without mercy.
"Oh, I know you will."
Without warning, Bucky pulls out of you completely. The sudden emptiness makes you whine. You're confused, and your hips twitch back like they're trying to follow him.
Before you can even process the loss, he flips you over with firm hands. Your stomach hits the surface of the desk, and so does your face — checks pressed against the wood, as he plants one hand on the side of your head to keep you there.
Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk as Bucky kicks your legs apart just enough, then drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt again.
The new angle is much deeper, and overwhelming which makes you cry out, and Bucky starts fucking you in earnest. You're able to feel his balls slap against you, then a smack lands across your ass. The stinging blooms hot under his palm, leaving a red mark, and making your entire body flinch.
You're a mess beneath Bucky. Drool starts to slip from the corner of your mouth as your eyes go unfocused. Your body is already spent, trembling, and oversensitive, barely able to keep up.
Your current form seems to satisfy Bucky enough. He leans over, pressing his chest to your back.
"Go on. Come for me"
Fucking finally.
Your orgasm crashes through you so intensely it almost whites out your visison. A high-pitched moan leaves your throat as your whole body seizes around Bucky. Your walls clench while wave after wave of pleasure rips through you.
It's the best thing you've ever felt. It's more satisfying, and consuming than anything before, and it leaves you shaking, and gasping against the desk while Bucky keeps fucking you through it.
The way you clamp down around him is enough to push him over the edge too.
He drives into you one last time, and stays buried deep. A guttural groan rips from his chest as he comes.
You feel every hot pulse of him spilling inside you. Thick ropes of cum flood your cunt, and proceed to fill you up. The sensation makes another weak shiver roll through your spent body, as something primal, and satisfying settles in your chest at the feeling of being bred by him. You're more than happy to take everything he gives you, and keep it deep inside.
Bucky stays pressed against you for a moment longer, breathing hard, while his release slowly starts to leak out around his cock.
"Knew you'd come around."
.ᐟ extra sophie: if you got here, thank you so much for reading the fic! to be fair, the dynamics between reader, and Bucky in this fic were so fun to explore, and I hope I got to express well enough what I had in my mind, so let me know your thoughts about them!! and if you want to find out what drama is hiding behind the director, and the movie production, i'm more than happy to encourage you to read @iamthatonefangirl's upcoming fic "mean girls" which expands the plot of this silly little universe we created together <3
Tags/Warnings: dad's best friend!bucky, emotional smut, minor argument, ex-boyfriend is an asshole, oral (fem receiving), p in v, pet names, age gap (not super mentioned in the fic but implied), bucky is a little bit obsessed with reader, college!reader, bucky drops the L word
Summary:
Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. In fact, hate was an understatement. He loathed them. When your boyfriend abandons you on the side of the road, Bucky finally shows you exactly why he hates your boyfriends so much.
Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. In fact, hate was an understatement. He loathed them. Your dad couldn’t even fathom the vitriol Bucky seemed to harbor for every man interested in looking your direction, but he didn’t complain. Bucky kept shitty men away from his daughter. Why would he have a problem with that?
The unfortunate side effect of Bucky’s hatred was that boyfriends didn’t tend to stick around very long. And you weren’t going to admit this, but he always ended up being right about them. They were shitty men, but you wanted attention as much as the next girl, and that was hard to find sometimes.
All of this information played in the back of your mind as you watched the taillights of your boyfriend’s car speed out of the parking lot you had just been abandoned in. It was after midnight, and the area wasn’t necessarily a safe one. You weren’t even supposed to be in this fucking parking lot, and now you had no way of getting home unless you wanted to walk or call Bucky, which was out of the question.
Bucky would narc on your whereabouts as soon as he could, and you were not losing the rest of your summer because of a stupid boy. Though, it would be nice to see Bucky again. He’d been hanging around less and less since you’d come home from college, and it was beginning to feel personal. Maybe you could convince him to keep your secret for you. Either way, you needed a way out of this sketchy parking lot.
“Shit.” You murmured, rolling your eyes and stomping with a dramatic, over-the-top huff. Bucky would’ve laughed and called you a kid for doing it, but it felt right given the circumstances. This entire situation felt so embarrassing, and you hated to tell him he was right. You called him, nonetheless.
He picked up before the second ring could finish.
“Hey, doll. You okay?”
His voice, raspy with sleep, sent goosebumps skittering down your spine. Doll. You tried not to blush into the phone.
“Hi Buck,” you murmured, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“It’s fine, doll. Where are you? I thought you were at the library with Brad. Chad? What was his name again?”
You snickered. He knew very well your now ex-boyfriend's name but couldn’t bring himself to say it. It didn’t matter now anyways.
“Yeah, about that,” you sighed. “We didn’t exactly go to the library. We got into a fight. I don’t know where he went, but he left.”
“Doll, where are you?”
His voice was much more alert now. You could hear him shuffling around in the background, probably looking for clothes to put on.
“I’m fine,” you reminded him, biting your lip. “I just need a ride home.”
“Tell me where you are, right now,” he demanded through gritted teeth, and because you were so good at listening to him, you did exactly that.
When Bucky pulled into the parking lot, he looked less angry than you were expecting. Worry painted his features, a stark contrast from the usual laid-back expression on his face. Worry faded into relief when he made eye contact with you. He was out of the car wrapping his arms around you faster than you could blink.
Your attention snagged on the grey sweatpants he was wearing, unable to keep your eyes from drifting down his tall figure.
“I’m gonna kill that guy,” Bucky mumbled into your hair, squeezing you against his chest. “He just left? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Buck. Thanks for picking me up.”
“Of course, Doll. Let’s get you home, okay?”
Bucky didn’t take you home. He took you to his home, which was much more preferable than trying to sneak into your dad’s house so late at night. The drive home had been quiet, likely due to the late hour, but also because Bucky was stewing in the driver’s seat. The longer he thought about your boyfriend abandoning you basically on the side of the road, the more upset he got.
What confused you the most was that his anger seemed to be directed mostly at you. It was as though having you safe and sound in his car made him more furious about the entire situation. He’d barely looked at you since getting in the car, and it was driving you insane.
When he pulled into his driveway, neither of you moved to get out of the car. He put the car in park, huffed, and then finally looked at you. He didn’t say anything, which made it all the more awkward for you.
When you couldn’t take it anymore, you said, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
He scoffed.
“How many times did I tell you he would hurt you?”
It was your turn to scoff.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you said.
You were lying through your teeth. It became his business as soon as you asked him for a ride so late at night, but you were too chicken to admit that out loud. His eyebrows shot into his hairline before he barked a laugh.
“None of my business? Doll, everything you do is my business. How many times have you come running to me when a boy hurts you? It’s Bucky’s job to pick up the pieces, but never to make you feel good, right? Is that it?”
“Oh, please,” you said, ignoring the spark of pleasure that shot through your body when he mentioned making you feel good. Claustrophobia overwhelmed you in the car. Being so close to Bucky’s handsome face and alluring scent launched your hormones into a frenzy every time you took a breath. He was everywhere and you couldn’t think straight. You shot out of the car, slamming the door behind you as you stomped away.
Bucky was right behind you, calling after you in a way that made your knees wobble. He gently closed his car door, sighing when he realized you were waiting for him by his front door.
“You’re right,” you mumbled, ignoring his searching stare as he unlocked the door and waved you forward. “It’s not fair to you, but you don’t have to say it like that.”
“Someone ought to,” he snapped. “Look at me.”
You turned away, purposely avoiding his gaze.
“Doll, look at me.”
He stepped in front of you, gently cradling your chin.
He whispered, “Look at me, please,” and because you were so good at listening to him, you did.
“Beautiful.”
He said it so quietly that you weren’t sure he meant for you to hear it. You froze under his watchful gaze, which flicked down to your lips and back up again.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” He breathed, caressing your cheek with his thumb.
You swallowed, nodding slowly. You wanted to stay a lot longer than one night.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmured, glancing at your lips again. “I can’t want this.”
Suddenly, he was halfway across the room, fists clenched at his side. The sudden absence of warmth sent a shiver through you. He was so hot and cold that it was getting hard to keep up.
“Buck-,” you started, but he was moving again, and then his lips were on yours.
He groaned into the kiss, a desperate noise that mirrored your own desire for him. His arms wrapped around your waist, ferociously tugging you against his chest. You moaned into his mouth as swiped his tongue over yours.
“I’ve wanted to do this-,” he said, before kissing you again, unable to keep away now that he tasted the forbidden fruit, “-the entire summer.”
You could tell that he meant it. He kissed you like he meant it.
“I know I should feel bad,” he said, lifting you so that you could wrap your legs around his waist, “but I don’t. This feels fucking amazing, doll.”
“Bucky,” you moaned, whimpering when he attached his lips to your neck, nibbling at a spot that sent heat directly to your core.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, breathing into the crook of your neck. “Tell me you want me too,” he begged, nearly whining.
You were glad he was holding you up because you would’ve fallen to your knees at the sound of his whine. He gripped your waist tightly, waiting for your answer. You pressed your lips against his, wondering why it took him so long to finally admit that there was something between the two of you.
“I want you, Bucky,” you murmured against his lips, “I’m all yours.”
He smirked. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said before slamming his lips against yours.
His bed was soft. You’d imagined lying in it a million times; underneath him, atop him, on all fours – but you’d never thought about how soft it would be. You’d removed your shirt halfway to his bedroom, throwing it in a random direction because you had to feel his skin against yours. He’d thrown you on the bed, tugging your pants down your legs in one smooth motion, and now he was standing at the end of the bed, watching you squirm beneath his gaze. His fingers lightly grazed your ankle, tickling.
“What is it?” You asked, crossing your arms over your exposed breasts.
“Don’t do that,” he chided, clicking his tongue. “Don’t hide. I want to see all of you.”
You slowly uncrossed your arms, exposing yourself to him. He sucked in a breath, slowly lowering his gaze from your face to your body.
“Can I touch you? Taste you? Fuck you?” He asked finally, and you nearly moaned at the rasp in his voice.
“Yes,” you moaned, “please.”
He didn’t waste any time, dropping his face to your core and swiping his tongue through your folds. You nearly bucked off the bed, but he held you down, groaning against you.
“Oh, fuck, Bucky,” you moaned, arching your back. “Don’t stop.”
His tongue was a glorious feeling against your skin, sucking and nibbling at your sensitive core. You’d never felt this good while getting head from anyone else, and you doubted you ever would again. He wound you up tighter and tighter until heat pounded in your core and you couldn’t remember which direction was up.
“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long, doll,” he murmured between licks, kissing your mound as you quivered beneath him.
“Please, Bucky,” you whined, heart pounding.
“Please what, baby?” He asked, tilting his head. He was teasing you, and you were putty in his hands.
“Please touch me. Please. I’m so close,” you mewled, squeezing your eyes closed. A desperate tear escaped as he teased you mercilessly.
“Since you asked so nicely, baby,” he said, finally swirling his tongue around your clit.
You exploded beneath him, gasping at the pleasure as it radiated through you. Wave after wave of your orgasm crested, relieving the pressure that had been building since the very first moment you’d seen Bucky in the parking lot earlier. You squirmed beneath him, grasping at the sheets before you finally wound your fingers in his hair, tugging.
“There you go, doll,” he murmured, coaxing you down from your high, running his fingers around your thighs in a soothing motion. “You’re so pretty when you come.”
You heaved, heart thundering in your chest. His cheek rested against your thigh, watching you come back to yourself. Slickness coated his chin, and you nearly came from the sight of him alone. His eyes, usually an icy blue, were dark oceans of desire, waiting patiently for a sign that you were ready for him.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you panted, “I should’ve called you a long time ago. That was insane.”
His eyes briefly darkened - the only indication that he was still upset with you for being so blind to his feelings – before he blinked it away, smirking.
“I’m not done with you just yet, doll,” he murmured, slowly inching his way up your exhausted body.
He trailed up your stomach, lightly pressing his lips to your soft skin and relishing the feeling with each kiss. When he made his way to your sternum, he paused, nuzzling his head to your chest.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he whispered, breath fanning across your exposed nipples, hardening them almost painfully. He hovered there for a moment, waiting for your consent again. “I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want you.”
You hazily blinked, trying and failing to focus on his words when his mouth was so close to your breasts.
“Can I have you, doll?” He asked, a ghost of a whisper. “Will you let me have this part of you? Will it be enough to satiate the need I have for you?”
You couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or to himself, but you didn’t care. Heat was coiling in your gut once again. His words alone were enough to elicit a whine from your throat.
“Will you still look at me in the morning the way you’re looking at me now?” He asked, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingertips. “One night will never be enough, but I won’t complain if it means you’ll have me tonight.”
You whimpered, unable to voice the desire you felt for him. He was everything you’d ever wanted and more.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, licking his lips. “All mine, tonight.”
“Always, Buck,” you gasped, arching your back so that his lips were even closer to your chest. “I’m yours, always.”
A genuine smile crossed his face, so sweet and obvious in its joy that his next movement sent a shock through your entire system. His tongue flattened against your breast, drawing a tantalizing line from your nipple to your collar bone before he kissed your throat. The sudden contact from his warm mouth sent you over the edge for a second time, clawing at his back for more, more more.
Grunting, he slid into you mid-orgasm, eliciting a moan from deep in your chest. You’d never felt so full before, and you loved it. You arched your back, begging him to move. No more waiting or teasing. You needed him everywhere, and he was more than happy to oblige.
“Shit, baby,” he cooed, warm breath heating your neck, “you feel so good.”
His need for you was visceral and endless. He pounded into you with such passion that your body couldn’t do anything except hold on and enjoy the ride. He teased, and nipped, and laughed into your skin as your bodies came together, an act of vulnerability you had never experienced with anyone before.
Not to mention how much he talked during it. He sang praises against the column of your throat, calling you the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, claiming he didn’t deserve the attention you were giving him, wishing he could stay this close to you forever. His words were overwhelming and incredibly seductive, breathing life into you as he sent you crashing over the edge, a showcase of pure greed for your pleasure.
He kissed you like he’d never get to kiss you again, begging another and another and another off of you, worshipping the softness of your lips and the heat in your gaze. He couldn’t get enough, holding you against him so tightly when he came that you could feel it in your bones.
“Breathe, baby,” he cooed, peppering your cheeks with kisses as your mind reeled with pleasure. “My pretty, pretty girl.”
You didn’t think you’d ever come down from your high, but eventually you blinked and could see the ceiling again. Tears sprung from behind your eyes, another emotional release that you didn’t quite understand.
“That was so good,” you exclaimed, more tears escaping down your cheeks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see you, Bucky.”
Bucky wiped the tears away, kissing the streaks they left behind.
“I’m not mad, doll,” he said simply, shaking his head.
“I’m an idiot,” you sniffled, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he scoffed, and though he was smiling, you could tell he was serious. “Don’t worry about it, pretty girl. Just stay with me tonight, and we’ll figure everything else out tomorrow, okay?”
“Everything else?” You questioned, blinking away the last of the tears you’d shed.
He smirked, unable to hide his glee when he said, “I don’t know how I’m going to look your dad in the face after what we just did together. How do I tell him I’m in love with his daughter? He’s going to kill me.”
It was your turn to giggle as Bucky flopped onto his back, running his hand over his face in a pitiful manner. He hadn’t even realized what he’d said, which sent a shock of butterflies through your body. You decided to keep that little secret to yourself, enjoying the playfulness in his gaze.
“I think that’s a problem for tomorrow,” you commented, stifling another laugh.
“Too true,” he joked, shaking his head, “I’m way too old to be up this late.”
He gently tugged on your arm, pulling you toward him so that you were straddling his waist. He cradled your hips, running his fingertips along the skin he’d worshipped earlier.
“I have some bad news about that,” you murmured, leaning forward to kiss the crease that formed between his eyebrows. “I’m starving.”
He grinned, nipping at the skin beneath your collarbone.
“I have some bad news about that,” he repeated, smirking. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes as he said, “I’m starving too,” and kissed you so sensually that heat sparked deep in your core again.
He grasped your hips tightly, grinding your sensitive mound against his already hard member.
“Oh,” you tutted, smirking, “I guess we can put off breakfast for a little longer.”
“You’re sure?” He questioned, arching an eyebrow at you.
“Oh, yes,” you assured him.
Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. Every single boyfriend besides one – he sort of loved the last one for sending you in his direction, but he’d never admit that out loud.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, civil war canon compliant, smut, mentions of size difference, widows have a red room variant of a super soldier serum, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, sex pollen, touch starved, bucky is so down bad, dry humping, bucky is a virgin, virginity loss, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, body worshiping, arguments, banter, physical fights as foreplay
⭐︎ word count: 11.1k
⭐︎ a/n: first time writing for civil war bucky and a black widow/avenger reader, kinda nervous. this is also my first attempt writing sex pollen. i hope i make the founding fathers proud with this one. gif
synopsis:
While Bucky Barnes is on the run, Steve entrusts you to look after his old friend while the rest of the team tries to resolve the conflict with Tony Stark peacefully. As if babysitting a grumpy ex-Hydra soldier wasn't hard enough, an airborne toxin gets released—one designed to weaken a super soldier's resolve with the intention to trap them... and an unexpected side effect that skyrockets their libido.
Between the constant bickering and fighting for your life, you have to keep reminding yourself, "I refuse to be Bucky's first."
← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜
There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.
He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.
But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.
Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.
And that was the Winter Soldier.
“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”
Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.
“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”
Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.
The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.
“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”
“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”
You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”
The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.
No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.
Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.
“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.
“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”
Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.
Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.
Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.
He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?
You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?
But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.
“Fine.”
You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.
“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”
Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”
“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.
“Are you coming, Barnes?”
Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.
You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.
As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.
“Should I drive?” He asked.
You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”
Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.
“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”
Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.
As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.
Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.
“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.
Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.
Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”
Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.
“I’ll be fine right here.”
You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.
“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”
You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.
“Tighter,” you commanded.
From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.
He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.
“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.
It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.
To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.
But for Bucky…
Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.
“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.
“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.
“Is that tight enough for you?”
“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.
Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.
You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.
You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.
“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.
“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”
Bucky let out a tired sigh.
You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.
You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.
Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?
Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.
“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”
Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.
“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”
“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.
“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.
You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.
“Just go sit over there or something.”
Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.
“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”
His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.
“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.
The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.
A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…
“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”
You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.
“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”
You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.
You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”
But Bucky was faster.
He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.
You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.
You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.
The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.
“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.
“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.
“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”
You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.
Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.
Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.
You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.
Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.
“Let go of me!”
You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.
“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.
He was angry.
He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.
One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.
You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”
“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”
You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.
“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”
“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”
Bucky was hesitant.
He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.
Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.
“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”
“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”
You and Bucky side eyed each other.
The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.
“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.
Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.
“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”
You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.
“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”
“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”
There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.
Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?
During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.
It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.
“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”
If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.
Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.
He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.
“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.
You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.
“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”
There was no answer.
The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.
“Steve! Respond!”
Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.
“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”
“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”
You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.
“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”
Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.
There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.
“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.
“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”
You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.
While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.
“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.
It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.
Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.
“I think… I need to sit.”
Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.
Or at least, not anytime soon.
You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.
“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.
The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.
You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.
“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”
You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.
Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.
“W-what the hell…?”
Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”
Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.
Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.
Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.
“Hey—what… what are you doing?”
“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”
The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.
The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.
He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.
Fuck. What was he thinking?
But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.
This was going bad for Bucky.
Too close.
Too close. Too close. Too close.
Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.
“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.
His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.
“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”
“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”
“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”
Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.
It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.
This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.
Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.
“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.
You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.
His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.
“What the hell are you doing—!”
“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.
“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”
Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.
“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”
You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.
“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”
“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”
You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”
His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.
“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.
Oh.
Oh.
Bucky was a virgin?
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.
You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.
Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”
“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.
His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.
“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”
If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.
“Bucky, I can’t.”
His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because—”
“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”
“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.
Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.
With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.
“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”
“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”
You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.
“I’ll be fine.”
You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.
You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.
His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.
You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.
It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.
It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.
No. You couldn’t go to him.
If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.
He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.
Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.
“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”
“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”
You sucked in a breath.
Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.
Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.
You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.
He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.
Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.
Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.
“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”
A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.
As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.
Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.
The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.
Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.
Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.
“Bucky… what are you—”
“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.
His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.
“I need you.”
“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.
Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.
“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”
His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.
“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.
His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.
“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.
You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.
“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”
You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.
There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.
But you couldn’t.
Not like this.
“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”
Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.
“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”
His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.
“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”
Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.
Like your mouth… or your…
“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.
His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.
“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”
Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.
You couldn’t believe it.
Bucky had just finished right in his pants.
“Bucky…”
His face was unreadable.
His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.
You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.
You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.
“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”
With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.
Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.
“Hey—what are you—!”
Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.
“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”
Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.
No.
I won’t let this happen.
I refuse to be Bucky’s first.
But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.
And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.
“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”
He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.
“Can I kiss you?”
You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”
His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.
You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.
He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.
But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.
You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.
His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.
The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.
You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.
His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”
His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.
When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.
“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”
You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.
“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.
The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.
His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.
“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.
“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”
You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”
You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.
“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.
There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.
A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.
“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”
“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.
His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.
You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.
Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.
He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.
The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.
He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.
His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.
“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”
Your eyes searched Bucky’s.
He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.
Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.
You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”
Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.
He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.
Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.
You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.
His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.
With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.
“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”
Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.
It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.
Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.
The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.
He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.
His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.
He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.
“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”
Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.
You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.
“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”
You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.
When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.
“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.
Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.
With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.
The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.
“Ohhh…”
Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.
You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.
“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”
He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.
You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.
Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.
“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”
Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.
“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”
His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.
Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.
“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.
His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.
A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.
Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.
Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.
“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”
“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.
You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”
Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.
“This is torture.” He groaned.
You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.
“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”
You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.
His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.
“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”
Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.
He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.
You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.
“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.
He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.
“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.
Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.
The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.
Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.
Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.
“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”
He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.
Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.
The sensation was addicting.
Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.
He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.
To him, this was like a dream come true.
But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.
With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.
Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.
Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.
Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.
“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”
You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”
His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.
Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.
The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.
He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.
“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.
His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.
He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.
“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”
You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.
His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…
“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”
With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.
His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.
He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.
Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.
The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.
“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.
Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.
Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.
You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.
But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.
If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.
He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.
“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”
You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.
Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.
“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.
He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.
“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”
The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.
“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.
Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”
“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”
The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.
“Do you copy? Report in.”
You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.
Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.
“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”
Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.
Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.
“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”
A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”
You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.
“We’re fine.”
halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
Heeyyy princess I was wondering if you could write about beefy college Bucky fucking doggy style while choking her and after finishing inside her he'd eat her out until she squirted all over his mouth
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 ⊹ . beefy!bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : rough sex, no use of y/n, choking, doggy style, creampie, cum eating, cunnilingus after creampie, overstimulation, squirting, multiple orgasms, possessive behavior, size kink
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : so uh… yeah this is straight up nasty. like biblically inaccurate “my parents would disown me” type nasty. beefy college bucky is out here choking you, creampie-ing you, then eating his own kids back out like it’s a five star meal 😁😁😁
The dim light of Bucky’s off-campus apartment filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. The place smelled like him, clean sweat, faint cologne, and that underlying masculine musk that always made your knees weak. College life had been a whirlwind of late-night study sessions turning into something far more heated, and tonight was no different. Bucky Barnes, the beefy athlete with arms like tree trunks and a smirk that could melt steel, had you exactly where he wanted you.
He’d started slow, all teasing touches and filthy promises whispered against your ear while you made out on the couch. But the tension had built like a storm. Now you were on all fours on his bed, knees sinking into the mattress, back arched deep as he knelt behind you. His massive frame loomed over your smaller one, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. Bucky’s thick cock nudged against your slick folds, teasing, dragging up and down your dripping slit while one of his big hands gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, princess,” he growled, voice low and rough, laced with that Brooklyn accent that thickened when he was turned on. “Look at you. So wet already. Been thinking about this tight little pussy all damn day.”
You whimpered, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “Bucky… please.”
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest. One hand slid up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair before he gripped your throat from behind. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel owned. His palm was huge, calloused from years of football and gym sessions, wrapping around your neck with perfect pressure. He squeezed just a little as he finally pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open.
“Oh god-” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you completely. The stretch burned so good, his girth splitting you wide. You could feel his heavy balls resting against you, the coarse hair on his thighs brushing your skin.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it all.” Bucky’s hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the room. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started thrusting, deep powerful strokes that made the bed creak beneath you. Each slam of his hips drove you forward, your breasts bouncing, nipples hard against the sheets.
His hand tightened around your throat, tilting your head back so he could lean down and growl right against your ear. “You feel that, baby? How deep I am? This pussy was made for me. So fucking tight, squeezing my cock like you never wanna let go.”
You were already a mess, moaning loudly with every thrust. “Bucky- fuck- harder-”
He obliged with a grunt, pounding into you harder. The force was relentless. He was stomping the shit out of you, hips slamming forward with bruising intensity, the sound of his pelvis smacking your ass filling the room alongside your broken cries. Sweat slicked your bodies, dripping down your back as he railed you. His free hand reached around to pinch and roll your clit, making you jolt and clench around him.
“Babygirl, you’re creaming all over me already. Such a greedy little thing,” he praised, voice strained with effort. His balls slapped against your clit with every brutal thrust. The pressure on your throat made everything sharper, the pleasure bordering on overwhelming. Stars danced behind your eyelids as he choked you just right, controlling your breath, making you lightheaded in the best way.
You were mewing, actual pathetic little mewls spilling from your lips as he destroyed you. “Ah-ahh- Bucky! I’m- fuck- I’m so close-”
“Not yet, princess,” he snarled, slowing his thrusts just enough to torture you, grinding deep and circling his hips. The head of his cock rubbed against that perfect spot inside you over and over. “You’re gonna cum when I say. Gonna fill this pussy first.”
He kept you right on the edge, choking you tighter when you tried to chase your orgasm, then loosening just enough for you to gasp for air. His body was a wall of muscle behind you, broad chest pressed to your back, abs flexing with every powerful snap of his hips. The scent of sex was thick in the air, your arousal coating his thighs and dripping down yours.
Finally, he let go of your restraint. “Cum for me, baby. Milk my cock like the good little slut you are.”
You shattered. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing wildly as your orgasm ripped through you. Bucky groaned loud, hips stuttering before he buried himself deep and came with a guttural roar. Thick ropes of hot cum flooded your pussy, pulse after pulse as he emptied himself inside you. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his seed deeper, making sure you took every drop.
“Fuck yes… good girl. Taking my load so perfectly, princess.”
You stayed locked together for a long moment, both panting. Bucky’s hand loosened on your throat, sliding down to stroke your back almost tenderly. But he wasn’t done. Not even close. He pulled out slowly, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum leaked from your swollen, abused hole.
You collapsed onto your stomach, trembling, trying to catch your breath. But Bucky flipped you onto your back with ease, his massive hands spreading your thighs wide. He settled between them, staring down at your dripping, creamy pussy with hunger in his eyes.
“Wait- Bucky, no,” you protested weakly, cheeks burning as you tried to close your legs. The overstimulation made you sensitive, and the thought of him going down after he’d just finished inside you made you squirm. “That’s… that’s icky.”
Bucky paused, eyebrows shooting up. A wicked grin spread across his face. “What did you just say, babygirl?”
You bit your lip, voice small. “Icky. It’s… it’s nasty, Bucky. You just came in me. You don’t have to-”
“Fuck you mean nasty?” he interrupted, voice dropping to that dangerous, dominant tone that made your stomach flip. He grabbed your thighs harder, shoving them further apart and pinning them down with his broad shoulders. “You think I give a single fuck about that? This pussy is mine. Every fucking inch of it. My cum dripping out of you? That’s the hottest shit I’ve ever seen, baby.”
“Bucky- ah!” Your words cut off in a sharp cry as he dove in without warning.
His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking hard while his tongue swirled around the sensitive bundle of nerves. He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. The taste of your combined release didn’t deter him one bit, in fact it seemed to drive him wild. He licked broad stripes up your slit, lapping up his own cum mixed with your juices like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Fuck, princess. You taste so goddamn good. Sweet and creamy and all mine.” His voice was muffled against your folds, but the words were clear. He devoured you, no mercy. His tongue fucked into your entrance, scooping out more of his cum before he swallowed it down and went back to your clit.
You were thrashing, hands flying to his hair, half trying to push him away, half pulling him closer. “Bucky- oh my god- it’s too much! I can’t- fuck-”
“You can and you will,” he growled, the vibrations making your hips buck. One of his thick fingers pushed inside you, curling right against your g-spot while he sucked your clit relentlessly. His other arm wrapped around your thigh, holding you open as you squirmed. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out filled the room, slurping, licking, moaning like a starving man.
Tension coiled tight in your belly again, faster than you expected. The overstimulation blended with fresh pleasure, building higher and higher. He added a second finger, pumping them in and out in time with his tongue.
“Look at you, whining like a little kitten,” he teased between licks, his chin and lips shiny with your mess. “Thought you said this was nasty? Now you’re grinding on my face like you can’t get enough, babygirl.”
“I- I didn’t- Bucky please- ” Your protests dissolved into broken moans. You were a complete mess, thighs shaking around his head, fingers yanking his hair as he stomped you with his mouth the same way he had with his cock, ruthless, relentless, perfect.
He doubled down, sucking your clit hard and curling his fingers just right. “Cum again, princess. Squirt all over my mouth. Give it to me.”
Your whole body seized, back arching off the bed as you screamed his name. Liquid gushed out of you, soaking his face, his tongue, dripping down his chin and onto the sheets. He didn’t stop, didn’t even pull back. He drank it all down, moaning loudly as you squirted again and again, flooding his eager mouth.
“Fuck yes, babygirl. That’s my good girl. So fucking pretty when you squirt for me.”
He kept licking you through the aftershocks, gentler now but still thorough, until you were twitching and whimpering, completely spent. Only then did he crawl up your body, pulling you into his strong arms. His face was slick, lips swollen, but he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourselves on his tongue.
“You’re never calling my pussy nasty again,” he murmured against your lips, voice full of dark amusement. “Understand, babygirl?”
You nodded weakly, curling into his chest with a shy, satisfied smile. “Yes, Bucky.”
“Good princess.” He stroked your hair, holding you close as your heartbeats slowly synced. “We’re just getting started tonight.”
You fell through time by accident — and now you're stuck in 1943, watching Bucky Barnes charm every woman in the room but you. So you start to wonder: did the man you left behind ever really want you, or just keep what was convenient? He's about to answer that. He just doesn't know it yet.
◌⃘ Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x nurse!Reader and present!Bucky Barnes x scientist!reader
◌⃘ Word count: 2.5K
◌⃘ Warnings: angst, because I don't feel well and this is how my brain works when I'm sick.
The small dance hall in Brooklyn smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, and you had been standing against the back wall for the better part of an hour, watching the man you loved fall in love with everyone but you.
Not that he knew you. That was the cruel logic of it all. To Sergeant James Barnes, you were nobody. Nothing but a nurse he'd been introduced to twice, and forgotten both times. A face in a crowd of pretty faces, but by no means the prettiest.
You had stopped being able to feel your own face somewhere around the third song, no longer pretending to smile.
"You gonna dance, or you gonna be a wallflower all night?"
You turned. One of the girls— Doris, or maybe it it was Lilian, you weren't paying attention— was smiling at you with the social grace that women in this time seemed to possess effortlessly. They belonged in a way you never would. You gave her something that was probably a smile.
"I'm alright watching."
"Watching him, you mean." She followed your gaze to where Bucky stood in his dress uniform, left arm braced against a pillar as he leaned down to murmur something into the ear of a redhead who laughed like he'd hung the moon. "Half the room's watching him. Don't feel bad, sweets. He's real generous with the old charm."
Generous! You laughed to yourself, that was certainly one word for it.
You'd been in 1943 for eleven days. Eleven days since the machine in your lab had done whatever it was that it did. There had been a surge of power, a blinding flash of light and the smell of ozone that still hadn't left your nostrils. You had woken up staring at a strange sky, in an alley between two buildings you didn't recognize.
Eleven days later, you had talked your way into a nursing post with the competence that only came with training from a program that wouldn't exist for another sixty years.
The first time you had seen him, you hadn't been able to move. You almost walked past without a backward glance. The thing that had gotten your attention wasn't how he looked, it was his voice. It hadn't changed. What had changed was how freely he laughed
It was all you could think of as you lay on a narrow rented bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking: He's here. He's alive and whole and here, and he has no idea who I am.
You'd thought seeing this version of him would be a comfort.
You'd been so stupid.
So there you were, contemplating your existence, a woman out of your own time. And you realized that the thing nobody told you about time travel was that it was mostly waiting.
You had managed to track down a physicist— a nervous, but brilliant scientist who was well ahead of his time and happened to work for Stark Industries and liked to carry out experiments in his basement.
When you'd described the machine, he had gone very pale and very quiet and then become very interested. He offered to help you. He thought it would take weeks. He speculated a great many things, and every one of them required you to stay close to the war effort, close to the base, close— by fate or by accident— to Bucky-freaking-Barnes.
You should have quit, but you needed the money and a place to stay. So you saw him. Constantly. At the mess, in the corridors, at these godforsaken dances the other nurses dragged you to. And every time, the same knife went in.
Because Bucky Barnes flirted with everyone.
You watched him do it like a case study you had a vested interest in. I'm a way, you did.
He flirted with Lilian and Doris and Elizabeth, with Marian and Margaret and even Sandy. He flirted with the girl who sold cigarettes and the middle-aged woman who ran your boarding house who flushed like a school girl every time he tipped his cap.
He flirted with the same energy that other mean breathed— unconsciously, effortlessly and with enthusiasm. With the whole world except you.
With you he was polite. God, the politeness was utterly devastating. Every 'ma'am.' Every 'miss.' Every nod.
Once— and only once— he caught you looking at him for too long across the mess hall and you had noticed a flicker on his face. It wasn't interest, no you knew his expressions well enough, it was something closer to confusion. Almost as though he couldn't quite figure out why this particular nurse kept staring at him like she was drowning.
You'd looked away so fast you'd spilled your coffee.
So here's the thing you could quite wrap your head around. It was the splinter which kept digging it's way deeper. He was still Bucky. Before the fall. Before seventy years of ice and torture. Before his free will had been ripped away. It was still him. The same kind man you loved.
And his man had looked at you and felt nothing.
"You look like you're thinking too hard," Lillian said. "Never a good idea at a dance."
"Sorry." You forced a smile and made yourself relax. "Long shift," you lied with a shrug.
She patted your arm sympathetically and drifted off in the direction of a corporal who had been eyeing her from across the hall. And then you were alone. Again. Listening to Bucky laughing at something across the room, his eyes crinkled and nose scrunched. You had to close your eyes.
In the present, you told yourself, he loves you.
But did he?
This thought was the poison of the past, the reason the past eleven days had hollowed you out and given you reason to doubt. Because you'd met your Bucky broken. You'd met him after— after the Soldier, after the torture, after the long slow work he had done to put himself back together, with therapy and effort and the kind of hard-won stillness that made his rare smiles feel earned. Your Bucky was quiet. He was careful. He loved you the way a man loves the shore after a shipwreck— grateful, fierce, like something he'd been afraid to hope for.
When you thought back, this stillness had always felt like the depth in your relationship. That his quiet devotion was the shape of a man who had survived far too much to be careless with his heart. That when he reached for you in the dark, when he said your name with reverence, when he told you that he loved you, it was the truest thing in him.
Only now you'd seen the before.
Now you'd seen who he was when the world hadn't broken him yet.
And that man— that carefree, radiant, flirtatious man— he wouldn't have looked at you twice. That man had a type, and you were watching him charm her across the dance floor right now, and it most decidedly wasn't you. It was never you.
So what did that make what you had back home?
It was the ugly thought. The one that had been circling your brain in different iterations for the last eleven days.
He's with you because you were there.
Because you'd been kind to him at the worst point of his life.
Because you were willing, and steady, and you'd stayed when staying was hard.
Because a drowning man doesn't check whether the hand pulling him up is the one he'd have chosen.
He grabs what's offered.
You were what was offered. Convenient. Present. Undemanding.
Not chosen. Settled.
You believed it completely, while standing in that dance hall. It sank deep into your bones, like the weight of something you'd always half-known and finally let yourself see.
"You're that nurse."
You startled so badly at his voice that you knocked your purse off the table. Bucky was standing in front of you— right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the pomade and the wool of his uniform. And he was looking at you with that faint, puzzled crease between his brows. He bent down and retrieved your purse without a second thought.
"I— yeah. Sorry. Yes. I'm a nurse."
Brilliant. Very cool. Totally nailed that response. You mentally face palmed yourself.
"You keep looking at me." He said it plainly, without judgement. "All week. At the mess, and now here." He paused, studying your face. "Do I know you? From somewhere? I feel like I oughta, and it's drivin' me half crazy tryna figure it out."
You don't know me yet, was the thought didn't say. You won't know me for another eighty years.
"No," you managed in a flat tone. "You don't know me."
He studied you. And for one horrible, hopeful second you let yourself imagine that something would spark between you. That he would recognize something buried deep inside himself, the one who would one day become the man you loved. That he'd feel it, the way you felt it. The impossible gravity that existed between you.
He didn't. You watched him not feel it. He just gave you a small, courteous, sorry-can't-place-you smile and the last shred of hope shattered in it chest.
"Well," he said. "You alright? You look a little—" he gestured vaguely at all of you, "—pale. Rough night on the ward?"
You laughed dismally. "Something like that."
"You want some air? You look like you want some air."
And there it was. Not attraction. Kindness. The reflexive decency of a good man toward a woman who looked unwell. He'd have offered the same to Doris or Evelyn, to the redhead or the blonde, to anyone really. You knew it, and you took it anyway, because you were weak and you loved him and this was the closest he'd stood to you in eleven days.
Outside, the night was cold and wet and smelled of the harbor. Bucky lit a cigarette, offered you one, seemed unsurprised when you shook your head. For a while neither of you said anything.
"You got somebody?" he asked finally, and your heart lurched dangerously. "Back home, I mean. You got that look. Like half of you is somewhere else."
You laughed and it came out wrecked.
"Yeah," you said. "I've got somebody."
"He treat you right?"
He loves me like a man loves the thing that saved him, you thought. And I don't know anymore if that's the same as loving me for me.
"I don't know," you said honestly. "I used to think so. Now I'm not sure he'd have picked me. If things had been different. If he'd had… options. I think maybe I was just… the one who was there."
Bucky was quiet a moment. When you looked at him he was frowning— not the usual puzzled frown, it was something more thoughtful.
"That's a helluva thing to carry," he said. "You wanna know what I think?"
He looked at you, barely waiting for you to answer before he continued.
"I flirt with every dame in that room. You've seen me, don't pretend you haven't." He gave you a rueful half-smile. "It's easy. Don't cost me a thing. You smile, they smile, everybody has a nice night, nobody gets hurt. It's—" he searched for the right word, "—it's cheap. You understand? It's the cheapest thing I got."
You stared at him.
"You know what's not cheap?" he went on, looking out into the night. "The stuff that costs you something— and that's not the girl you charm across a dance hall. That's the one you'd still want around when there's nothing charming left in you. When you're scared, or sick, or done things you can't take back."
He exhaled smoke. "A fella who's had it easy, he'll flirt with anybody. Don't mean anything. But a fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person—" he shrugged, "—seems to me that's the only kind that counts. The rest's just… noise."
You couldn't breathe.
He didn't know how deeply what he'd said had resonated with you. He couldn't have. He was just a kind man being kind to a sad woman outside a dance hall, offering the accidental wisdom of someone who'd one day live every word of it. But he'd reached across eighty years and removed the splinter from your heart.
A fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person.
That was your Bucky. Not a drowning man grabbing for the nearest hand. A man who had been through the absolute worst the world could do. A man who had every reason to be closed and cold and careful with the little warmth he had left. And instead who spent it, deliberately, expensively, on you.
Not because you were convenient. Because when everything cheap had been burned out of him, you were what remained. You were the thing that counted.
The flirtation you'd been grieving wasn't the love you knew. It never had been. It was the noise. And your Bucky had gone silent with everyone else in the world and still turned, in the dark, toward you.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Bucky looked faintly bewildered. "For what? I didn't do anything."
"You'd be surprised," you said, tears slipping down your cheeks before laughing at the way he was hastily patting his pockets for a handkerchief with the flustered gallantry of a man way out of his depth
And for the first time in eleven days the ache in your chest had somewhere to go.
The scientist sent for you nine days later. You had pulled yourself away from the pub, one last glance at the Sergeant before you scurried away under the cover of darkness.
The machine hummed and the basement reeked of ozone. Suddenly your heart was pounding and you were looking back at the strange world you were leaving. At the war that hadn't broken him fully yet. At the still charming boy who would become, through unspeakable years, the quiet man who loved you.
I'm coming home baby, you told him, across the space-time continuum. I finally understand what I'm coming home to.
With that vow, you stepped into the light.
When you opened your eyes it was day and you were back in your lab, surrounded by your things and there— there was already someone crossing the room toward you at a dead run. Someone with a metal arm and a face raw with grief and terror that lasted twenty days. Someone who caught you and held you like the shore holds the shipwreck.
"You're back," Bucky said into your hair, over and over, wrecked and reaching only for you. "You're back, you're back, you're back."
"I'm back," you said. "I know exactly where I am."
It was a few days later when the words finally came spilling out. The two of you were in bed together— a place the two of you had spent a lot of time since your return.
His vibranium arm was heavy across your torso and the TV in your room was murmuring softly in the background to no one in particular.
You had already explained about the basement science you'd enlisted from a slightly creepy man for eleven days, which had brought a disgruntled expression to his face. But you'd been careful around the part that mattered, and Bucky, who noticed everything, had noticed that too.
"You saw me," he said finally. It wasn't a question. "Back then. You tell your story right up to it and then."
You went still in his arms.
"What was I like?"
He tried to keep his tone relaxed, but there was something mixed into his voice that you didn't expect. Not curiosity… dread. His thumb had stopped moving against your knee and was pressing into your skin harder than he realized.
"I don't—" He stopped, then started again, quieter. "I don't remember a lot of before. Just pieces. So whatever you saw, that's more than I've got." He paused, taking a breath. "Was I— was he someone you liked?"
And you understood, then, what he was really asking. Not was I charming. Not was I hot in the uniform. He was asking whether the man he used to be— the whole, unbroken version, the one the war and the ice hadn't gotten to yet— measured up to the ruin she'd come home to. Whether you'd looked at the original and wished you'd gotten that one instead.
You almost laughed. If he only knew.
"You were charming," you said, and felt him flinch, just slightly. "God, where you charming. You flirted with every woman in Brooklyn. The redhead, the cigarette girl, the landlady— everyone." You watched his jaw tighten even though your voice was light and playful."
"Yeah?" He breathed.
"Yeah, with everyone 'cept me. You didn't look at me twice."
"I— I'm… sorry," he said roughly, and he meant it, absurdly, apologizing for a man who perished eighty years before.
"Don't be." You caught his hand, laced your fingers through the cool metal of his. "You know… I stood there hating it. Eleven days. That's how long I watched you charm the whole world and skip right over me, and I thought— that's who he really is. That's the real Bucky. And the real one wouldn't have picked me."
His eyes came up to yours, dark and stricken, but you continued. "I was afraid that you only loved me now because you were different when you found me. Because I was there… and willing… and you grabbed the nearest hand."
"That's not—" His voice cracked. "That's not—"
"I know." You pressed your forehead to his. "I know it's not. You wanna know how I know?"
He didn't answer. He was barely breathing.
"Because he told me. Outside a dance hall, one cold night, not knowing who I was— he told me the flirting was the cheapest thing he had. That the stuff that counts isn't the girl you charm across a room. It's the one you'd still reach for when there's nothing charming left in you."
You felt him go rigid. "He told me a man who's been through the wringer and still reaches for one particular person— that's the only kind of love that counts. The rest is just noise."
The silence stretched out between you and when you pulled back to look at him, his eyes were wet.
"I said that?" he whispered.
"You said that."
"To you?"
"To a sad stranger you'd never see again." You smiled, and it wobbled. "You reached across eighty years and fixed the exact thing that was breaking me, and you didn't even know you were doing it. You always do it, Buck. The charming one skipped over me. This one —" you pressed his metal hand flat against your chest, over your heart, "— this one ran across a room and held on like I was the only fixed point left in the world. I don't want the one who flirted with all of Brooklyn. I never did. I want the one who counts."
He made a sound, half broken laugh, and pulled you into him, face buried in your hair, arms locked around you like he was afraid you'd fall through time again if he let go.
"I'd skip over the whole world," he said into your neck, wrecked and certain. "Every time. I'd skip over everybody but you."
Summary: He could fight. He could hunt. But when Bucky discovered a human ritual he couldn't quite grasp -dates- he found himself trying to show his mate that he could be more than just a creature of instinct.
Note: Immediate follow-up story of Tangled.
The house smelled like her. Like wool and something he'd never fully managed to name, and no longer needed to, to recognize it as his.
Bucky was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched over the low table, and she was pressed against his side under a shared blanket, her feet hidden beneath his thigh. His hand had settled on her knee at some point, heavy and still, the way it did when she was near, and he was restless.
The screen flickered with one of those shows she watched. People acting out things that weren't real, to tell stories.
Humans were strange.
In the box, a couple sat across from each other at a small table, candles and glasses between them. The woman laughed at something the man said. He poured her wine. Flowers sat crammed into a glass jar at the center of the table, already dying but arranged to hide it.
Bucky frowned.
"Why are they there?" he asked, chin tipped toward the screen.
He watched the way the man's hand moved, deliberate, not reaching but inviting. The woman's smile shifted, softer. It wasn't the same as what he and she did. When they sat together, it was without ritual. Without this careful performance of interest.
She glanced up, following his gaze. "The dinner? It's a date."
The word meant nothing on its own, but the picture did. Two people, seated face to face, offering each other food and wine, suggestive words and intent body language. He knew of that, in another shape…
"Why?" he pressed.
"Why, what?"
"The purpose." His voice came out more demanding than he meant. "Of sitting like that. The food, the flowers. What are they after? Are they friends or is it a couple’s thing?" he still struggled to understand where the line was drawn between friendship and claim. It irritated him, the way they blurred what his kind made clear.
She laughed, not unkindly, more at the way he'd said it, like he was cross-examining a suspect.
"There's no big purpose, Bucky. It's just... getting to know each other. Spending time together. Showing the other person you care, that you put effort into the moment." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's at the start, when you first begin seeing someone. Sometimes couples keep doing it years later. So they don't lose that."
So they don't lose that.
Lose what? he wanted to ask. But his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too clumsy for the question forming in his mind.
He went quiet, eyes still fixed on the screen, where the fictional man tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and produced a small box with some earrings.
The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Bucky's fingers tightened on her thigh, irritated by the sound -too sharp, too rehearsed- but something else moved beneath his skin, older than annoyance.
Something felt wrong.
They'd shared breakfasts at the kitchen table, dinners, spent entire afternoons pressed together beneath blankets, talking, watching television until she fell asleep against him, but that wasn't the same thing.
Humans seemed to assign meaning to the circumstances rather than the act itself.
His own sought someone apt out once a year, met what the body demanded, and each returned to their own dark after, alone, needing nothing from the other until the next season.
What he felt about her, and her for him, had no name in his tongue. No protocol. No elder to ask how it was done right, how you kept a human who needed things he could not feel the need for.
He thought, suddenly, of the Valentine’s Day situation. The pink foil chocolate. The presents in the market. His own frustration afterward, lying alone beneath cold water while trying to understand gifts, offerings, and fish that carried stones to impress a mate.
He had not given her anything that day.
I could have, he thought bitterly. I could have found something, but I chose not to.
His jaw clenched.
The couple on the screen kissed. The camera pulled back, showing other couples at other tables, a room full of humans performing the same ritual with slight variations.
"We've never had one," he murmured.
She blinked. The hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on his chest stilled. "Never had... what?"
"A date." The word felt foreign, too small for the weight he was giving it. "What they are doing. The ritual. We've never..."
He didn't finish. Couldn't find the words for what they had done instead, afternoons on the beach, in the nest, the occasions when he held her through asthma attacks, and she held him through haunting memories. None of it had been framed. None of it had been for something.
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hmm that’s true. We never had one."
It wasn’t a reproach. Just acknowledgment. But he heard reproach anyway, or maybe he heard his own voice saying it for her.
He shifted, uncomfortable, his hand retreating from her thigh to grip the edge of the cushion beneath them. "Would you like to?" The question came out forced, scraped from somewhere low in his throat. "Having… this date thing."
She smiled. That smile that always seemed to know something he didn't. "Bucky, that’s not necessary right now. We are together-"
"But would you like to?" He interrupted her. Hated doing it, but the words not necessary had stuck him like a barb. As if what they had was sufficient, as if she was tolerating his lack of courtship abilities. "Not 'need to.' Like to."
She looked at him. And he saw something shift in her expression, the amusement becoming something more careful, more serious.
“That we go out in a more… human way?" she said, slower.
He nodded once. Rigidly.
She hesitated. Not long -a breath, maybe two- but he noticed it.
"Yes," she said. "I would like to."
He should have felt relief. He felt terror instead.
She must have felt something shift in him -the way his body went still, the way his hand had stopped its lazy path over her leg. She looked up at him, her head tilting slightly.
"Bucky?"
He forced his jaw to unclench. "Yes."
She studied him for a moment, then reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against the tension in his jaw.
"We don't have to do anything elaborate," she said softly. "I just... I'd like to do something with you. That's all."
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
----
She fell asleep against him eventually, the way she always did, her breathing slowing into the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat. He didn't sleep after turning the television off, just stayed awake, staring at nothing, his mind churning.
More human.
The phrase turned like a current, pulling him toward depths he didn't know how to navigate.
What could he offer that wasn't already given? his body, his time, his fierce and unwavering attention?
Money? He had none. Food? He could hunt, but most of the things he could bring her would probably be unfit. Besides, they had eaten together hundreds of times. Was a date simply "eating but with candles"? Was the candle what made the difference?
A restaurant. He'd seen a couple in town when he tagged along with her while shopping for groceries. Lights, tables, people sitting while others served them. The concept had seemed absurd then. It still did. But she had smiled at the screen when the couple entered.
His hand closed into a fist on the cushion.
Objectively -he forced himself to think it, because his kind was nothing if not objective about status- he was a worthy male. The mating mark on his arm proved it, the ink extending past what most achieved. He had survived capture, magic, the war they forced him to wage. He had dealt with those who attacked him while looking for Steve, alone, unarmed, with nothing but what nature had given him.
For his species, that was enough. More than enough, actually. It was superiority.
But she was not his species.
And when she spoke of "effort," of "showing you care," of "putting time into the moment", none of those things required physical traits or abilities. They required something he couldn't name.
Where did he fit in human standards?
He listened for hours while she spoke of things he barely understood: her customers, knitting patterns, shipping policies of some digital platform. He had learned to make toast, to tolerate shoes, to sit in a car that vibrated wrong against his nerves.
The sex was good, that was unquestionable. But she had said once, casually, that for humans sex wasn't enough.
He felt cold suddenly.
Because what else did he do, really? He couldn't buy her things. Couldn't take her to places. Couldn't give her the kind of life that humans built with houses and plans and futures that stretched beyond the next tide. What he could give didn't translate into human currency.
And he had seen what happened to males who couldn't provide in the ways their mates needed in other species. They were left behind.
She stirred against him, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand moved automatically to her hair, caressing it, soothing her back to stillness. The gesture was unconscious now.
That, he thought. That is effort. Learning her. Adapting to her.
But would she see it that way? Would any human?
He looked at the darkened television, then down at his mate sleeping against his chest, completely trusting, her body relaxed in a way no one ever had been with him.
She had chosen him. Was choosing him still, every day she came back to the shore, every night she let him into her house, her nest, her warmth.
I have never shown her that I keep choosing with a gesture. I have simply... stayed.
The thought sat heavy as stone in his chest.
He didn't know if that was enough.
But he knew he couldn't keep asking her to settle for what he didn't understand.
He would learn. He would watch. He would find out what humans needed from each other when they sat across a table with candles and flowers and offered each other their time.
Even if it felt like performing. Even if it made him feel like a creature wearing a skin that didn't fit.
Because she had said yes. And that meant he had to try.
----
A couple of days passed after that.
Not that she noticed anything unusual… not at first. Bucky still came to the cottage, still took up his space on the couch, helped with some things. But his mind was elsewhere, turning like an undertow, circling the same problem from every angle.
She had to sleep, eventually. He didn't always. And those dead hours, when her breathing slowed, and her body went slack against his in the bed, became his window.
The movies.
Not the ones she picked for them to watch together; those had complicated plots and dialogue he couldn't quite track. No. Bucky waited until she was asleep, then took the remote and searched for the ones that seemed to show what people did to impress each other.
The first two nights were frustrating. The movies showed men bringing flowers -he didn't know where to get flowers, or what kind- or reserving tables in places with dim lights – also he had no coin-, or saying things that sounded rehearsed and false.
Is that what she expects? That I pretend to be someone I'm not?
But on the third night, he found a different movie.
A woman walked along a beach at night. Moonlight silvered the water, and then the sea began to glow. Blue. A blue that moved with the waves, that lit up where her feet touched the shore.
Bucky sat up slowly on the couch.
That, he thought. I can do that.
There wasn’t a male there accompanying her, but the woman on screen laughed, spread her arms, spun in the darkness while the water around her flickered like the sea was alive.
He knew where to find that blue. He'd seen it before, floating on the surface like scattered stars.
He would need something to carry it back.
He could already imagine her face. The way her eyes would widen. The sound she'd make, that soft breath she let out when something surprised her in a good way.
He would make her make that sound.
----
The dairy aisle was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, but she lingered there anyway, hand hovering over the butter display.
She grabbed one pack, then paused. Her fingers twitched. She reached for a second pack, then a third, then caught herself and laughed under her breath.
He's going to eat all of this in three days.
She tossed the extra packs into the cart anyway; the butter budget was just part of her life now. She pushed the cart forward, past the yogurts and the cheeses, but her mind had already drifted.
Four days now. She'd noticed a change in him, subtle but unmistakable. He was still there, still present, but something was different.
His silences felt heavier. His eyes would drift to the window when he thought she wasn't looking, and there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. His hand, which used to find hers instinctively, now rested still on his own thigh. Like he was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.
Four nights, she thought again, he hasn't reached for me first. And coming from him, that was practically a scream.
She'd asked him about it, of course. Twice.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? You seem-"
"I'm fine."
The second time, he'd said it with enough finality that she'd let it drop. But she hadn't stopped noticing.
She turned down the next aisle, grabbing a box of tea, -a new strawberry blend- and put it into the cart.
Maybe she was overthinking it. He wasn't exactly a talker. He showed things through actions, through presence, and sometimes, words didn't come easily to him. They never had.
But this felt different.
It wasn't the closed-off silence of someone hiding pain, or the distant quiet of someone lost in old thoughts. It was more like... he was somewhere else.
She paused at the end of the aisle, leaning on the cart for a moment, staring at a display of crackers without really seeing them.
Maybe it's the sea.
The thought surfaced before she could stop it, and once it was there, it wouldn't leave. She knew -had always known- that the ocean was part of him in ways she couldn't fully understand.
Not just his home, but his blood. His nature.
What if the restlessness she'd been sensing was something biological pulling at him from the deep?
What if he was trying to figure out how to tell her he needed to leave?
To swim far and deep, to follow whatever instinct was whispering to him?
She remembered what he'd told her, months ago, before they'd become anything. My kind doesn't attach; everything has a purpose. And though he'd changed, though he'd chosen to stay, what part of that nature still pulsed beneath his skin?
Her stomach churned.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're spiraling. He said he was fine.
She grabbed a box of crackers at random, threw it in the cart, and forced herself to keep moving. The checkout line was short. She paid, bagged her groceries, and walked out into the cold afternoon air.
The ride back to the cottage was quiet. The sky was overcast, the sea a dull grey, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet stone. She let herself drift, still thinking about him, still turning over the same questions.
She'd asked him, once, if he ever missed the deeps. The places where the sun didn't reach, where the pressure was so great it would crush a human body. He'd said yes, but he'd said it like it didn't matter. Like she was more important than the ocean.
She'd believed him. She still believed him.
But that didn't mean the sea had stopped calling him.
She reached the cottage door and fumbled with her keys, nudging it open with her hip. The house was empty when she stepped inside.
No Bucky sprawled on the couch, no heavy presence in the kitchen eating toast. He'd said something about the sea yesterday. Feeling the pull. Needing to swim.
She'd nodded, not questioning it. She understood that part of him better than he probably realized. The sea was his home. His body needed it the way hers needed air.
But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, she felt the absence more sharply than she expected.
She unpacked the groceries slowly, putting the butter in the fridge, stacking the tea next to the kettle, folding the reusable bags and tucking them under the sink. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.
What if he's really trying to figure out how to leave?
The thought hit her like cold water, and she had to stop, her hands braced on the counter, breathing through it.
No. That's not who he is. That's not what we are.
But she'd seen the way he looked at the sea sometimes. The longing in his eyes, even when he was holding her. He'd spent decades alone, wandering, surviving. What if that part of him was too deep to change?
She wrapped her hands around the warm mug a few minutes later, staring out the window at the grey sea, and tried to convince herself she was being ridiculous.
He wasn't going anywhere.
He'd told her, in his own way, that she was his home now.
She had to trust that.
----
The dock was quiet the night of the recollection.
He'd swum the distance, moving through the dark water with the efficiency that only came from being in his element, silent and fluid as a shadow.
The swim had been easy. Almost relaxing, compared to what he was about to do.
He surfaced near the pilings, his head breaking the water in a slow, cautious rise. His eyes swept the dock, the fishing boats, the shore beyond. Empty. Good.
The transformation came quickly, quicker every time he did it, a familiar twist of bone and muscle, his limbs retracting and reshaping, his skin pulling tight over a form he'd never quite learned to love.
He bit back the sounds that wanted to escape his lips, the low grunts and hisses that always accompanied the shift.
It hurt.
It always hurt. But he was used to pain, and he didn't have time to dwell on it.
When it was done, he was human again. Naked and cold. The night air bit at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Disgraceful.
He'd considered bringing clothes. Briefly. But the swim had been long, and he had quite the feat to perform after leaving the docks.
Besides, he'd assumed the place would be empty.
He pulled himself up onto the wooden planks, his bare feet silent against the damp surface. The wood was rough and splintered beneath his soles, and he moved carefully, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.
A few fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, dark and empty. The air smelled of fuel and salt and the faint, rotting sweetness of bait left too long in the sun.
His naked body moved carefully, scanning the ground, then froze.
A sharp sting shot up from his foot. He looked down. A piece of broken glass, glinting in the dim light, buried in the pad of his heel.
He hissed through his teeth, pulling his foot up to inspect the damage. Blood welled dark against his skin.
"Fuck," he muttered, the word still foreign on his tongue but satisfying somehow. That was a human word he'd learned well.
He pulled the glass free -a small piece, nothing too deep- and pressed his thumb against the wound until the bleeding slowed. It would heal quickly. It always did.
But the irritation lingered.
This wouldn't have happened in the sea.
He limped forward a few steps, testing the weight on his foot, then dismissed it. He'd had worse. Much worse. A piece of glass was nothing.
He found what he came for near the end of the dock, a stack of discarded plastic barrels, the kind used for storing fish bait or industrial fluids. They were empty, smelled clean enough, with sealed lids that would keep all inside during the journey.
He tested one. It was large. Heavy, even empty. Carrying two would be a challenge.
He dragged them to the water's edge, then paused, looking out at the dark expanse of the sea.
He slipped into the water silently and shifted again, his limbs spreading wide, tasting the currents, orienting himself.
The barrels floated beside him. He wrapped two tentacles around each, securing them against his body, and began to swim.
The current was against him tonight, but he was stronger. The town faded behind him, then the coast, then the shallows, until he was alone in open water, the stars above and the darkness below.
He swam for hours. Past the fishing grounds, past the drop-off where the seabed fell away into nothing. The water grew colder. The current shifted, then stilled.
And then he saw it.
A faint glow on the horizon, spreading across the surface like a slow dawn. Blue. Electric. Alive.
He slowed, letting himself drift, watching it approach. The light was thick here, so dense it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Thousands upon thousands of tiny organisms, each one a point of light, gathering in the warm currents to perform their silent, ancient dance.
He floated among them for a moment, surrounded by blue, and felt something in his chest loosen. This was his world. This was what he could offer.
Carefully, he uncapped one of the barrels and dipped it beneath the surface. The algae flowed in, glowing faintly, swirling like liquid starlight. He waited until the barrel was full, sealed it, and repeated the process with the second.
The weight was immense. Each barrel was heavy with water, and the distance back was just as far. But he'd carried heavier things. Two barrels of glowing water were nothing.
He turned and began the long swim back, the blue light trailing behind him like a phosphorescent wake. For a while, he let himself feel the satisfaction of making an effort.
By the time he reached the cave, his muscles were burning and the sky was beginning to lighten. He dragged the barrels onto the rock, his muscles burning with exhaustion, and looked at the pools where he'd planned to pour the glowing water.
The tide would reach them in a few hours. If he poured the algae now, it would be washed away before nightfall. All that effort, wasted.
He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.
He thought about the alcove they used in mating season, and with a final surge of effort, he hauled the barrels there.
His arms trembled with the strain, and his limbs ached from swimming for hours and carrying impossible weights.
He was done.
He let himself slide down into the deepest pool, the cool water enveloping his tired body, and he didn't even have the energy to find a comfortable position. His limbs went slack, his eyes closed, and he let the darkness take him.
----
He woke to the sound of water dripping and the soft gray light filtering through the cave's chimney.
His body was stiff, and his muscles protested as he stretched, uncoiling his limbs one by one. The exhaustion from the night before had settled into a dull ache, manageable but persistent.
The light told him it was late afternoon. Almost evening.
He cursed and dragged himself to grab the containers. Then, he uncapped them and began to work.
Once the last remaining of glowing water was poured, he stopped, breathing hard, and let himself look.
It was… beautiful. He'd known it would be.
The pools glowed softly, even with sunrays still entering from the mouth and the vents. The light reflected off the wet stone and danced across the ceiling. The cave was transformed. It wasn't the kind of beauty his kind usually made: functional, purposeful, built for survival. This was something else. Something that existed just to be seen.
He hoped she'd see it the way he did.
He then moved through the cave, gathering what he needed.
From the alcove he pulled the blankets. The ones she'd brought from the cottage, stored in plastic bags. The ones that still smelled like them, and from time to time, they still used.
He carried them to a flat section of rock near the glowing pools, where the surface was smooth enough to be comfortable, and spread them out with clumsy hands.
It wasn't a bed. Not really. But it was soft, and it was theirs.
Also, some things from the cottage that he took before departing for the lights.
The tupperware with the strawberries that he'd seen her pack the other day, rinsing them carefully, patting them dry with paper towels before putting them on the fridge.
He had doubted. They were hers, and he was taking things from her only to give them back as a gesture. It felt... wrong. Like stealing. Like he was pretending to offer something he hadn't earned.
Then he remembered what she'd said, weeks ago, when he'd hesitated to take food from her pantry.
"Bucky, you live here now. Half the time, anyway. You don't have to ask. It's our food."
Ours.
So he took the strawberries. And the wine, too, a bottle of white she'd bought for a dinner she never ended up making, forgotten in the back of the fridge. He didn't know if it was the right kind. He didn't know much about human wine at all.
But he'd seen it in the movies; it seemed important, and he wanted to get this right, so he had snatched a cooler, ice, and the bottle and gone out before she came back from wherever she was.
----
He stepped back and looked at the glowing pools, the blankets, the food.
It looked like something from one of those movies. Something magical. Something that said I thought about you. I planned this. You matter to me.
He felt a flicker of pride. Small, fragile, unfamiliar in this context.
Then he thought about the logistics.
He shouldn’t be just there, waiting for her to appear through the mouth of the cave by inspiration.
He'd have to go get her. Bring her here. And hope that when she saw what he'd done, she'd understand what he was trying to say.
He slid to one of the pools, looking at his work, and waited for the right time.
----
He waited until the sun was low, just before it slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the sea look as if it were burning.
He climbed the path to the cottage with his heart beating harder than it should have been. Ridiculous. He'd faced a lot of things trying to kill him. Walking up a hill to knock on a door shouldn't make him feel like this.
Once at the door, he took a deep breath and let himself in.
She was wearing something he'd never seen before. A dress -not the comfortable things she wore around the house, not the practical clothes she wore to town. Something softer. Her hair was different, too, in a way that made her look almost like a different person.
He just… stared.
Humans, he thought, do this on purpose. They change their appearance to signal something.
She smiled when she saw him. That was good. Her eyes looked brighter than they had earlier, when he'd left. He'd been gone for almost two days, and she'd clearly been busy preparing for something.
Maybe she expected me to come back.
He hadn't told her he would. He never did. Some days he just... left and came back when the sea had released him. She never complained. Never asked where he'd been. She'd just open the door and let him in, like it was natural. Like she knew he would always come back.
He'd never told her he would.
She has no reason to expect me tonight, he realized.
But she was dressed like she might meet someone.
"Hey," she said, closing the distance. "You're back."
"I said I would be."
He hadn't. But it felt true anyway.
She chuckled. A small, amused sound. "You didn't, actually. Still, I'm glad you're here." She glanced over her shoulder, into the house, and something in her expression flickered. "But… actually, I was just about to head out."
Something cold went down his spine.
"Head out?"
"Ian, Arthur's friend, the one from the town? He and his girlfriend invited me for drinks at the new pub. They've been trying to get me to go for some weeks now, knowing I don’t go out a lot." She shrugged, a little apologetically. "I figured I'd finally take them up on it. Since I didn't know when you'd be back."
Since I didn't know when you'd be back.
It was fair. Completely fair. He never told her. He never could tell her, because he didn't know himself. She understood that. She'd always understood that.
But right now, the understanding didn't help.
Because he knew that name. He remembered the half-eaten chocolate on her coffee table, the way his chest had twisted when he'd realized another male had given her an offering. On Valentine's Day. On a day meant for courtship.
He'd said nothing then. Had no right to say anything. They weren't anything. He'd told himself that over and over, had let himself drown in that denial for months.
But he remembered.
The one who gave her chocolate. The one who had a girlfriend, supposedly, but still gave offerings to another female. The one who, even now, was taking her out at night.
His jaw clenched.
"You're going out with him," he said. Flat. Controlled. The kind of control he'd learned to use when he was trying not to do something he'd regret.
Her brow furrowed. "With him and his girlfriend, Bucky. Both of them.
"You arranged to go out with him."
"I didn't arrange it. They invited me." She paused, and something in her expression shifted, a hint of wariness. "And I told you, his girlfriend is coming too. It's not-" She stopped, exhaled. "It's not what you think."
What I think.
He didn't know what he thought. Only that the name Ian had lodged itself somewhere in his stomach and was burning.
"The chocolate," he said. "On the human holiday. He gave you chocolate."
She stared at him. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
Then, slowly: "That was months ago, Bucky."
"I remember."
"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't even-” she sighed. “Ian has a long-term partner," she repeated, firmer this time. "And I'm going out with both of them. Not just him. Both."
The emphasis was deliberate. He heard it.
But his blood didn't care. His blood was already moving, already readying itself for a fight that wasn't there.
He looked at her dress again. The soft fabric. The careful way she'd fixed her hair.
She dressed up for him. The thought came sharp and cruel. She dressed up to go out with the male who gave her an offering. Not for me.
And then, quieter: But I never gave her anything. Not on that day. Not when it mattered.
"You didn't tell me," he mumbled, "That you were going out with him."
"Because I didn't know when you'd be back. You don't have a phone, Bucky. You don't tell me when you're leaving or when you're coming back. I can't just sit here waiting; I have a life."
Again, it was reasonable. He knew it was.
But reason had nothing to do with the way he felt.
He'd been trying so hard to do the human thing. The date thing. The effort thing. He'd spent a day swimming and dragging heavy barrels through the sea, all so he could show her something beautiful, something that proved he'd thought about her, that she mattered.
And she was walking out the door.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them:
"I was going to give you a date," he said. The words came out rough, scraped. "Tonight. In the cave."
She went still.
"A date?"
"Yes." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "The human thing. The one we talked about. I was going to show you. But you are going out with him."
He couldn't say the name.
She stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifted. Surprise, then confusion, then something softer.
"You were planning a date for tonight?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Bucky." Her voice came out soft, almost careful. "You didn't have to-"
"Don't." He cut her off, rougher than he meant. "Don't say 'not necessary.' I know it's not necessary. I did it anyway."
----
She blinked.
The words hung in the air between them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder, and she watched the muscle in his temple twitch.
He's nervous, she realized.
Bucky. Nervous.
The man who'd faced down his own kind, who'd swum through dark water with nothing but claws and teeth, who'd looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever held, was nervous.
Because he planned a date.
She'd spent the last few days watching him drift in and out of the cottage, his silences heavier than usual, his eyes distant. She'd told herself it was the sea calling him. That maybe he was figuring out how to tell her he needed space.
And all along, he was planning a date.
She almost laughed.
Almost.
But the look on his face -the way he was bracing himself, like he expected her to tell him it was stupid, unnecessary, too much- stopped her.
"Bucky," she said with a soft voice. "You planned a date for us in the cave?"
His throat worked. "I- yes."
"And you've been working on this for days."
He didn't answer. But the way his eyes flicked away told her everything.
She stepped closer. "I've been thinking you were pulling away."
His head snapped back to her. "What?"
"The silences. The lost gazes. I thought-" She stopped, shook her head. "I thought maybe the sea was calling you. That you were trying to figure out how to tell me you needed… to go."
Something broke in his expression. His hand came up, not quite touching her, hovering near her elbow like he was afraid to make contact.
"No," he said, and the word came out hoarse. "No. I was-" He stopped, jaw working. "I was trying to give you something. The thing we talked about… when we watched that movie." He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into the motion. "I thought you deserved that. With effort. With-" He stopped, swallowed.
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.
She didn't think. She just moved.
Her arms came around him, pressing her body against his, and she felt the way he went rigid beneath her touch. Every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, held captive by whatever was still coiled tight inside him.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Just stood there, frozen, like he'd forgotten how to accept comfort.
Then, slowly, something in him gave way.
His arms came up, and she felt it, the faint shake of his fingers against her back. Then his arms closed around her, tighter than she expected, pulling her into his chest like she was the only solid thing in a world that had been shifting beneath him for days.
She felt the breath leave his lungs in a long, shaky exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen, increment by increment, like a rope slowly being untied.
"Okay," she murmured against his chest.
He didn't answer. Just pressed his face into her hair and breathed.
She stayed there, letting him hold her, letting him collect himself. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and she felt him shiver. Not from cold.
"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's go then. Show me what you prepared."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his brow furrowing. "But you were going out-"
She almost smiled at the way he said it, all clipped and reluctant, like the words tasted bad.
"I was," she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "And now I'm not."
He blinked, confused, as she unlocked the screen and opened the messaging app. She tapped the voice note icon and held the phone up to her lips, watching his face as she spoke.
"Hey Ian, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I won't be able to make it tonight. Nothing bad, so don’t worry. I’m so sorry for the late notice. Tell Hannah I said hi, and enjoy your drinks!"
She pressed send and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
"There. Done. It’s not like they need me as a third wheel."
"Third wheel?" he asked slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. "What would you do with a wheel in a pub?"
She laughed.
"That means you're the extra person when a couple goes out," she explained, caressing his back. "You're the third one. The one who's not part of the couple. It's a little awkward sometimes, because they're focused on each other and you're just... there."
His frown deepened. "Why a wheel? I don't see why it would be a third thing."
"It's just an expression." She smiled, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "I'll explain more on the way."
He didn't move at first, but then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.
"Okay," he said.
She grabbed his hand and tugged him gently toward the door. "Lead the way. I want to see this date you planned."
As she followed him out into the cool evening air, she felt his fingers tighten around hers. She noticed, too, as they walked, that the tension in his shoulders had eased. His steps were steadier. His jaw, still set, had lost that sharp edge of worry.
There you are, she thought. There's my Bucky.
----
The path to the cave was familiar by now. She'd walked it enough times, in the golden glow of late afternoon and the gray hush of overcast skies. But tonight, something was different.
A faint glow spilled from the mouth of the cave, soft and blue, pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the darkening sky. She slowed, her hand tightening around his. The light wasn't harsh or artificial; it was gentle.
"What is that?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Just watched her, waiting.
She stepped forward, drawn by the glow, and when she reached the entrance, she stopped.
The cave was transformed.
The pools that usually sat dark and still were now filled with liquid light. Blue and silver and white, shifting and swirling like captured stars, drifting in slow, hypnotic circles across the water's surface.
The light reflected off the wet stone walls, dancing across the ceiling in rippling patterns that made the rock itself seem alive. It was like standing inside a living constellation, like the night sky had decided to come down and make its home in the dark.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and she just stood there, drinking it in, letting the wonder settle into her bones.
Then she started moving, her feet carrying her deeper into the cave without conscious thought. The glow grew brighter as she walked, the light intensifying as she passed each pool.
Some were shallow, barely more than puddles of liquid starlight. Others were deeper, the blue so rich it seemed to have weight, like she could reach in and scoop it up in her hands.
And then she saw them, on a flat section of rock that overlooked the largest pool: a nest of blankets had been spread out. And on top of them, arranged with careful precision: a green Tupperware container, and beside it, a bottle of white wine.
She turned slowly, her heart too full for her chest to hold.
He was watching her. Standing just a few feet away, hands at his sides, his face unreadable but his body tight with tension, like he was bracing himself. Like he was waiting for her to tell him it wasn't enough. That he'd gotten it wrong. That she'd expected something different.
"Bucky," she breathed.
He didn't speak. His throat worked, a swallow he couldn't quite hide.
"It's-" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."
Something in his expression eased, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing for days. "I thought… you would like it," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady.
She crossed the space between them in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. "I love it. I love it."
His arms came around her, and she felt it, the release of tension, the way his whole body seemed to exhale. The grip of his arms was careful, still testing, but the rigid wall he'd built around himself was finally coming down.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the best mate ever."
He went still.
The words hung in the air between them, and she caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated, just a little, and she saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.
"You're the best mate ever," she repeated, softer this time, and she watched him process the word. Mate. His word. His language.
His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her smaller ones, and she felt the slight tremor in them, barely there, but unmistakable. He squeezed gently, and pulled softly at her hand.
"Come," he managed. "Sit with me."
She hesitated a moment.
"Bucky," she said slowly, "don't you want to shift first?"
He stopped, and she saw the brief flicker of uncertainty cross his face. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.
"I thought... the idea was a date, as a human thing. I assumed you would prefer-"
She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "I prefer you. Whatever way you want to be tonight. The date isn't just for me, Bucky. It's supposed to be for us. Both of us. I want you to enjoy it too."
He stared at her, processing, and she watched the conflict play out across his features. Then, slowly, a spark of his usual confidence flickered back to life.
"In that case..."
His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers finding the buckle with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze now, a hint of the old Bucky, the one who knew exactly what he was worth.
She stepped forward, her own hands reaching for his. "Let me help."
His breath caught, just slightly, when her fingers brushed against his, taking over the task of undoing his belt. Then she worked the button free, tugged the zipper down, and let the denim fall. He stepped out of them, and she pushed the fabric aside with her foot.
"You're not just saying that to see me undress?" he murmured, and his voice was low, amused, a hint of the teasing she'd missed.
She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest as she pushed his t-shirt up. "One thing is not mutually exclusive from the other."
He hissed as the fabric cleared his shoulders, and she took the opportunity to press her mouth to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. He tilted his head back, a low sound rumbling in his chest, and her fingers splayed across the warm skin of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.
Then his hands were in her hair, tilting her face up to meet his, and when his mouth found hers, there was nothing careful about it.
This kiss was hungry, deep, the kind that stole breath and made her forget where she ended and he began. His tongue swept against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. He tasted like salt and something darker, something that was entirely him, and she let herself drown in it.
His hands slid down her sides, gripping her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the heat of his body pressed against her through the thin fabric of her dress.
She whimpered against his mouth, and he answered with a low groan, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, his forehead rested against hers, his eyes still dark and heavy-lidded.
"Turn around," he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. "I don't want you to see."
She nodded, but before letting go, her hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers, her fingers hooking into the fabric. "These too," she murmured, “you aren’t a cartoon, and they are not cheap.”
He let out a low sound, almost a growl of surprise, as she slid them down his hips, working the fabric past his thighs until he stepped out of them. Her eyes dropped for just a moment -she couldn't help it- before he gently turned her, guiding her to face the wall. Then he pressed against her from behind.
His body was warm and solid against her back, one hand bracing against the stone beside her head, the other splayed across her hip. His mouth found her ear, breath hot against her skin.
"Now," he said, low and rough. "Stay like that."
She felt the word vibrate through her, felt the heat of his naked chest pressed against her, and for a moment, her body screamed at her to turn around, forget about the date entirely and just climb him like a tree. The thought made her fingers curl against the stone.
She took a breath, steadying herself.
Focus.
But his hand was still on her hip; he was still warm against her back, and the ghost of his breath still lingered at her ear.
It took everything she had to push those thoughts away, to remember that this moment -the cave, the lights, the blankets- was about more than just her wanting him.
She pressed her palms flat against the cool rock and waited.
Behind her, she heard him take a slow, steadying breath, and then he walked away.
Then the sounds began briefly after that. A sickening crack. Bone shifting, rearranging, finding a shape that wasn't meant to be seen. She flinched at the sound, her fingers pressing harder against the stone, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.
He was trying to be quiet. She could tell. He was holding back the sounds he didn't want her to hear.
Another crack, wetter this time, followed by a low, gritted grunt that he couldn't quite swallow. Her eyes squeezed shut. She focused on the texture of the rock beneath her palms, on the rhythm of her own breathing, on anything but the sounds of his body pulling itself apart and putting itself back together.
Then came the soft, wet splash of his limbs meeting the stone floor. One, then another, and another after that, uncoiling into the water, the sound of suction cups releasing and reattaching as he adjusted to his true form.
"Okay," he said, and his voice was lower now, richer.
She turned slowly.
He was half in the water, his torso rising from the dark surface, and his limbs -black and blue and gleaming- curling around him in familiar, graceful arcs. The bioluminescence cast his features in soft blue light, shadows flickering across the angles of his face.
His chest was still heaving slightly, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, the evidence of what the shift had cost him.
But he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and that look made everything else fall away.
She crossed the space between them, her hand reaching for his. He took it, and she let him guide her to the blankets, settling onto the soft fabric with him beside her.
The moment they were seated, his limbs moved with a quiet, possessive certainty. One curled around her waist, another wrapped loosely around her calf, and a third settled across her thighs, heavy and slightly moving. He pulled her closer without a word, and she felt herself relax into his hold, the tension of the past days finally beginning to ease.
Then his nose brushed against her throat. A slow, deliberate inhale. She felt the subtle graze of his lips against her skin, and a shiver traced down her spine.
Her hands found the Tupperware container, and she opened it, the scent of strawberries rising up between them. She pulled one out, holding it up to his mouth.
"Strawberries," she said softly. "You're so damn thoughtful," she added, and she watched a faint flush creep across his cheeks.
It wasn't obvious. Not like a human blush. But she'd learned to read him, to see the subtle shift in his skin, the way his gaze dropped for just a second. It made her heart squeeze.
He reached for the wine next, his fingers closing around the bottle. He examined it, turning it over once, his claws finding the cork. He pulled, once, and it slipped. A low grunt of frustration. He tried again, angling his claw differently, and this time it came free with a soft, satisfying pop.
He looked at the bottle, then at her, then at the cave around them.
"Didn't think of cups," he admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in his voice. Like he'd studied so hard and still forgotten something essential.
She smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I don't need cups. This-" she gestured at the cave, at the glowing water, at the blankets and the fruit and him, "this is more than I could have asked for. It's perfect."
His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to see if she meant it.
"Seriously," she added, and she let her gaze travel across the cave, watching the way the bioluminescence danced across the wet stone walls. The blue light rippled and shifted, casting moving shadows that made the cave feel alive. "It's beautiful. How did you do this?"
His chest rose and fell with a breath. "I found something I could give you," he said. "Something only I could do."
That was all he offered. No details.
She wanted to ask. She could see it in the slight tension in his limbs, the evidence of what the task had cost him. But if he didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push.
Because she knew him. Knew that if he wasn't bragging about the effort, it was because it had been more than he wanted to admit.
So she let it go.
----
He watched her take another strawberry from the box, observed the way her fingers closed around the soft red flesh, and he felt proud. His mate liked it. What he'd made. What he'd done. She'd called it beautiful, called it perfect, said she couldn't have asked for more.
She held the strawberry out to him, and he leaned forward, taking it from her fingers with his mouth. Her skin brushed his lips briefly, accidentally and electric. She smiled at him, with a knowing smile, and he felt the satisfaction washing away the exhaustion.
In his world, you didn't press food into someone's mouth and watch them taste it, didn't wait for their expression to shift with pleasure. Didn’t indulge. It was not necessary. It was, plainly worthless.
She took a sip from the wine bottle, her lips wrapping around the glass rim, and handed it to him. He lifted it to his own mouth, tasting the warmth, the faint sweetness that lingered where her mouth had been.
They talked. Nothing important. She asked about the human form again, about the things he'd learned to tolerate. He told her about shoes -how he still hated them, how they felt like cages for his feet- and she murmured soothingly at him, a sound that made his limbs curl tighter around her.
And beneath all the merriness, he could smell it.
Her arousal.
It was subtle, buried under the sweetness of the wine and the salt of the sea air. But it had been there since they kissed, building as the night wore on, a slow, steady heat that made his skin prickle and his thoughts scatter.
He tried to focus on her words. He really did. But his limbs, traitors that they were, had begun to move on their own. One slid higher up her thigh, the suction cups grazing her skin. Another curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He felt the heat of her body through the thin cloth, felt the way she yielded against him, and his jaw clenched.
This isn't how it goes.
He'd watched the movies. The humans in the restaurants, the candles and the wine and the careful rituals, or the walks in the park, or the theatre.
They didn't do what he wanted to do.
They sat across from each other, kept their hands visible, their bodies apart. They talked. They laughed. And when the male escorted the female to the door, maybe they kissed, and maybe they didn't.
But they didn't -he was fairly certain- get distracted by the taste of their mate's arousal while they were still eating.
He could feel his control slipping. His concentration, sharp and focused moments ago, was fracturing. He tried to pull his limbs back, to give her space, to remember the ritual she deserved.
But she shifted against him, and one of his suction cups brushed her inner thigh, and he couldn't. He couldn't.
His mind was spinning, caught between the Thal'kyr part of him that wanted nothing more than to pin her down and fuck her, and the part that wanted to prove he could do this right.
He opened his mouth, tried to form words, tried to remember what she'd been asking him-
"-ucky. Hey."
Her voice cut through the haze, and he blinked, focusing on her face. She was looking at him, her head tilted slightly, a small crease between her brows.
"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was gentle, but there was something in her voice... concern?
His jaw worked.
"I..." he started, and stopped.
She shifted again, adjusting her position on the blankets, and the movement pressed her thigh more firmly against the limb that had been creeping upward. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat -barely a breath- but he heard it.
Felt it.
The last thread of restraint snapped.
"I want to have sex," he blurted. His eyes met hers, almost obligingly. "But that doesn't… happen on dates." He scowled, frustrated. "In the movies, they don't-"
She started laughing.
It wasn't cruel or mocking, and she pressed her hand to her mouth like she was trying to stop it. "Bucky," she said, and her voice was warm, amused, "maybe you watched a very vanilla catalogue of films. It depends on the movie."
He frowned at her, knitting his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, depends-”
She waved a hand, still smiling. "Let's just say-" She leaned closer, her hand finding his, her fingers curling around his, and she looked at him with a gaze that was anything but innocent. "Not all dates end with sex. But plenty do."
He stared at her. She was looking at him with those eyes, her scent curling around him, her hand warm in his, and he felt the last shred of his careful composure crumble.
"Plenty," he repeated, and the word came out rough, hungry.
"Plenty," she confirmed.
She lifted her free hand, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "You brought me to a beautiful place you prepared with care. We sat down. We ate. We drank. We talked."
Her free hand traced a slow, deliberate path across his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
"I think the date already hit most of the steps." Her fingers splayed flat against his skin, warm and certain. "Which means we could easily move on to the part you're so interested in."
She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"With the added bonus that you don't have to walk me home."
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because she was looking at him like that, her scent thick and sweet in his nostrils, her hand warm on his skin, and every thought he'd been trying to hold onto scattered like fish fleeing a net.
He'd done well. He'd provided. He'd created something beautiful, something she'd loved, and now she was offering herself to him in return.
And he was going to take what she offered.
His instincts took control.
His limbs moved before he could think.
They wrapped around her, lifting her body, arranging her. One curled around her waist, another supported her back, and a third slid beneath her thighs, spreading them apart as he settled her onto his lap. She gasped, and then she was straddling him, her hands finding his shoulders for balance, her eyes dark and wanting.
He didn't need to lie her down. His limbs could hold her exactly where he wanted her, could maneuver her however he pleased, could keep her suspended and open and completely at his mercy.
And he wanted her exactly like this.
"Bucky-" she breathed, and he could feel the way her thighs tightened around him, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders.
He smiled. Slowly.
"I like you here," he murmured, his hands finding her hips, guiding her closer. "Right where I want you."
His limbs shifted beneath her, adjusting her position, spreading her wider. He could feel the heat permeating through the thin fabric of her underwear, and the knowledge that she was already so ready for him made him groan.
But before he could do anything else, her hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, her fingers trailing over his skin slowly. She leaned forward, her mouth finding the curve of his neck, and then she bit down, just enough to make him hiss.
His grip on her hips tightened.
"All night," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've been wanting to touch you like this."
Her teeth grazed his skin again, and she ground down against him, shameless and wanting. "Then stop talking about it."
He gently fisted her hair, throwing back her head.
"Patience, mate."
His mouth found her throat, and he breathed her in, slow and deliberate, letting her scent flood his senses.
"Bucky…" she breathed, and her hands came up to frame his face.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face was pure, unapologetic satisfaction.
"You smell so good," he said, his lips brushing her jaw. "You've been like this all night. I could smell you while we were eating." A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You wanted me the whole time."
She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't let her.
His mouth covered hers, deep and possessive, and her hands tangled in his hair, tugging; her hips never stopping the grinding against him. His limbs moved with purpose now, one sliding the hem of her dress higher, another finding the edge of her underwear.
He didn't rush. He savored. Every inch of skin he uncovered, he tasted. Every sound she made, he cataloged.
When his mouth finally left hers, trailing down her throat, she gasped his name.
"Tell me," he murmured as his lips grazed her cleavage. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want," she breathed, almost whining. "I want you."
His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her gasp. "Good."
One of his limbs found its way under her panties, the suction cups grazing the sensitive skin, and she arched against him with a soft cry. He watched her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted as he teased her wet, little pearl. He was in control now. He had her exactly where he wanted her.
His mouth found her ear, his voice low and rough.
"Does this happen on dates?" he asked, and there was amusement in his tone now, a hint of the teasing that had always been there beneath the surface. "Does the male do this-" his limb pressed down in a soft, deliberate stroke against her entrance, and she gasped, "-and the woman still eats?"
He pulled back to look at her face, heated and wanting, and he felt pure, unapologetic, masculine smugness.
"Because I don't remember seeing that," he continued, his teeth grazing her lower lip, "in any of the ones you showed me."
She chuckled, breathless, her hands tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Told you, it depends on the movie."
His limb pressed higher, more insistent now, and she moaned against his mouth, her hips rolling desperately against him. Her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach, and he felt her fingers brush against the slit where his cock was still concealed. He grabbed her wrist and removed her wandering hand, with a hiss.
Not yet
"Then I think," he murmured against her lips, "you're going to have to show me that movie later."
His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time, and the rest of his limbs moved with purpose. One slid her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. Another found the edge of her underwear, and started to tug it down with unhurried precision.
His free hand found the strap of her dress, dragging it down her shoulder with more patience than the rest of him seemed to possess. When her breast came free, he didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it, the way she'd looked at the glowing pools. Then his palm covered it, squeezing as a separate limb, uninvited, curled up along her sides to join it, sliding down the fabric covering her other breast, the ring of suction cups closing gently around her nipple.
She gasped at the double sensation -warm palm, cool pull- and he made a low sound, pleased with himself.
She was so wet. Of course she was. He'd been smelling it all night, had been tasting it in the air between them. But feeling it -feeling the slick heat of her against his suction cups- made something feral rise up in his chest.
"All night," he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her throat again, "you were like this. While you ate. While you talked to me." His teeth grazed her collarbone.
She opened her mouth, but whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan as a suction cup of the limb between her thighs closed over her sensitive pearl and pulled.
"So desperate," he said, and his voice was low, rough. "Even when you were eating strawberries and pretending you weren't thinking about this."
She tried to shake her head, but he wasn't having it.
"Don't lie to me, mate," he murmured. "I can always smell it on you. When you want me to take you. When you want my limbs tasting your body. When you want my heavy seed dripping down your delectable thighs."
His limb teased her, sucking and pushing inside, and he reveled in the way her body arched into his touch, the way her hands found his shoulders, the way she moaned his name.
And then, when she was trembling, when her breath was coming in short, little gasps, almost there-
He stopped.
She made a sound of protest, her eyes flying open, and he smiled at her, knowingly.
"Bucky-"
"I want to feel you come around my cock." he said, and his voice was gentle but firm.
He hadn’t let his shaft free on purpose, forcing himself to wait, so as not to end things too fast even if he craved it. Now it was time, so he finally let his concealing slit relax, and his poor, aching shaft pulsed free against her skin.
He knew she felt it, heavy and throbbing against her belly, and shamelessly rubbed it up and down, wetting her sensitive skin, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You want it?" he asked, as he lifted her with his limbs, grabbing his cock and teasing her folds.
She just nodded. Couldn't speak.
He pressed his tongue against a fang and pushed into her, slowly as always, and observed her face as she took him. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened, the way her body yielded to him inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside her, he paused, letting her adjust.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "You feel so good."
He pulled back slowly, then pushed in again, and the sound she made -low, desperate- made his jaw clench.
"So perfect," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "My mate. My perfect mate."
She ground her hips against him, trying to take him deeper, to get friction, and he nipped her below her jaw.
"You like it?" he asked, finding a slow, deep rhythm. "You like me inside you?"
She nodded, breathless, and he smiled.
"I would usually ask you for words, mate. But since this is a special occasion, I’m not pushing you tonight," he murmured against her skin.
He started to move faster, harder, his limbs wrapped around her, holding her in place as he thrust up into her, teasing her little bundle of nerves with his limbs.
She was gasping, trembling, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and then he felt her starting to clench around him.
"Bucky-" she gasped.
"I know," he said. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting close."
He shifted the angle, pushing deeper still, and she cried out.
"I've got you, mate. I want to feel it. I want to feel what I do to you." He declared, the tip of a limb rubbing mercilessly against her clit as he fucked her.
She shattered around him with a cry, her body clenching, and he followed her over the edge, thrusting once, twice, before stilling and coming with a low, guttural groan.
For a long moment, he stayed there, buried inside her, his limbs wrapped around her, his face against her throat. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel her heart racing beneath his palm.
"Ok, that was-" she started, but she couldn't finish.
He smiled, satisfied.
"I know," he said.
He pulled out slowly, and she made a soft sound of protest. He felt a surge of warmth at the sound, at the way she still wanted him even now.
He settled behind her, his limbs curling around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, pressing her back into his chest.
"That was a good date," he said after a moment, and she laughed, soft and tired.
"The best date ever." She conceded.
He felt his chest expand with something he couldn't quite name at the praise. Something deep and old.
"So I did good?" he heard himself ask anyway, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.
She turned a little in his grasp to face him, her body still pressed against his, her limbs tangled with his. Her hands lifted, finding the line of his jaw, tracing along its edge before sliding down to his throat, that sensitive spot where she knew he loved to be touched.
He shivered, his eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.
"What do you think?" she murmured, her thumbs stroking slow circles along the column of his neck.
Her touch was deliberate, knowing, and he felt himself relax into it despite the question still hanging between them.
"I think," she continued, her voice soft, "you brought me to a place you made beautiful. You bring strawberries, the first food we shared. You gave me wine. You talked to me." Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. "You made me feel like I mattered."
He opened his mouth, but one of her hands reached his semi-hard shaft, giving it a playful squeeze, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.
"And then," she said, a small smile curving her mouth, "you proceeded to remind me exactly why you're the only one I want."
He felt the damn heat in his cheeks and knew he had blushed like an inexperienced pup. He found himself leaning into her touch like a creature starved for it, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.
"So yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You did good. You did so good."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, his hands and limbs started to wander along her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, suction cups grazing the soft skin of her lower back, other limbs curled around her thighs. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, and let himself feel the weight of her words in a language that didn't require saying things aloud.
Brother’s Best Friend!Bucky Barnes x Steve’s Sister!Reader
Summary: After being absent from your family’s annual summer cabin retreat for several years, you finally make an appearance after your college graduation. Bucky can’t help but notice how much you’ve changed.
Word Count: 8.2k
Content: yearning, age gap (four years), brief drug use (marijuana), alcohol consumption, smut MDNI (mentions of masturbation, oral m receiving, facefucking, swallowing, dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v (don’t do that))
As soon as Bucky sets his duffle down on the cabin floor, he feels his shoulders loosen. The familiar smell of the wood finish fills his nostrils, and it smells like every single one of his summers since he turned thirteen.
It's good to be back.
This has been Bucky and Steve's stomping grounds for one month a year, ever since Steve picked a fight with the wrong bully in middle school and Bucky had come to the rescue. That moment sparked a lifelong friendship, one that had lasted through high school and college, those first early years of adulthood. A friendship with roots so deep that Steve's family doted on Bucky, considering him as good as blood.
This year, things are a little different. Steve's parents have stayed behind, embarking on a trip of their own to Europe in a week. While the parents are away, the young people will play — Steve and Bucky invited a handful of friends and cousins, to drink and swim and make the most of the summer sunshine.
And for the first time in years, you’ll be back in attendance at the cabin.
Bucky remembers you fondly as Steve's kid sister, a little spitfire who hung fearlessly off the back of his bike growing up, all uncoordinated limbs and wild freckles and toothy smiles. When he and Steve went off to college, you were just starting high school, and the most he’s connected with you since has been through Facebook ‘happy birthday’ posts and the occasional Instagram comment.
You were serious about your academics, about making something of yourself, which is what kept you away so long. A real smart cookie, he’d always called you. You'd graduated college in just three years, thanks to all your hard work. Internships and summer courses and work studies have stolen you away for so long that Bucky has nearly forgotten what your laugh sounds like.
Until he hears it echoing off the trees outside, like a long-forgotten favorite song.
Bucky abandons Steve while he loads up the fridge with groceries (aka beer and liquor), and jogs out onto the front porch.
Coming down the dirt path is a small group of Steve's cousins, laughing boisterously, talking plans for the three weeks ahead at the cabin. A flash of hair catches Bucky's eye. You have an arm slung over your older cousin’s shoulders, laughing along with the rest.
Your smile is exactly the same, but it fits your face better now, Bucky notices. You look… grown up. The untamed spirit of your youth still lives in your eyes, but you’ve matured considerably elsewhere.
He can’t help the way his eyes wander to your frayed jean shorts and the way they hug your hips, the expanse of thigh that lays below their ripped hemline. He tries to pulls his gaze away, but it lands on your freckled shoulders, your tank top, the neckline that slopes down to frame breasts that developed quite nicely while you’ve been away.
Bucky looks down at his feet, feeling like the world’s biggest creep.
Steve had made him promise years ago to never touch you. It was long enough ago that Bucky had never even thought he’d have to worry about keeping it. Bucky wouldn’t have dreamed of it — you were Steve's kid sister. You were never even on his radar in that way before.
Suffice to say, his radar is definitely picking you up now.
“Bucky!”
He glances up to see you running full tilt towards him, bounding up the steps with your smile overtaking your whole face. You crash into him, your arms looping around his neck in a tight embrace. Bucky stumbles back slightly from the force of it, and his hands find your waist to steady you as he huffs a laugh.
He breathes you in, sunscreen and clean sweat and something fruity that makes his mouth water. You give him a squeeze, holding on for a few beats before releasing him.
Your eyes still have that familiar, impish sparkle. “Hi.”
“Long time, no see,” he drawls, trying to keep his eyes where they won’t get him into trouble. It doesn't work.
A large hand claps him on the shoulder, startling Bucky. Steve shoves past him and sweeps you up into a hug, spinning you around in greeting while you squeal and laugh.
It only serves to remind him of his promise. Bucky sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It's gonna be a long couple of weeks.
You have been hopelessly in love with Bucky Barnes since you were nine years old. Since the time your cousin had wrestled you into the dirt and Bucky nearly put his lights out, then cleaned the scrape on your knee with great care.
He’d never noticed you that way, and you’d resigned yourself to that a long time ago. Mostly.
You threw yourself into your studies with zeal and occasionally entertained the idea of a boyfriend. They never lasted long — A, because they were a distraction, and B, because they weren’t Bucky Barnes. Not their fault, but not something you could tolerate, either.
But now, school is behind you. For now, at least. You had been toying with the idea of a masters, but right now the idea of more school makes you want to puke. You have three weeks ahead of you with no books, no plans, no demands or schedule.
Just your family and friends and Bucky.
The moment your eyes meet his on the front porch of the cabin, you can tell something has shifted.
His hands are warm on your waist even though your clothes, and the way he looks at you makes you preen a little with satisfaction. I'm a woman now, Bucky. Surprised?
He, on the other hand, hasn’t changed a bit. He still has that slightly grown in stubble and those infuriating muscles that he started sporting in high school, much to the chagrin of your raging hormones at the time. The only thing that is different about him is the glimmer of interest in his expression, interest that has never once been directed at you before.
Every time his eyes stray towards you that afternoon, it feels like glitter rushing through your veins, shimmering and hot. You feel it everywhere.
Once everyone is sufficiently unpacked, the group loads up a cooler of drinks and grabs their bikes. The plan being to head down to the pier and watch the sunset, as a reward for a long day of driving.
You hang off the back of Bucky's bike like you’ve done a thousand times before, your feet on the rear axel pegs, your hands on his shoulders. But this time, his shoulders flex lightly underneath your touch, his jaw ticks when you lean down to speak into his ear, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road despite your attempts to distract him.
At the pier, the sun turns everything gold and red, slowly descending to kiss its reflection in the water. You glance at Bucky to find him already looking at you, and he quickly turns his head away, caught.
You grin and take a swig of your beer. This is going to be fun.
Bucky is being tested. He's sure of it.
That night, he stares at the ceiling in the top bunk until exhaustion pulls him under. He tries and fails to think of anything other than you. Those eyes. That mouth. Those thighs peeking out from those god-forsaken shorts.
In the morning, he climbs down the ladder, creeps past Steve snoring softly on the bottom bunk, and out to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast for the group. He'd gotten the short straw last night, so no rest for the wicked.
The living room is littered with sleeping bodies. There's only so many beds in the cabin, and they were first come, first serve. Which had resulted in you and two of your female cousins crashing on a large air mattress in a tangle of limbs.
In the adjoining kitchen, Bucky earnestly tries to keep his eyes to himself. But you’re splayed out on the air mattress, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt that has ridden up your stomach and flimsy pajama shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.
When Bucky starts on the bacon and pancakes, the noise stirs you. You stretch, your t-shirt riding up even higher, letting out a soft little groan that doesn’t help his morning wood in the slightest. He fixes his attention on the pan and resolves to keep it there.
It wanders anyway. When it does, he finds you looking right back at him from where you lay on the mattress, watching him with interest and a little amusement. His first instinct is to immediately look away, the way he did yesterday. But he doesn’t want you to know how much you’ve rattled him, so he holds your gaze for a beat before returning his focus to flipping pancakes.
He thinks that’ll be the end of it, but of course it isn’t. Before long, you untangle yourself from your cousins, who groan in protest and roll over as you stand. Bucky can hear the sound of your bare feet padding across the wooden floor toward the kitchen.
“Morning,” you greet him in a slightly gravelly morning voice.
“Morning,” he replies casually.
“That smells so good.” You pluck a grape from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter and pop it into your mouth. “I’m starving.”
A muscle ticks in Bucky's jaw. He's not sure what’s worse — if you’re unaware of the effect you’re having on him, or if you are aware, and doing it on purpose.
“It’ll be ready in a few,” he declares, pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan. “So, you enjoying your freedom from school?”
“Definitely.” You hoist yourself up to sit on the counter, placing yourself very much in the way, but Bucky doesn’t have the heart to ask you to move. especially when the position grants him another tempting view of your thighs.
“You miss me?” you purr, playfully nudging his hip with your foot.
He doesn’t take the bait. Flipping pancakes is simple, so that’s what he does. “Of course I missed you. The place isn’t the same without you.”
You smile, and Bucky gets stuck on it momentarily. A moment passes, tense and delicious at the same time. You just watch him, content to wait, to sit in the tension winding tighter between you.
Bucky reaches up by your head, opening a cabinet and fetching a plate. His hip brushes the outside of your knee, and he doesn’t move away immediately.
“You planning on helping, or are you just gonna sit there staring?”
“I’m appreciating the view,” you counter, your eyes dragging over his frame as you steal another grape from the bowl.
A chuckle slips out of him at your boldness. “You're trouble, you know that?”
Your eyebrow ticks, a silent dare.
And then Steve stumbles in, bleary eyed, and the moment shatters.
“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
As inconspicuously as possible, Bucky shifts a respectable distance away from you to plate the bacon and quietly clears his throat. “By the microwave,” he says.
Steve doesn’t appear to have noticed the atmosphere he walked into, but Bucky still scolds himself internally. You make it way too easy for him to forget where he is, forget his promises and responsibilities to his friend. Too easy to forget that he shouldn’t be looking at you like that in the first place.
He shoves all of it down and brings plates of breakfast out to the picnic tables outside, leaving you and your dangling legs and sharp eyes behind.
“Hey.”
Bucky's voice rings out from behind you, into the open air of the night. You turn to see him descending the cabin steps, towards where you’re sitting on top of a picnic table, your feet resting on the bench.
You'd come out here to be alone, just to have a quiet moment, while the muffled sounds of laughter and celebration from the cabin underscore your solitude. But you find that you don’t mind having your solitude disrupted, if Bucky is the one to do it.
“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asks, circling the table to face you.
You glance up at the sky. “Too much light pollution at school to really see the stars. Thought I'd remind myself what they look like.”
It really is a sight to see. Swirls of stars glittering in the dark expanse, configurations and constellations you never get to see in the city. All around, crickets chirp and cicadas sing, a familiar song floating on the balmy summer air.
Bucky looks up right along with you, just as appreciatively. Even with several feet of space between you, you can feel that tension that’s been winding tighter ever since you arrived yesterday. You wonder why he came out here tonight. If he came to find you.
“I thought all you boys were playing beer pong,” you say with an arched brow.
Bucky smiles sheepishly, as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. From within his pockets, he produces a joint and a lighter. “I’m being selfish. Don't tell on me.”
“I can keep a secret,” you reply conspiratorially as you pat the space beside you on the picnic table. “C’mere.”
He hesitates, and you wait ever-patiently, watching him carefully as his brain wars with itself until he finally gives in. Keeping a careful distance — not too far to be cold, but not close enough to touch — he sits beside you and sparks up.
The cherry of the joint glows in the darkness as he takes a drag, and tendrils of smoke curl out from behind his lips when he exhales. Bucky looks briefly surprised when you reach for the joint, plucking it from his grasp to take a drag of your own.
Smoking isn’t new for you — you’ve indulged a handful of times at the handful of college parties you’d attended between school obligations. But seeing you smoke, smoking with you, is very new to Bucky. Hypnotized, he watches your lips as they wrap around the joint, where his mouth had just been. He only manages to break his gaze away when you breathe out and let the current of smoke escape.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “If Steve knew I was getting his little sister high, he’d beat my ass.”
Your older brother is the last subject you want to discuss right now. You pass the joint back to him, letting your hand linger just a little against his. “What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Following up on that comment feels a little too dangerous, and so the two of you sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth underneath the canopy of smoke and stars.
Before long, you start to feel it. That slight, pleasant heaviness in your limbs, that heightening of your senses. That warm, fuzzy feeling settling over your mind. The high is better here, in this place that has known you since you were a child, shared with someone you’re completely at ease with. You shift closer to him, your knee bumping his.
“This is nice,” you sigh.
“Yeah,” he agrees, something bittersweet in his tone. “Real nice.”
“Just like old times.”
“I can think of a few things that are different,” he chuckles.
“Such as?” you ask, deftly snatching the joint back from him.
“You’ve grown up.” He looks at you pointedly as you take a long drag. “Quite a bit. It's kinda…complicating things for me.”
You hadn’t expected him to own up to it like that, this newfound attraction. You turn to him, passing back the joint, head tilted in curiosity. “Complicating things how?”
He fidgets with the joint between his fingers, as if he’s debating what to say or how to say it. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re warm and dark and full of want.
“Steve made me promise. That I wouldn't touch you. That I wouldn't even look at you that way.”
You hadn’t known about this, not really. But it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Steve has always been protective of you, even when he didn’t have to be.
“What do you call how you’re looking at me now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Complicated.”
His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. The night seems to fold around the two of you, heavy and hot and close.
You shift closer to him, your thigh now pressing against his.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Buck,” you murmur as you slowly lean into him. “I don’t need a big brother to protect me. I can make my own decisions.”
For a fleeting moment, you’re close enough to breathe the same air as Bucky, lips nearly brushing his. But then he pulls away, gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair as he looks firmly at the ground.
“I can’t. I'm sorry.”
You don’t have the chance to say anything else, because he walks with quick strides up the cabin steps, disappearing through the screen door. The joint lays on the picnic table beside you, half-smoked and smoldering.
You sigh, frustrated, head in your hands.
Bucky should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Maybe if he had never said anything at all to you, it would have been easier. But now it’s out in the open, and you seem to be intent on torturing him.
It’s already difficult to avoid your presence, with everyone cramped into one cabin. Even still, you’re almost always in his orbit, your laughter in the air around him, your eyes occasionally finding his across bonfires and picnic tables. Then there’s the seemingly endless parade of tiny shorts and barely-there tops and strappy little sundresses. He's sure Steve will catch him staring at some point, because he just can’t seem to keep his gaze from wandering in your direction, snagging on whatever new inch of exposed skin he finds there.
At the end of each day, Bucky forces himself under the cold stream of the shower, shamefully stroking his cock as he tries in vain to think of anything other than your hands on his skin and the way you’d looked at him that night.
On the fourth day, the group heads down to the lake for a proper swim. Bucky finds himself woefully unprepared for the toll it takes on his sanity.
The trek down to the lake isn’t long, but with the noonday sun high in the sky, everyone is sweating by the time you arrive down at the dock. Clothes are eagerly shed in favor of sinking into the cool lake water. You waste no time, pulling your tank top overhead and wiggling out of your shorts.
It's not the first time Bucky has seen you in a bathing suit. But that was a different time, a different you. Gone are the sweet little one-piece swimsuits of your youth, replaced by a very enticing little bikini. Every curve of your body that the passage of time has wrought is on full display. Of course, you catch him staring, and you smile coyly before catapulting yourself off the end of the dock and into the water.
You resurface, laughing and gasping, as Bucky sets down the cooler and removes his shirt. He doesn’t have to look to know you’re watching, but he does anyway. He sees you floating on your back, observing him with a siren’s gaze.
Behind him, Steve smacks a mutual friend in the back of the head for staring at you. “That’s my sister, man,” he warns.
Bucky's chest tightens with lingering guilt, and he hopes against hope that the water will cool the afternoon off, so to speak.
Wishful thinking.
Everyone else whiles away the hours laughing and splashing and relaxing, while Bucky is wound tight as a spring. He watches as Steve hoists you onto his shoulders, watches you squeal in delight as he tosses you into the water, and remembers the times when things could be easy and fun with you, in that way. But he can’t seem to trust himself around you anymore. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, sick of himself.
He sits on the edge of the dock, feet dangling into the water, a beer in his hands that is rapidly turning tepid from the summer heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you hoisting yourself out of the water and onto the dock, lake water sluicing off your body. Bucky peels the label off the bottle and stares at the horizon while you dry yourself off.
A nudge at his shoulder grabs his attention. You’re standing over him, a bottle of sunscreen in your hand and a smirk on your lips.
“Could you get my back?”
Swallowing with difficulty, he looks back out towards the water where Steve and three other cabinmates are engaged in a game of chicken. He appears otherwise distracted, and it would be weirder of Bucky to refuse than just help you. It's an innocent enough activity, after all. Or it should be.
Bucky sighs and turns towards you, taking the bottle from your hands as you sit down in front of him.
You pull your damp hair over your shoulder and out of the way, glancing back at him. Bucky squeezes a dollop of sunscreen into his palm and begins to apply it to your shoulders. He works in silence and keeps his touch perfunctory, but he can’t help but note the warmth and softness of your skin.
His hands work lower and lower, until he has to slip his fingers beneath the strap of your swimsuit. He's a gentleman about it and doesn’t linger longer than he needs to, though he can feel a flush creeping into his face.
It’s so quiet for a moment that when you speak, it almost startles him. “Are you planning on ignoring me the whole rest of the trip?”
“I'm not ignoring you,” Bucky counters.
“Bucky.” You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder. “I've known you for, like, two thirds of my life. I can tell when you’re lying.”
Bucky sighs again as he finishes working the sunscreen into your lower back and lets his hands fall away. “What do you want me to do?”
You turn towards him. “I think you already know,” you reply smartly, with an arch of your brow.
“Jesus, I mean…” He rubs his temple, looking everywhere but at you. “I already told you why this can’t happen,” he says quietly.
You huff in annoyance and pick up the bottle of sunscreen off the dock. “Well, I think your little bro code is stupid.”
Bucky chuckles under his breath in spite of himself at your bluntness.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, you turn him until he’s facing away from you and begin to apply sunscreen to his back now, without having been asked. Bucky grows very still underneath your touch, trying desperately not to be affected by it. It's not really working.
“You made your little promise when I was… what, fourteen?” you continue. “We're both adults now.”
Bucky frowns. “Steve is my friend.”
“Steve is a big boy. He'll get over it.”
Bucky feels your hand run along his spine, nails dragging slightly, and he hates the way his cock stirs at the feeling.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says firmly. “Not like that.”
“You don’t want to?” You’re closer now, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body inches from his back, your breath at his ear.
Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath. “It's not about what I want.”
Finally, your hands leave him, and Bucky doesn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed.
“Maybe it should be,” you muse softly, before getting to your feet and diving back into the water.
It's nearing the end of the first week. You've been so very, very patient. But you’re done waiting around for Bucky to stop torturing himself over nothing.
After dinner, everyone gathers around the bonfire to make s’mores for dessert. And you’re on a mission.
You take up the seat directly across from him instead of next to him, where you know you’ll be right in his eyeline all night. And as soon as the marshmallows come out, you put on a show.
For Steve's sake, as well as your cousins, you keep it on the subtle side. You craft a s’more in a less-than-neat fashion, so naturally it makes a bit of a mess as you eat. And naturally, it leaves a few stray smears of chocolate and melted marshmallow on your fingers. And there’s no harm in licking away the evidence, not among friends and family. You're very thorough about it, not missing a single sticky morsel.
As you drag the pad of your thumb along the corner of your mouth and close your lips around it, you glance at Bucky across the fire pit.
Admittedly, he’s doing an admirable job of keeping it together in front of Steve, but the tell is in his eyes. They're hungry, and they don’t waver when they connect with yours. It almost makes you shiver, despite the balmy temperature, and it makes you press your thighs together on instinct.
Because you know you’ve got him — hook, line, and sinker.
Phase two begins. You announce to your cousin sitting next to you that you’re heading inside to wash your hands. You make meaningful eye contact with Bucky as you stand. You turn to walk up the front steps of the cabin, screen door swinging shut behind you.
And you wait, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
Bucky is going to hell. He's sure of it. His fate is sealed as soon as he walks up the front steps.
But he does anyway, two minutes after you left the bonfire. It's a small consolation that no one seems to notice when he slips away.
He closes the screen door quietly, aware that this is probably the point of no return, his last chance to turn around and preserve his friendship with Steve from unnecessary risk.
He doesn’t turn back.
Light glows from the crack underneath the bathroom door down the hall. Swallowing back his nerves, he raps his knuckles softly on the door.
The door swings open, revealing you, excitement and a hint of smugness glittering in your eyes. You reach for his hand and gently pull him through the doorframe, and he shuts it behind him.
His back meets the cool wood seconds after, and his lips meet yours in a tangle of heat and desperation.
You still taste sweet from your little performance with the s’more, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your skin. Bucky expects you to at least play at innocence first, but there is nothing innocent about this. It’s immediately filthy, your tongue in his mouth and your hands in his hair and your entire body pressed against his.
His hands find your hips, partly to steady himself and partly to bring you even closer. He tells himself that he’s going to stop, that he just needs a taste of you and then he can go back out there like nothing happened. But you moan softly against his mouth, and he can already feel himself getting addicted.
Bucky had already been half-hard at the bonfire, watching you suck your fingers clean right in front of everyone without an ounce of shame. Now, as your lips wander across his jaw and down his neck, as you subtly rock your hips against his thigh, it feels like all the blood is rushing out of his brain and straight to his cock. He’s harder than he’s been this entire trip so far, which is saying something, because he’s been very hard, very often.
You reach for the button and zipper on his pants, and it snaps Bucky back to reality for a split second. He still has a chance to stop, to be the good guy, to not let this go any further.
“Baby,” he pants. “I can’t—“
“You're not touching me.” Holding his gaze, you slip your hand past the waistband of his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock. “I'm touching you. It's okay.”
It’s more following the letter than the spirit of the law. but when you stroke him, slow and firm from base to tip and back again, Bucky’s head thuds back against the wood of the door. He knows he’s not going to stop you. He's already going to hell, so he might as well enjoy the perks.
Once you’ve successfully freed him from the confines of his shorts, you sink to your knees in front of him. Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. Fuck, he really is going to hell, because he’s about to let you do this. He’s about to let you suck his cock, all while your brother sits right outside the cabin, unaware.
Your hand slowly works him as you experimentally swirl your tongue around the tip, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. “Jesus, you’re—“
The words die on his lips as you lick a long stripe along the underside of him, stroking a particularly sensitive vein. He lets out a startled moan, his hand finding your hair of its own accord.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
You don’t tease him for long. Perhaps you sense that he’s too worked up for that, or perhaps you know time is limited before someone comes looking for one of you. Soon enough, you take him fully into your mouth, sinking down slowly.
Bucky watches, hypnotized. “Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face so he can watch how his cock sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, how your perfect lips wrap around him like you were made to ruin him. “Gorgeous.”
You moan around him, the vibration traveling down his cock and settling into his bones. His abs twitch and his hand tightens in your hair, and Bucky can tell this is going to be a pathetic showing of his stamina. You've barely started, and already he’s starting to lose it.
Your head begins to bob, finding a rhythm as you work to take him further and further down your throat, applying the perfect amount of suction on the uptake. Bucky has to make a considerable effort to keep quiet, lest everyone outside hear exactly what the two of you are doing.
Eventually, you take a long breath to prepare and take him so deep, your nose brushes the hair at the base of his cock. For a brief moment, Bucky wonders where you learned this, who you’d practiced on at school, and the thought turns him a little bit feral.
You stay where you are for a moment, your throat tensing and relaxing as you struggle to accommodate him. And all of a sudden, Bucky becomes a man possessed.
His other hand tangles into your hair alongside the first. his hips twitching with the effort of keeping still, and he begs in a wrecked voice, “Sweetheart, please, I need— I need to—“
Your hands slip to the backs of his thighs, squeezing lightly as you hum your encouragement.
With your permission granted, Bucky takes control. With his hands fisted in your hair, he fucks your face with with as much control as he can muster. He’s far gone, but not quite far enough where he can bear the idea of really hurting you.
You gaze up at him with hazy, dark eyes as you let him use you, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as he feeds his cock down your throat.
“That's it,” Bucky groans, low and filthy. “You take it so fuckin’ good.”
He starts to lose the fight for control, his thrusts becoming a little rougher, a little sloppier. Tears collect at the corners of those wide eyes, and he can feel and hear you gag around him.
“I know, honey, I’m sorry, I — I’m almost done,” he gasps, teetering on the edge, guilt and shame and arousal swirling in his gut.
You gag again, and even though Bucky is seconds away from finishing, he loosens his grip on your head to give you room to pull away. He warns you in a strangled voice, “I’m gonna come, baby, fuck—“
Your grip tightens on the back of his thighs. Stubborn and determined in spite of your need for air, you take him down your throat again, eyes locked on his. Bucky shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle his groan as he comes down your throat, shuddering as he feels you gag and swallow around him. You take every single drop, only pulling off when there’s nothing left to take. You cough and gasp for air and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
Bucky gazes down at you in disbelief — you on your knees in front of him, hair wrecked, face flushed, lips swollen. Guilt surging hot through his veins, he gently helps you to your feet.
“Honey, I’m so sorry, I—”
“Don’t be.” Those lips curl into a satisfied smirk.
“You taste even nicer than I thought.”
Bucky stands there in shock as you stretch up onto your toes to kiss him again, and he moans softly when he tastes himself on you. He responds with just as much enthusiasm, just as much hunger as before, in spite of how thoroughly you’ve wrecked him.
You pull away first, and he chases after your lips, still starving for more of you. Gently pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, you murmur, “People are gonna be wondering where we are.”
His arms tighten around your waist as he protests, “What about you?”
“Later.”
Bucky hisses as you gently tuck him back into his shorts, straightening out his clothes and hair with a smile.
“Meet me at the dock after everyone’s asleep.”
You turn to the mirror and fix your own face, smoothing out your hair to look slightly less debauched.
“Okay,” Bucky replies, a little bewildered.
Nudging him out of the way, you pull the door open, looking much more composed than he feels. “Wait a couple minutes before you follow me out.”
You slip out of the bathroom without another word.
When Bucky finally leaves the bathroom, he grabs another six pack of beer and tries not to look too visibly shaken as he heads back out of the cabin. You're already laughing with the group like the past five minutes didn’t even happen. Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders when he sits back down, and it seems that nobody suspects a thing.
When your eyes meet his across the fire pit, they still glimmer with mischief and desire and the promise of more to come. And Bucky can already feel his body stirring in response, his hunger for you only momentarily sated.
It's only the beginning.
The moon is a spotlight on the water as you look out from the dock.
The bonfire smoldered out about two hours ago, and you’d snuck out almost an hour ago after your cousins had collapsed onto the air mattress, exhausted. The night air is cooler than it has been, a breeze coaxing goosebumps up the back of your neck.
And you wait. It's made tolerable by the fact that you know you won’t be waiting much longer.
Underneath the cicada’s song, you hear footsteps coming down the path. Bucky approaches, clad in a hoodie and pajama pants, looking almost shy with his hands in his pockets. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine just at the sight of him.
You lean back on your hands, looking him over openly. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”
“I'm not that much of an asshole,” He chuckles sheepishly. Walking about halfway down the dock towards you, he stops for a moment, still hesitating after everything that has passed between you.
It's a little endearing and, at the same time, almost frustrating. Most of all, it makes you hungry.
“You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come kiss me?” you ask, a smile playing at your lips.
Bucky rises to the challenge, closing the distance and sitting next to you on the wooden dock. He reaches out a careful hand, brushing your hair back from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture, considering what transpired in the bathroom earlier. Maybe because of it. Maybe he feels a little guilty about it, though you know he shouldn't. He wouldn’t feel that way if he knew how much it had turned you on.
This time, he kisses you first, slow and sweet and entirely too patient for how long you’ve been waiting for this.
Your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer. You invite him in, opening your mouth for him and letting out a soft whimper when he accepts the invitation, his tongue sliding against yours.
It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn messy, needy, heated. You’re not sure whose idea it is for you to climb into his lap, who exactly initiated that particular move. But there you are, your hips flush against him, his cock already rising to the occasion and pressing where you’ve been aching for him all night.
“You got any idea,” he mumbles against your lips, “how crazy you’ve made me these last few days?”
You pull back with a smirk.
“Consider it payback.”
“Payback for what?”
“All those years I was following you around like a lovesick puppy,” you explain as you play with the strings of his hoodie, “and you didn’t even look in my direction.”
“Yeah?” For the first time since the two of you arrived at the cabin, he breaks out into that boyish grin you’ve always adored, the one that made you fall for him in the first place. He leans in and kisses the soft skin just below your jaw. “You had a crush on me?”
“Don't pretend you didn’t know, you dick!” You smack his chest playfully, fighting a sigh as he drags his lips along your neck. You can feel the ghost of that smile against your skin as he laughs softly.
“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “I might have had an inkling.” Another kiss, this one pressed to the hollow beneath your ear, earning another quiet whimper from you. “But I didn’t want to encourage you.”
You like how playful he’s being with you now. It's how things always should have been between you — easy, familiar, natural, without all that guilt in the way. Without your brother’s masculine pride and overprotective nature looming over your heads.
“This is pretty encouraging,” you reply breathlessly, rolling your hips against his. His hard cock grinds into your clit through the layers of clothing between you, and you both gasp nearly in unison.
“Jesus.” Bucky grasps your hips to still you, looking at you seriously for a moment. “If we do this… we can’t tell Steve."
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
You wish he’d let you move again, but his eyes grow worried. “I don't… I don't have anything with me. I wasn't exactly expecting...”
Leaning to press a brief kiss to his lips, you whisper, “I'm clean. And on the pill.”
His eyes darken with want. “You really have grown up, sweetheart,” he remarks, chasing after your lips again.
Bucky loosens his grip on you, and his breath hitches as you slowly grind in his lap again.
“I’m clean, too,” he murmurs, pulling back far enough to get a good look at your face. “But only if you’re sure.”
You nod as you reach for the zipper of his hoodie. “I’m sure.”
You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.
Bucky generously allows you to remove his hoodie and tug off his shirt, even more generously allows you to look your fill. You’ve seen him shirtless probably dozens of times over the years, but it never fails to spark your excitement. You run your hands down his chest, his abs, your nails dragging just slightly. He groans under his breath, the sound an echo of the ones he’d made in the bathroom.
Only now, the two of you don’t have to be quiet. You're far enough away from the cabin that your moans are swallowed up by the cicadas in the trees.
Warm, calloused fingers curl beneath the hem of your t-shirt as Bucky's lips brush against your sternum. He peels the garment off of you, his eyes full of wonder and desire as he takes them over your bare chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, cupping your breasts in each hand.
His mouth descends to one, his hand idly exploring the other, and your gasp pierces the night air. You've waited years, a decade and some change, for him to touch you like this. His tongue carefully strokes your nipple, and it makes you ache and pulse and want him so badly you can barely breathe right.
You want to let him take his time, to stretch this moment as long as it can last. But his ministrations soon have you rocking rhythmically in his lap, seeking relief as the ache between your legs builds.
“Bucky,” you whimper, “please.”
Bucky reluctantly breaks away from worshipping your chest, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, you worry that the old hesitation is back, that things will stall.
“Just… gimme a second here,” he mumbles as he reaches for his hoodie.
He shifts you off his lap and spreads the hoodie out on the cool wood of the dock. Then he guides you backwards until you’re laid on top of it. The gesture makes you giggle affectionately.
“Such a gentleman,” you tease.
But he doesn’t laugh. He wears a hangdog expression as he leans over you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I'm sorry. You deserve nicer than this.”
You tilt your head. You're exactly where you want to be. What could be nicer than this?
Sensing your confusion, he rubs the back of his neck and addresses the trees. “Inside, in a real bed. Not a secret hookup in the middle of the woods.”
You can see the guilt, the shame resurfacing his eyes, and you’ll have none of that. So you reach up and take his face in your hands.
“Bucky. Look at me.”
He does, albeit reluctantly.
“This is perfect. I'm under the stars, in my favorite place in the world, with someone I trust.” You weave your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping that honesty will break through the guilt. Softly, you amend your statement. “Someone I love.”
It might be too much, but it’s true. You've loved him for practically your whole life. As a friend, and as more than a friend. As a fixture in your life as constant as the sun. And it feels right to tell him, even though part of you is worried that it could ruin everything.
Bucky is silent for a moment, realization filling his eyes. There's something else, too — something like discovery, like finding something.
The silence extends long enough that it starts to make you nervous.
“Too much?” you ask, so quiet it barely disturbs the night air.
“No,” Bucky replies. “Not at all.”
His mouth dips to meet yours again, and you don’t even mind that he doesn’t say it back. You know that he loves you, even if it’s not the exact same way, and you can feel how he wants you. That's more than enough.
Fingers slip past the waistband of your pajama shorts, past the fabric of your underwear, until they drag through the slick mess gathered between your legs. The sound you make in response is equal parts relief and need.
Ever the gentleman, Bucky works you open, not exactly rushing, but not exactly taking his sweet time either. You can feel how bad he wants this as his hard cock nudges at your thigh, that he wants this just as bad as you do.
Then he drags your shorts and underwear down, down, until you’re naked underneath him, under the stars and the moon, in the open night air where anyone could see you if they happened to walk by. You don’t give a damn in the slightest, because Bucky is looking at you like you invented having a body, like he can’t believe you’re real.
At last, Bucky settles between your legs, shoving his pajama pants down just far enough to free himself. A slow drag of his cock against you coats him in your wetness, both of you panting in anticipation.
Carefully as he can manage, he pushes inside, and you gasp at the sudden fullness. It's overwhelming and right and everything you knew it would be.
Bucky's forehead drops to your shoulder, clearly struggling to keep it together, breath ragged. “Jesus christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight.”
“You feel so —“ You cut yourself off with a moan when he moves, hips withdrawing and then snapping them into yours, driving himself into you. “—so good, Buck.”
“Baby,” he nearly growls, hips snapping perfectly against yours once again, “you feel like you were made for me.”
As he moves inside you, everything else disappears — the trees, the dock underneath you, the stars above you. You could be in a five star hotel, as far as you’re concerned. You're on cloud nine, because after years of dreaming of this moment, it’s finally real. Bucky on top of you, inside of you, his moans and encouragement and endless praise on your ear. Every sound, every word, every thrust driving you closer and closer to climax.
His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit and making your body arch beneath him as he rubs tight little circles into it. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, your pleasure climbing higher and higher. His words turn to stream-of-consciousness, rambles of pleasure and praise.
Somewhere in the middle of it, something slips out that sends you reeling through space.
“So good,” he groans softly, his mouth lowering to taste the sweat on your neck. “Love you so much, honey.”
You’re not sure if he even meant to say it out loud, but the effect is immediate and all-consuming. You clutch him against you, your heart swelling, your lips crying his name as you come apart around him.
A wrecked moan spills out of him as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning sloppy and rough. “Fuck, i’m close,” he pants, his eyes finding yours. “You want me to—“
“Inside,” you beg, clutching him tighter, aftershocks of pleasure still pulsing through you. “Please, I want it.”
With a shudder and a curse, he buries himself inside you, hot pulses of his spend filling you as he thrusts shallowly to push it deeper. You feel claimed, marked, owned. What a glorious thing, to be claimed by him. You think if you could see yourself from the outside, you’d be glowing all over like a bonfire.
As the two of you come back to yourselves, Bucky brushes a tender kiss against your jaw and carefully pulls out of you. He rolls off of you, his back meeting the wood of the dock, his chest still heaving as he recovers.
For a few moments, the two of you stare up at the glittering sky, the reality of the situation settling in now that the intensity of sensation wanes.
You turn, curling into his side, and his arm drifts around you on instinct, natural as breathing.
“Did you… did you mean it?” you ask quietly.
It could have been the heat of the moment, and you wouldn’t blame him if it had been. People say all kinds of things when they’re about to come, things that look different in the afterglow and in the light of day. You know he cares about you. But you need to know how much truth lived in those words.
“Yeah.” He looks down at you, his eyes so soft and affectionate that it almost makes you want to climb on top of him again. His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together and resting against his chest. “I did.”
That's when it sinks in. This isn’t a one-time, clandestine rendezvous in the woods that you’ll both carry to the grave. It’s not something that will fade in the daylight. It will repeat itself. It will make demands. It will not keep to the shadows. It will not be easy to hide.
You sigh. “We have to tell Steve, don’t we?”
Bucky's sigh mirrors yours. “Yeah.”
“He’s gonna kill you.”
“Yeah.”
His lips brush against the crown of your head, his voice already resigned to his fate. “Still worth it.”
summary: it's been a long time since you've enjoyed having someone in your bed, and you were okay with that. that's what your toys were for. however, they lose their luster once a certain super soldier joins the team.
w.c: 7.9k+
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, piv (protected), oral (fem! receiving), pussy pronouns, possessiveness, yearning, intense feelings of pleasure, big dick Bucky, Bucky Barnes in general
a/n: it's finally here! my labor of love and self-indulgence is finally here! this story is from my JuneJukeboxScribbles: tired of toys and devil red. you don't have to read them to get the story. this is a fic that combines both premises. not proofread bc i got tired and wanted to be done with it lmao. i hope you enjoy and if you don't: LIE!
thanks to @chateaubarnes for the dividers!
masterlist
Five years was a long time.
It was a little more than the average time to get an undergraduate degree.
It was longer than most graduate programs.
It was longer than most people spent in their first job.
It was long enough for a newborn to grow up and go to school.
And it was how long you had gone without having sex, or any intimate touch, from another living soul for that matter. You had forgotten what it felt like to be tenderly touched by another, or even how it felt to be ravaged by someone. Hell, the only touch you were used to was being tackled by enemies or the rough hands of the tower’s medic crew stitching you together from whatever injury you sustained during whatever mission.
Five years was a long time to rely on yourself for pleasure. At the beginning, it had been terrific; you were able to get yourself off when partners in the past had struggled to do so. You finally understood the hubbub around sex once you were able to experience a genuine climax. But the few silicon vibrators and dildos that you had could only do so much after a few years.
You weren’t really in the market to date, as being an Avenger took up most, if not all your time. If you weren’t on a mission, you were training, reviewing debriefings, learning to use Stark’s new technology, or trying to catch up on sleep. And on the rare occasion that you couldn’t catch a wink of sleep, you always resorted to the little box you kept tucked under your bed which held your favorite toys. After an hour or two with them, you were always able to get a few quality hours of sleep.
But recently, your vibrators and dildos weren’t doing what they used to do. You couldn’t find the right position. You couldn’t reach the same spots that you used to. It took longer for you to get off.
One night, less than a week ago, you had become so frustrated from not being able to climax that you had threw the vibrator across your room, trashed the box that held the rest of your intimate toys, and threw it into the back of your closet, never to see the light of day again.
Ever since then, you have been a little more on edge than usual.
“Hello,” Natasha drawled out, calling your name. “Are you paying attention?”
You shook your head, clearing your murky thoughts as you focused on the present. The two of you were in the tower’s gym, doing some cool down stretches after sparring and conditioning. Your friend was looking at you with slight concern, but you tried your best to brush it off.
“Sorry,” you apologized. “The training really took a toll on me.”
“Mhm, sure it did,” she agreed sarcastically. She took inventory of your posture and distracted look as she stretched her arms behind her head. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the lack of vibrations coming from your room the past few nights, does it?”
Immediately, you felt your face become engulfed in flames and your eyes bulge out of your head. Sometimes it was a gift to live so close to your best friend, but in this moment, it was curse. Damn the former widow and her sharp senses.
“Shh,” you practically hissed. “Someone could hear you! We live with super soldiers and a literal God.”
“Oh, relax,” Natasha waved off. “They’re grown men, they should be able to handle women talking about their sex lives… or lack thereof.”
You shook your head in disbelief. “Key word being ‘should’, Natasha. Steve and Bucky would go into a coma if they knew what women got up to in this day and age. And let’s not even talk about Thor. He would probably be so confused and ask us to clarify in horrifying detail what we were talking about.” You paused, considering her last jab. “Besides, what time do I have to fool around? Tony’s got us booked into next year unless we are on a mission.”
“Hmm, that just sounds like excuses – valid excuses, but excuses nonetheless,” the redhead replied, throwing you a teasing smirk as she jumped up from the mat and grabbed a towel nearby to dry her sweat.
Following in her footsteps, you got up and turned to grab a drink from your water bottle when the gym doors opened, revealing the two super soldiers you were just talking about. Steve was in his typical workout gear and he was avidly going on about something to his friend, but Bucky just gave minimal replies to his childhood friend.
Your attention remained on Bucky as he walked further into the gym with the blonde. The compression tank top that Bucky was wearing was sinful; clinging to his pecs and abdominal muscles like the fabric was about to rip at the seams. The tank top left his mouth-watering biceps on display and you could feel the saliva start to pool in your mouth. His gray sweatpants left nothing for your imagination as you could see his thick thighs straining under the fabric. If you looked close enough – and you certainly weren’t looking close enough – you could faintly see the outline of his dick through the pants. Your thighs clenched together faintly as you ripped your sight away from the Adonis in front of you.
“Afternoon, ladies,” Steve greeted you and Natasha as they came over to the benches to wrap their hands for their sparring session. “Good session today?”
“It’s always a good session when I get to wrap my thighs around someone’s head,” Natasha almost cooed, giving the blonde soldier something dangerously close to bedroom eyes.
It was no secret that Natasha and Steve were fooling around. Natasha was proud anytime she could make the All-American Boy blush, and Steve was still not used to having such blatant desire thrown his way.
Steve choked on his own spit and you could see his mind trying to conjure the image of her thighs wrapped around someone’s face; you just couldn’t tell if he was picturing you or him since he wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone.
With that response tucked into her back pocket, Natasha sauntered towards the communal showers after sending a wink over her shoulder to the Captain. He remained frozen in place even when Bucky waved his hand in front of his friend’s face.
You suppressed a laugh, amazed at how hypnotized the former Widow could leave the Golden Boy.
Bucky moved his attention to you, letting his friend sit in the moment and daydream to his heart’s content. You looked at the super soldier, anticipating him saying something, but he stayed rooted in his spot and just looked at you with eyes that contained a mix of many emotions that he was clearly trying to mask.
After several moments, you just gave him a shy smile and turned to follow Natasha to the showers. “Have a good session, boys,” you called out with a friendly wave.
Later that evening, you and Natasha were sitting in the common space on the floor that you shared with the two super soldiers. The men were still down in the gym, working out their heightened energy levels while you and Natasha were having quality girl time with each other.
There were cocktails, chips, and makeup strewn about the table in front of you. Natasha had it in her head that she was going to play around with her makeup skills to make sure she still had the skill under her belt. You had laughed at her and told her that she could never lose that skill since she looked amazing every day.
Currently, you were sipping your cocktail through a small straw while Natasha was putting some blush on your cheeks.
“You know,” Natasha started, “I think it’s time for you to get back out there. It’s been, what? Five years since your last relationship? Don’t you think it’s time to get a real dick in you instead of the silicone ones you use?”
You choked mid sip on your cocktail. Natasha and you shared a wall with your living quarters and you had been a fool to think Tony would soundproof the walls.
"I heard you throw something around a few nights ago after an hour of buzzing,” she continued, rooting around for a bigger reaction from you. She was lucky you were such close friends or you would have iced her out of your life for a comment like that.
“I mean, it was fun the first few years,” you started to explain. “My past partners never really knew how to get me there. They would always finish, roll over, and text their friends without doing much for me. So, the toys were a way that I could pleasure myself without fail.”
Natasha nodded along as she moved to pick up some eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. You closed your eyes, already knowing she would need complete access to your eyelids.
You continued, “I learned new things about myself, but recently, it’s been getting predictable and I think I’m just used to the sensations. It’s losing its appeal to me.”
“Well, maybe you just need someone else to be the navigator while you enjoy the ride,” she said. “You’re predictable to yourself so getting another person involved in the mix might bring the zest back.”
“Maybe,” you agreed, taking another sip of your drink as you felt the assassin drag a brush over your lids. “But there’s no way in hell I’m going out to those gross clubs or jumping on the heinous dating apps just to get laid. It’s never been my scene and after working in this field, I don’t think crowds will ever appeal to me again.”
You heard her hum in agreement before she gave your shoulder a small tap, letting you know she was done with her eyes. You relaxed back against the couch and took another sip of your cocktail as Natasha looked at the supplies before her to decide what she wanted to work on next.
“That’s fair,” she agreed. “But there are other ways to meet people. There are libraries, cafes, parks, even grocery stores.”
“Who meets people in the grocery store Natasha?” you asked in genuine disbelief. “Only serial killers pick up people from the grocery store.”
“Okay, maybe that was a bad example, but you know what I mean,” she chided, grabbing the tube of red lipstick. You played the dutiful client and leaned forward so she could swipe the crimson pigment across your lips. “I just want my friend to have a good time and not die from the shock of a frayed wire in an old vibrator.”
Once she was finished, you leaned back and turned to look at the mirror she had set up on the coffee table. Your breath caught in your throat momentarily as you looked at the woman staring back at you. You were mesmerized by her visage.
It had been ages since you wore makeup. It wasn’t necessary in the field you worked in. During your time not fighting crime, you were conditioning yourself in the gym, cooking in the kitchen, or lounging around.
The woman staring back at you still looked like you, but your features were more exaggerated and alluring in this sultry look.
As you stared at yourself in the mirror, you were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the elevator doors open, dumping the two super soldiers out into the common room of your shared floor. You heard someone talking, but you couldn’t register much at the moment, still swept up in your features.
“What do we think?” Nat’s voice eventually broke you out of your thoughts and you turned to look at who she was talking to.
There, standing with his hands on his traitorously slim hips, was none other than Bucky Barnes. His skin was glimmering with the sweat that clung to him and you found yourself momentarily jealous of the beads of sweat that rolled from his temple all the way down to his clavicle. The muscles in his arms, chest, abdomen, and thighs looked particularly mouthwatering after his gym session and you had to remind yourself that you were in front of other people so you didn’t start drooling.
You tore your eyes away from him, looking down at your hands for a second to gather your wits. While you were collecting yourself, you heard shuffling and the sound of someone getting elbowed, making you look up at the men to see Bucky glaring at Steve and the blonde grinning at you and Natasha with an innocent expression.
Natasha arched an eyebrow, waiting for one of them to say something. You already knew she had some plan unraveling in her mind, you just didn’t know where you fit into it and what these two men had to do with anything.
After another long stretch of silence, Bucky cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Uh…” His hand reached up to scratch the back of his neck as he looked straight at you and took in your appearance. “You look – you look really – um, you look -”
You basked in the attention he was giving you and hearing him stumble through his words to describe you sent small sparks shooting down your spine. There have always been moments between you and Bucky that you felt were charged. You never knew if he felt them too, if you were reading into your interactions too much, or if you were projecting your crush too loudly.
With another elbow to the side from his childhood best friend, Bucky cleared his throat again before looking at Natasha and nodding his head. “Uhm, it looks fine,” he said with a painfully awkward smile on his face and Steve eagerly nodded along like a dog who was loyal to its owner.
The sparks you felt earlier fizzled out upon hearing the word “fine” leave his lips. “Fine” wasn’t beautiful. “Fine” wasn’t gorgeous. “Fine” wasn’t ugly. “Fine” was… lackluster and a bit underwhelming.
“Fine” was what Bucky Barnes thought of you, apparently. It wasn’t what you wanted him to think of you. You wanted him to be enamored with you, enraptured or enthralled. His stuttering earlier had given you so much hope that he felt an inkling of the same way that you felt for him. But one word dashed all your hopes and dreams in less than a second.
“That’s all you have to say?” Natasha asked, thoroughly unimpressed by the former assassin in front of her.
“Fine is good, isn’t it?” Steve asked, clearly trying to help dig his friend out of the hole he had put himself in.
Your shoulders deflated the slightest bit and you quickly pulled on your proverbial mask, not needing anyone in the room to see what “fine” really made you feel. You grabbed your cocktail, downed the rest of the drink, and stood up quickly.
“I’m going to get another drink,” you said, making your escape without looking at anyone in the room.
Once you reached the kitchen, you ditched your glass in the sink and walked over to the balcony that was attached to the dining area. The cool air hit your face as soon as you stepped outside and it helped the stinging feeling of “fine” leave your system.
You leaned against the rail of the balcony and looked down at the city below. The bright lights of the buildings and cars beneath were hypnotizing. The sound of people going about their lives was a nice soundtrack to have as you attempted to sort through your thoughts.
God, what was wrong with you? How did one person have such a hold over you? It was silly. You were letting one word from a man that you happened to be yearning for dictate your mood – something you had promised you wouldn’t fall into again after your last relationship. You were more than how a man made you feel, even if said man was a Grecian God embodied in muscle and skin right before your eyes.
“Ugh,” you groaned to yourself, shaking your head. “Stupid men. Stupid words. Stupid feelings!”
Before you could continue on your barrage of insults towards the other sex, Natasha popped her head out from the door. She gave you a soft, knowing look that made tears of frustration well in your eyes.
“Hey,” she greeted calmly. “I’m headed to bed. Do you need anything?”
You gave her a tight smile and shook your head. “I’ll be okay. Thank you for the makeover, by the way. I haven’t seen myself like this in a long time.”
“You’re welcome, but just so you know, you’re gorgeous. Not just ‘fine’,” she said, winking at you as she went back inside and sauntered to her room.
After almost an hour of sitting outside, you pushed away from the balcony’s railing and walked back inside, coming to a halt when you saw a tall form with a metal arm standing at the fridge, looking through its contents for something to eat or drink.
At the sound of your footsteps stopping, the soldier turned around and met your gaze. You bit the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say or do. The two of you just stood there, staring at each other, holding your breaths.
Bucky was the one who ended up breaking the silence. “Hey,” he breathed out.
You gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded your head towards him. The silence consumed the space between you once more. Deciding that you wanted this moment to end, you gave him another nod before walking towards the doorway of the kitchen to go to your bedroom.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice stopped you in your tracks. You turned to face him and saw him walk around the island so he could stand in front of you. “I’m… I’m sorry for that whole… thing back in the common room.”
Your eyes widened a bit in surprise.
He scratched the back of his neck again; a gesture you were coming to know was his tell when he was feeling put on the spot. “I haven’t exactly had practice talking to women the past few decades.” An awkward, self-conscious chuckle came out of his mouth. “Much less someone like you.”
“Like me?” you repeated, not understanding what that was supposed to mean exactly.
The hand that was on his neck dropped and clenched into a fist briefly before he let it go and shook his fist out. His eyes dropped from yours and flickered around the room before finding yours again.
“Yeah, someone like you,” he repeated. “Someone who is much more than ‘fine’.”
“Bucky, what –” He cut you off, answering the question you couldn’t fully ask.
“Someone who is probably the prettiest dame I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said quietly in a low tone. If you were three more feet away from him, you don’t think you would have heard him; but you did and now you had a blushing super soldier standing in front of you, looking at his feet because he didn’t want to meet your eyes after his confession.
Your whole body was stunned. Your feet couldn’t move. Your eyes were frozen wide open. Your mind was stuck on “prettiest dame I’ve ever seen”. Everything you had spiraled about on the balcony was all for naught after hearing Bucky’s words.
The more you thought about it, the more you realized that his actions around you have never been out of avoidance or convenience like you feared. Almost all the interactions you have had with Bucky have been awkward. Sure, you had a hand in making the encounters awkward with your incessant crush and never knowing what to say around someone you found physically attractive, but Bucky was also awkward during your encounters.
He was awkward in the way he would always send you a shy smile in the gym before immediately turning around to do something else.
He was awkward in the way he would scoot over on the couch during movie nights to make ample room for you before offering you three different blankets.
He was awkward in the way he fumbled over his words to you every time, except during missions.
It was all because Bucky was feeling awkward since he found you attractive, too.
The realization brought you out of your stupor and you shuffled forward half a step before reaching out to lift his chin with your pointer and middle fingers. While you moved his head up to hopefully make eye contact, you found that he was still avoiding your eyes. A slight chuckle came from your chest, effectively pulling his gaze back to you.
His blue eyes twinkled under the fluorescent kitchen lighting, making him look slightly more youthful and innocent. The blush on his cheeks earlier had yet to fade, still leaving his cheeks a dusty rose. His teeth held his bottom lip captive as he scanned your face, looking for something that might tell him he messed up. But he wouldn’t find anything like that.
You trailed the two fingers holding his chin up down the side of his throat, lightly petting the smooth skin beneath your digits. Something like a purr resonated from his vocal cords and chest, making the smile on your face pull tighter and wider.
“Prettiest dame you’ve ever seen, huh?” you gently asked him, watching as the blush across his cheeks intensify.
“Uh…” he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”
You bit your lip to keep your smile from splitting your face in half. It was ridiculous how fast your heart was racing just because he was fumbling around in your presence. You could hear your blood racing in your ears and something behind your ribcage was threatening to break out at any moment.
“I don’t know how it took me so long to realize how awkward you are,” you whispered. His eyes widened in shock and a look of disbelief flashed over his features. You quickly put his worries to rest. “It’s super cute.”
Bucky groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Cute isn’t exactly what I was going for.”
“Yeah? Well, ‘fine’ isn’t exactly what I was going for, either,” you quipped, watching his face drop in mortification at the reminder of his blunder earlier in the night. Before you could think twice, you leaned in and gave his cheek a quick peck, making sure to subtly inhale his scent while you were this close.
The moment your lips connected with the skin of his cheek, Bucky’s body went rigid beneath you. You pulled back slowly, watching as he stared at your mouth and robotically brought a hand up to his cheek to touch the place where your lips had been.
You didn’t know what to do after this and there was a part of you that was dying to go to your room and scream into a pillow over the fact that Bucky Barnes found you attractive. So, you listened to that part of you and gave him a small smile before slowly walking backwards and leaving him to his own devices. Once you rounded the doorway of the kitchen, you squealed and ran to your room in record time.
The moment your bedroom door closed behind you, you started to jump around and twirl, needing to get the giddy excitement out of your body somehow. You launched yourself on to your bed and buried your face in your pillows, flailing your limbs around to express your bundle of emotions.
Your celebration was cut short, however, with a knock at your door. You sat up quickly, figuring it was probably Natasha coming to ask what the ruckus was. You stood up from your bed and skipped over to the door, throwing it open to tell your friend everything.
Where you expected to find a small redheaded woman, you found a tall brunet haired man with blue eyes that were almost eclipsed by his pupils.
“Buck-”
Before you could even get his name out of your mouth, the super soldier stepped forward into your space. His hands came up to cup your face as he pulled you into his orbit and covered your lips with his. The sensation of his warm, slightly chapped lips against yours was enough to send all your senses haywire. You saw stars behind your eyes, and you felt as if your body was about to fuse with Bucky’s massive frame. You would happily let him consume you if it meant you could keep kissing him.
It all ended too quickly for your liking. Bucky pulled away and stared into your hazy eyes with eyes equally cloudy.
“Bucky,” was the only word that was able to eek out of your brain.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’ve been wanting to do that a long time, but I should have asked before kissing you. I’m so sorry, I really am.” His hands dropped from your face and he took multiple steps backwards.
You shook your head, unable to conjure words to placate his mounting anxiety. You followed after him and grabbed the front of his shirt, stopping him from backing away from you further. The two of you stood in the hallway, staring at each other with heaving chests, not moving. The tension between you both was so tense, you felt something start to fray from being pulled too taught. And that something was your desire for the super soldier in front of you.
“Bucky,” you murmured, “you don’t have to apologize.”
“No, I do,” he countered. “I shouldn’t kiss you without your consent. My Ma is rolling over in her grave.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of your chest. Even though the man in front of you had been a weapon for decades, there was still no taking the well-mannered boy out of his forties’ expectations.
“What if I told you I liked that you kissed me like that?”
That brought his attention back to the current moment between you. His pupils eclipsed his hypnotizing blue irises and you could see his body coil with restraint as you gently tugged him into your room by the front of his shirt. His hands flew to your waist as he stumbled forward, already under the spell of your confidence and persuasion.
He swallowed harshly before huffing out a laugh. “Then I would say, good, because I really liked kissing you.”
“How about we do it again?”
That was all he needed to hear before he wound his metal arm around you, entwined his flesh hand in the hair at the base of your neck, and pulled you forward into yet another breath-taking kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you felt the muscles under his shirt shift as your hands touched his skin.
The hand at the back of your neck tilted your head back so he could deepen the kiss, causing a moan to burst from your throat. Bucky took advantage of the momentary opening of your lips and slipped his tongue into your mouth. The wet muscle traced your teeth before entwining itself around your tongue. Bucky was surprisingly very great at kissing for not being in control of his body for decades upon decades.
Your hands started to eagerly pull at his shirt, needing to feel his warm skin under your palms while the two of continued to explore each other. Bucky briefly pulled back from the kiss to rip his shirt over his head before pulling your body flush against his. The moment your hands touched his pectorals, Bucky let out the most pathetic whimper you had ever heard come from a man. Heat flooded your system and you swore you could feel your heartbeat in between your thighs.
You raked your nails over his skin, drawing another sound from Bucky. His hands started to paw at your body, one hand sneaking up your shirt and the other slipped under your pants, grabbing a handful of your ass. You gasped, not expecting Bucky to make such a bold move, but thoroughly enjoying the sensation of his calloused, warm hand grabbing the soft flesh of your bottom.
It was clear that he was enjoying himself by his growing erection poking your lower tummy. While you were able to see sublet outlines of his endowment through some of his sweatpants, he felt much bigger than you imagined he was, and the moan you let out as you rubbed yourself on top of him let him know just how you much you craved him.
“Off,” you mumbled against his mouth. “Clothes off.”
He broke apart from you slowly, as if it pained him to do so, before he stripped his pants and boxers off, leaving him bare in front of you.
Now, you had envisioned Bucky naked many times. You had seen him shirtless before, but never anything below the belt. In your mind, you gave Bucky a generous sized cock, surrounded by a trimmed, shallow bush, surrounded by his thunderous thighs. But seeing the real thing was making you feel guilty for not giving him more.
While he did have a smattering of chest hair and a happy trail that made you very happy, you were simply at a loss for words. Between his legs, hung the most thick, flushed, and lengthiest dick you had ever seen. It was menacing, to be quite honest. Your toys were based around the average male’s size and you had no idea if he could fit himself inside of you. However, the most mouthwatering part of it all was the thick, dense curls that sat at the base of his delicious cock. It was so rugged and masculine, and in the current state you were in, it was enough to make your knees actually quake. Bucky’s right arm shot out to steady you, thankfully.
“Are you okay?” he asked, worry seeping into his tone.
You nodded your head, unable to pull your gaze away from his groin. “More than okay,” you answered after gulping down the saliva that had pooled in your mouth. Bucky’s deep chuckle pulled your eyes back to his. While you had expected him to be flushed from the attention you were giving him, he appeared more confident under your hungry gaze. Dare you say: he was glowing from your blatant ogling. A small smirk sat on his devastatingly swollen, pink lips and you couldn’t hold back a groan as you lunged for his lips.
He held you back, much to your dismay. His eyes stared down at you and it felt like you were going to get sucked into the black hole that were his eyes. “You’re wearing too much.”
Suddenly, two sets of hands were ripping at your clothes. You were focused on your top and Bucky was working on the zipper of your jeans, shimmying them down your legs once they headed his demand. You tossed the cotton shirt to the ground and unhooked your bra. Before you could pull the straps off your shoulder, Bucky stopped you. His fingers took over the task, slowly pulling them down your shoulders, savoring the moment.
Once your breasts were free from your bra, you could hear Bucky grunt as if someone had dealt a blow to his solar plexus. In the next moment, his hands and mouth descended on your chest, enveloping the delicate skin with calloused and wet heat. Your hands flew into his hair and tugged on the roots, pulling his face impossibly closer to your chest. Every tweak to your nipples from his metal fingers or his teeth and tongue caused your underwear to cling to you more and more.
“Bucky,” you moaned, earning one back in response. Your fingers that were threaded through his thick hair pulled, trying to bring him back up to your mouth, but he stubbornly latched on to your breast and refused to move away. When his teeth came down gently around the peak of your nipple, you felt your legs give out from the overwhelming sensation. Bucky’s strong arm supported your weight as he slowly turned you around and backed you up to your bed.
He trailed his mouth to your other breast and laid the both of you down while he lavished his attention all over your chest. You never knew that you could feel so good from stimulation on your breasts alone, but what a revelation it was. Your back arched as you were laid out on the bed with Bucky’s weight hovering over you. He let out a satisfied moan when your action pushed your soft skin further into his hand and mouth.
After another moment, Bucky moved his attention from your chest and trailed wet, hot, sloppy kisses down your torso until he reached the cotton of your underwear. He looked up, catching your gaze, and you gave him a small nod of consent to pull your underwear off.
“I need your words,” Bucky softly chided. “I need to know you want this.”
“I do, yes!” you eagerly answered. “I want this so bad, Bucky.”
“Yeah?” he questioned as he pulled your underwear down with an excruciatingly slow pace.
You nodded your head, completely mesmerized as you looked down at him. How could you not be mesmerized when he looked at you with something akin to awe or worship? It was taking everything in you not to grab him, throw him down on the bed, and ride him until the break of dawn. But you would be a fool to rush your first time together. You wanted this moment to last forever. “I’ve wanted you – this – since you joined the team.”
“You’re telling me we could have been doing this since I joined?” he asked as he crawled back up your body, peppering kisses on whatever exposed skin he could. You nodded your head quickly and pulled him into another searing kiss. “We have a lot of time to make up for then,” he said between kisses.
You were about to draw him closer when suddenly, you heard something vibrating under your bed, sending small vibrations through the bedframe. The two of you pulled away and looked at each other with confusion, not understanding what was happening.
The vibrations continued, prompting Bucky to pull himself off you and move off the bed. After a few seconds, he came back up, holding a box you had thought was buried in the back of your closet. Your eyes grew wide like saucers as Bucky put the box on the bed and opened the lid before you could come to your senses and stop him from seeing what was inside.
His brows furrowed as he pulled out the culprit – your bright red, bullet vibrator. Bucky looked up at you with a puzzled expression. “What is this?”
You snatched the vibrator from his hands, turned it off and threw it across the room. “It’s nothing!” you immediately responded, feeling anxiety creep into your veins. What would Bucky think of your box of vibrators? What would his old-fashioned mind come up with and would he be finished with what you were about to do when he realized what it was?
“Nothing? Then why is there a note from Natasha in here?”
“What?”
You pulled the box closer to you and looked inside to see a small note inside. On it, Natasha just wrote "I dusted these off for you”, with a winking face underneath, a condom tapped to said note, and her initial. You groaned, burying your face in your hands. You knew she meant well, but it was mortifying to know she had dug around in your closet, found the box, and then put it back where you had it hidden before. You didn’t even want to know how she knew where it used to live.
“Hey,” Bucky said softly, grabbing your wrists to pull your hands from your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
You sighed, realizing there was no way to get around this other than going through the awkward moment. “Um, it’s a bit embarrassing, but… these are my… adult toys, you could say.”
When you looked at Bucky, you could tell he didn’t quiet get what you were saying. How could he when talking about sex was taboo during his youth and when he was a brainwashed assassin for the last however-many-decades.
"Uh, I kinda used to use them to help me… relax,” you tried again, hoping your euphemism would translate in his brain.
“Relax?”
You buried your head in your hands again and murmured.
“What did you say?”
“They’re my sex toys!” you burst out, looking up at him with wild, expectant eyes. You saw the moment clarity hit his brain. His face shifted from confusion to understanding to flushed in the span of one second. He was silent for a minute before he spoke up.
“Sex toys?” He said it like he wasn’t expecting an answer, so you didn’t respond to him, waiting to see how this situation would unfold. “You used these… while I was just down the hall.”
You sat there, frozen, watching as Bucky took the box from your hands and put it down on the floor before kicking it away from the bed. He stood up and crawled on to the bed, pushing you down gently before he laid his body on top of yours. The warmth, the weight, and the scent of him flooded your senses, making you effectively forget how to produce words.
“I never want you to use those again,” he growled. “Not while I’m here.”
With that, he gave you a scorching kiss before he moved down the bed, positioning himself at the apex of your thighs. He gently pushed your thighs apart so his broad shoulders could situate himself to access your pussy.
“She’s so pretty,” he cooed as he looked down at you with the hungriest look you have ever seen grace his face. He drew a finger through your slick folds, and a violent shiver made its way up your spine, sending your back arching off the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked darkly as he held your hips down with his beautiful vibranium arm. “I’m just getting started with her.”
His mouth descended on your core while his fingers continued to draw lazy shapes near your entrance. The moment his lips touched the hood of your clit, you practically let out a scream. Everything he was doing felt more sensitive than it should have been. You could say that was the one perk of being single for the last five years.
His tongue, lips, and fingers worked over your pussy with rapt attention. He held you down with every attempt your hips made to cant up into his touch, fully engrossed in the task he had set for himself.
“God, you taste so sweet,” he slurred against your sex.
Your hands gripped the sheets underneath you and your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his fingers finally entered you, curling inside your walls. Every drag of his fingers, every swipe of his tongue over your clit, every grumble and groan that came from his chest sent you soaring higher and higher. Your bones felt like they were catching fire while your muscles felt like they were turning to liquid. Your body was overwhelmed with pleasure and you came with a scream before you could voice anything to Bucky.
The solider between your legs eagerly lapped up every last drop of your release, moaning against you enthusiastically. Your chest heaved with uneven breaths as you rode out the warm waves of your orgasm. You were so encapsulated in the fuzzy warmth of your pleasure that you didn’t notice the Adonis of a man crawling back up your body until he connected his mouth with yours.
The tangy taste of yourself on his tongue made you reel even as you were coming down. Bucky’s hands closed around your wrists and brought your hands above your head, pulling your body taught beneath his as he settled on top of you once more. You felt a warm liquid bead just under your navel when Bucky pressed his hips into yours.
“Bucky, please,” you begged. “I need to touch you, please.”
“Shh,” he hushed against your lips. “I know, but I need to be inside of you right now before I lose my mind.”
You whined like a petulant child as you were denied from handling Bucky the way you had been dreaming about since you saw him, receiving a chuckle from the man above you.
Bucky pulled a hand away from your wrists, holding them with his other, while he wrapped his metal hand around himself. He dragged the angry red tip of his cock through your folds, lubing himself with your slick. Stars erupted behind your eyes as you basked in the feeling of him. After a moment, Bucky let himself fall against your core as he reached to get the condom he slyly put next to you before he kicked your box of adult toys away. He quickly ripped the package open with his teeth and rolled the condom on to his obscene length.
There was a brief moment where everything froze between the two of you and you just stared at each other.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whispered, afraid if you spoke too loudly that you would ruin the moment.
“This is just the beginning,” he said while lining himself up with your entrance. “I need you to let me know if I hurt you.”
“I’ll tell you,” you replied immediately, knowing that consent and safety were very important to Bucky after all that he had been through. “I promise. But I need you inside right now.”
A sly grin formed on his face before he started to slowly push in. Your hands fought against his hold, wanting to clutch his shoulders tightly while he was splitting you apart with his monstrous dick. The stretch was lethal. You could feel him impaling you, but there wasn’t any pain like you were afraid there would be with a man of his size. Instead, the stretch caused a blossoming heat to begin unfurling in your lower tummy.
“Oh, my God,” you moaned. The sound was borderline pornographic, but that was the least of your worries at the moment. “Bucky, you’re so big.”
Bucky dropped his head to your shoulder upon hearing your words. “You can’t say things like that while I’m inside you, doll. I’ll finish before we can even begin.”
You giggled, feeling the warmth increase at the thought of Bucky being too worked up and finishing before he was fully inside of you. There was nothing you found more attractive than Bucky loosing his cool at the thought of you or the words you said.
A groan tore out of his throat at your giggle. “You can’t laugh either. I can’t control myself when you clench around me.” You ceased your laughing for his sake and instead focused on his cock sinking into you. After a few more moments, Bucky was fully sheathed inside of you, and you had never felt fuller or this content than you did in this moment.
“Please, move,” you whispered into his ear, urging him on with a roll of your hips into his.
Bucky didn’t need to be told twice. He immediately set the perfect pace, pulling and pushing his hips into yours, eliciting lewd sounds from where the two of you were joined. Bucky’s head remained on your shoulder, but you felt his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder and the slight burst of pain sent a thrill down your spine and a moan fall from your lips.
“God, you’re so tight,” Bucky wheezed. “How are you this tight?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve let someone into my bed,” you answered.
“No one else is allowed in this bed,” he growled, punctuating his possessive comment with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips. The tip of his cock brushed a spot inside of you that you had only been able to find once before with one of your toys. But with each thrust afterwards, Bucky had no problem reaching the same spot, sending all conscious thought out of your brain. “No one else will ever get to know what you feel like.”
You could feel the coil in your belly threatening to snap once again with each roll of his hips and every word that came out of his mouth. In this moment, it felt as if this man was made for you. The way his cock fit inside of you. The way his head fit perfectly in your shoulder. The way his skin felt against yours. The way the coarse hairs at the base of his cock brushed against your clit with each thrust.
Bucky’s hand let go of your wrists and flew to hold himself up on the bed as he began to speed up his strokes. With your hands free, you reached down and latched on to his shoulders, bringing your bodies closer together. With the pleasure building in your tummy, you felt yourself fly higher towards the sun.
If this was how Icarus felt, you understood why he couldn’t resist the warmth and beauty of the sun.
“I’m close,” you whined, sinking your fingernails into Bucky’s shoulder. “Right there. Please, don’t stop, Bucky.”
“Come for me,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come around me.”
With his permission, you felt the tight band of pleasure snap, flooding you with endorphins while you rode out the best orgasm of your life. Bucky whined above you as he stilled his hips and you could feel the condom fill with his release as the two of you came together.
The two of you laid entangled together afterwards and the weight of his body on top of yours was lulling you to sleep. When you felt Bucky shift above you, you latched on to him, not wanting him to go anywhere.
“I’m not leaving, I just don’t want to crush you,” Bucky laughed as he rolled you both on to your sides. With his head on your pillow, you soaked in the sight of him looking much lighter than he ever has. You reached out and brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear, dragging your thumb over the skin of his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut and he let out a content sigh. “I’m never leaving this bed,” he said.
Butterflies erupted in your belly as you thought about waking up to Bucky every day. It was a sight you knew you could get used to. “I guess we’ll have to send in our resignations to the team,” you joked, earning a genuine smile from the man out of time laying next to you.
He curled his arms around you, pulling you flush against his body. “About those toys,” he mumbled into your hair. You leaned your head back to look into his eyes and giggled when you saw the faux menacing look on his face. “We’re getting rid of those devil red toys tomorrow. First thing.”
You laughed and leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, not knowing how else to express your joy and awe for the man finally laying in your arms.
a/n: if you made it this far, THANK YOU!!! i hope you enjoyed this very self-indulgent fic of mine! reblogs and comments are much appreciated <3
⤷ thunderbolts*!bucky barnes x apothecary fem!reader
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, thunderbolts fluff, opposites attract, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy and sunshine, sex pollen, dom!bucky, bucky is hungryyy, rough sex, angry sex, oral (m!receiving), intense eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 8.6k
⭐︎ a/n: probably my final thunderbolts fic huzzah before bucky gets slimed in doomsday (will edit this in a few months when the movie comes out)
synopsis:
The team is in dire need of a healer. So when Alexei mentions that he knows someone who's proficient with medicinal herbs, Bucky has his hesitations. How could someone possibly heal people with stupid plants and minerals? Then, upon meeting, you accidentally give Bucky a tincture that leaves him feeling all fuzzy and warm, proving his concerns exactly right. And only you can help him get rid of his ache.
← previous fic | main masterlist
There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.
As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.
“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”
“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.
“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.
“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”
“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.
“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.
Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”
Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”
“Thank you, Bob—”
“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”
Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.
“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.
And John, of course, does.
“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”
“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.
“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”
Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”
“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression.
“We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”
Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.
Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”
Ava, John, and Bob shrug.
Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”
It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.
So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.
“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”
You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.
Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.
“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.
Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”
You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”
“Our team needs a healer.”
To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.
“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.
Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.
“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”
You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”
Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.
You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.
“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”
“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”
“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”
That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.
“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”
“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.
“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”
“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”
“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”
John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”
You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.
“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”
The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.
“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”
Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”
“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”
The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.
Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.
Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.
It actually makes perfect sense.
Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.
Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”
“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”
“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.
Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.
“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”
Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”
While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.
“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”
Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.
Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.
“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”
Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.
“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”
Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?
With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.
“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”
Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”
You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.
“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”
“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”
You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”
Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.
You furrow your brows. “What was that?”
“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.
“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”
Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”
You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.
“Here,” you say. “Try it.”
Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”
“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”
He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”
You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.
Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.
He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.
“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.
Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”
You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”
As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.
But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.
The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.
He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.
When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.
What the hell is happening?
He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.
He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.
“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.
When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”
You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.
“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”
With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.
The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.
He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.
“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.
You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”
You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”
You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.
When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.
“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”
“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”
You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”
Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.
It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.
There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.
A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.
“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”
Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.
Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.
His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.
In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.
The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.
His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.
“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”
“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”
You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.
“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”
You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.
“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”
While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.
“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”
Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.
“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.
You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.
“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”
Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.
He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.
He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…
“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.
That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.
He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.
You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”
Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.
As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.
Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.
You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.
You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.
“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”
Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.
You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.
You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.
It doesn’t sound like pleasure.
It sounds like he’s in pain.
Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.
“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”
Silence, save for his labored panting.
Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”
You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.
You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.
You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.
He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.
Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”
“Where are you going?”
You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”
Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”
You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”
“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”
You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.
“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”
He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.
The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.
“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.
Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.
“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”
“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”
His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.
“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”
You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it. You should push him away, but with the way he’s kissing your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin, you know he’s not going to give you a choice in this matter.
With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.
His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”
His cock twitches at the realization.
“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”
Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.
“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”
Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.
“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”
Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.
His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.
Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.
The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.
With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.
“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”
He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”
Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.
His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.
“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”
You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.
“On your knees,” he urges.
Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.
“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.
Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.
He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.
“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”
You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.
His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”
Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.
“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”
Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.
You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.
“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.
“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”
Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.
“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.
You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.
“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”
His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.
His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.
You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.
He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.
“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”
“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”
He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.
“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”
A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”
“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”
Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
“Bucky—!”
You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.
Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.
“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.
Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.
“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”
His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.
A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.
“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.
The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.
“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”
The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.
With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.
Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.
A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.
He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.
Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.
“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”
You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.
“Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”
He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”
His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.
You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.
“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.
Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.
His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.
Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.
Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.
“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.
A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.
He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.
Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.
“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.
Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.
That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.
“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”
A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.
John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.
“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.
“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.
“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”
“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.
Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”
Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”
“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”
Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.
The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.
The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.
“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.
The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.
“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”
“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”
Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.
John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.
John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”
Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”
Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”
“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.
Bucky’s jaw clenches.
Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.
His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.
You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.
The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.
Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“I’ll go.”
this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
Summary: Being a floor alpha in The Tower means you have a lot of responsibilities and rules to uphold. It’s worth it, appeasing your protective instincts and living with a pack. But it’s also torture, fighting against falling in love with an omega in your care, especially since that omega is Bucky Barnes.
Want It Too Much 🪻🌻🌿
Summary: Your grandmother always taught you that there’s more magic to this life than you think. It’s not until you follow the path into the woods behind her house that you actually believe her.
Don’t Feed Me (I Will Come Back) 🥀🪻
Summary: You meet up with your cousin again at the Family Reunion. Just like always.
Empty Dance Halls 🥀
Summary: Your job is to decorate the ballroom until the music starts to play.
Minotaur Bucky 🪻
I’ll Never Let You Go 🪻🌻 🌿
Series Summary: Your life was never complete until you met your Daddy, Jefferson. Snippets of a life happily ever after.
Play The Game, But I Can’t Stay 🥀
Summary: The faerie that lives on the edge of the woods is always looking for new prey. And some fates just can’t be avoided.
This Can’t Be Happening 🥀
Summary: When you started dating Jefferson, you had no idea it would end up like this. It’s time to play a game.
Freezing 🥀
Summary: Sitting out in the cold and Dr. Whale finds you. Jefferson doesn’t like what he sees.
Fae Jefferson 🥀
Werewolf Jefferson 🪻
Standing Like a Slut 🪻
No Way to Turn Back 🥀
Summary: First, your car breaks down in a literal ghost town. And it just kinda gets worse—and weird—from there.
Everything Happened So We’d Meet 🥀🪻
Summary: Sequel to No Way to Turn Back. After finding yourself inexplicably 55 years in the past and stuck with an overbearing sheriff, you’re coming to find out just what kind of man he is.
Love You Til The End Of Time 🥀🪻🌿
Summary: You were gonna spend the rest of your life with your high school sweetheart, Lee Bodecker, but your father had something to say about it. Nine years later, lots of things have changed. But not what’s really important.
Wrong In The Sweetest Ways 🥀
Summary: Ready for your date at the drive-in, you stumble across something in the alley across the street—something you probably weren’t meant to see.
Orc Lee 🪻
Puppy Justin Capshaw 🪻🌻
Series Summary: A peek into the life of a Mommy, her puppy, and their babygirl.
The Glammr Network 🪻🌻 🌿
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, Jake Jensen, Ari Levinson and Curtis Everett, Andy Barber, Ransom Drysdale, Lee Bodecker
Series Summary: The Glammr Network: a universe of monsters and misunderstandings. Good thing there’s a dating app where everyone can get their happy ending.
The Undone and the Divine 🥀🪻
Featuring: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, Loki Laufeyson, Stephen Strange
Series Summary: Tales from a world crawling with old gods.
An Exploration of Comfort 🌻
Featuring: Phil Coulson, Lee Bodecker, Jake Jensen, Eddie Munson, Jefferson, Thomas Sharpe, Ari Levinson, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers
Series Summary: A series of blurbs/drabbles exploring the various ways we can find comfort with the ones we love. Includes drabbles featuring Phil Coulson, Lee Bodecker, Jake Jensen, Eddie Munson, Jefferson, Thomas Sharpe, Ari Levinson, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers.
Writing In The Dark Bingo 🥀🪻
Featuring: Thor Odinson, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Loki Laufeyson, Natasha Romanoff, Jake Jensen, Lance Tucker and Ransom Drysdale, Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson
Series Summary: The stories written for Writing in the Dark Bingo. Includes drabbles featuring Thor, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Loki Laufeyson, Natasha Romanoff, Jake Jensen, Lance Tucker, Ransom Drysdale, Bruce Banner, and Sam Wilson.
Shifting Gears 🥀🪻
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Summary: A story written by pisseddaddy in collaboration with me. Small town life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Especially when everyone’s a piece of shit. We all wear our masks, but how long until they fall?
Right Under Your Nose (Part 2) 🌻
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Summary: It’s not your fault that you bump into two super soldier and endear yourself to them. Seriously. You have no idea what they see in you, but having friends you can trust implicitly is nice. Right?
Summer Fling (Don’t Mean a Thing) 🪻🌻🌿
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Summary: You needed the getaway to get away from your ex-fiancé. And while you’re at it, why not try something a little different? Even if it’s just for a little while.
You’re Not Dancing On Your Own 🥀🪻
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Summary: Your job at Midnight puts you in the sights of a very powerful man.
Seem Like Someone Else 🌿
Featuring: Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes
Summary: Pain has been the only thing you’ve felt for so long. Until Bucky and Natasha teach you to feel something different.
Sugar, Oh Honey, Honey 🥀
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Summary: Drabble from Poor, Sweet, Innocent Thing. Something’s amiss at Tony’s party.
Their Favorite Bakery 🌻
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Fucking in Public 🪻
Featuring: Curtis Everett, Lee Bodecker, the Winter Soldier, Lloyd Hansen
Spanking 🪻
Featuring: Lloyd Hansen, Lee Bodecker
Between Nick and Lloyd 🪻
Featuring: Nick Fowler, Lloyd Hansen
Imaginary Fic Ask Game 🌻🌿
Featuring: Mr. Freezy, Nick Fowler, Curtis Everett, Ransom Drysdale, Andy Barber, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark
Summary: Five sentences based on prompts for this ask game.
Made-Up Fics 🥀🪻🌻🌿
Featuring: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Loki Laufeyson, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Thor Odinson, Wanda Maximoff and Vision, Sam Wilson, Jefferson, Ransom Drysdale
Summary: Synopses and blurbs of stories that yet remain unwritten.
summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... shout out to my girls who have been hearing me yap about this fic for months 😭 thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌
Sebastians-love @sebastians-love - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
