The thing about Bucky Barnes was that he had absolutely no business being that charming and he fully knew it.
“You’ve got something,” he said one morning, reaching over without warning and brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, casual as anything, “right there.”
You stared at the wall for approximately four seconds.
“Thanks,” you said, to the wall.
He was already pouring his coffee.
This was the problem. He did it constantly. Little things, easy things, things that probably meant nothing and yet had somehow colonized your entire nervous system.
It had started small. Little comments thrown over his shoulder while walking past you in the hallway.
“Morning, doll. That sweater’s real dangerous.”
Or while you were sitting at the kitchen counter typing on your tablet.
“Careful, sweetheart. If you keep biting your lip like that someone’s gonna get the wrong idea.”
Your response was always the same.
Your cheeks turned red.
You stared at literally anything except him.
Which only made it worse.
Because Bucky didn’t flirt with everyone like that. Not really.
He teased Sam.
He bickered with Natasha.
But with you? It was softer. Warmer. Like he genuinely enjoyed watching you get flustered.
Sam thought this was the funniest thing he’d ever witnessed in his life, which was saying something given that he’d once watched Steve try to use a self-checkout machine.
He’d hand you things before you asked. He’d remember offhand comments you’d made two weeks ago. Last Tuesday he’d walked past you in the hall, glanced down, and said “new shoes?” and you’d had to go sit in a supply closet for five minutes.
“He does it on purpose,” Sam told you.
“He doesn’t.”
“He absolutely does.”
“Drop it.”
“Dropping it,” he said, and then: “He remembered your coffee order in January. It’s October.”
You pointed at him. “I said drop it.”
The gala invitation arrived on a Tuesday, which already felt like a trap.
“Stark Foundation Benefit,” he said, pulling up a holographic invite that was frankly more detailed than most mission briefings. “Saturday. 8pm. Non-negotiable attendance. Black tie. Yes, Barnes, this means you, put the henley away.”
You watched Bucky’s jaw muscle twitch. Watched him take the slow breath of a man exercising profound restraint.
Then he looked at you and caught you already grinning and said, with great feeling, “don’t.”
Which made it worse, obviously. You laughed so hard you had to hold the counter, and he stood there pointing at you, trying not to smile, losing badly.
“It’s funny,” you managed.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s very funny-”
“I own other shirts.”
“Do you, though?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I own several other shirts,” he said, “that looks exactly like this one!”
“Go buy something nice.” Tony said, with a very pointed look around the room.
You went alone, which in retrospect was either brave or stupid.
Natasha had offered to come but she had that mission debrief and you’d told her not to worry about it, you were a grown adult who had purchased clothing before, which was true but slightly overselling your confidence in formal wear specifically.
The boutique the Stark assistant had recommended was the kind of place where everything was arranged with too much space between items, like the dresses needed room to breathe and think. A woman with a sleek bun and excellent posture materialized at your side within seconds.
“Do you have something in mind?”
“Something appropriate for a black tie benefit,” you said. “I’m not really a-” you gestured vaguely at a sequined column gown “I don’t know. Something that fits.”
She looked at you with the practiced eye of someone who had been doing this for a long time. “I have something,” she said. “Come with me.”
It was dark blue. Satin, so it moved when you moved, catching the light differently depending on the angle. Fitted through the bodice and hips, not tight, just present. Like it was making an argument. The back dipped low, not scandalously, but enough. The fabric had a weight to it that felt serious.
You stood in front of the dressing room mirror for a long moment.
Oh.
The woman with the sleek bun appeared in the doorway and her expression said everything before she did.
“That’s the one,” she said simply.
“It’s-”you turned slightly, watching the satin shift “it’s a lot.”
“It’s exactly right.”
You looked at yourself again. There was a version of you that lived in your head, the comfortable version, the cute-not-striking version with her boots and her easy smile and her function in the group. This dress didn’t seem to have gotten that memo. This dress was doing something else entirely.
You’re a grown woman, you told your reflection firmly. Get the dress.
The heels were her idea too. Deep blue, ankle strap, high enough that you felt taller and slightly dangerous, which was not how you usually felt.
“I could get used to this,” you told your reflection.
Your reflection seemed to agree.
The night of the gala arrived the way these things always did: faster than expected.
Natasha, predictably, looked extraordinary. She’d chosen burgundy, something sleek and simple that required absolutely no effort to be devastating. She’d looked at your dress when you’d shown her and said “good choice” in a tone that actually meant it, which helped.
The cars were already waiting downstairs.
You grabbed your small clutch, took a breath, and went.
The ballroom was everything Tony had promised: chandelier light, soft music, the particular golden glow of a room where a great deal of money had been spent to look effortless.
You were looking down at your clutch, adjusting the clasp, when you heard Sam say “damn” in a very specific register.
You looked up. He was looking at you.
“What?” you said.
“Nothing,” Sam said, and then immediately “no, not nothing. You look great.”
“Thanks,” you said, a little startled.
“Like, really great.”
“Okay, thank you, Sam-”
“I’m just saying-”
“I heard you the first time.” But you were smiling despite yourself.
“Bucky’s going to actually combust, by the way, just so you’re prepared.”
Steve appeared at Sam’s shoulder, did a visible double take, and then composed himself with the effort of a man who had been raised with very firm ideas about manners. “You look wonderful,” he said, with a warmth that was completely genuine and made your chest feel soft.
“You’re all being weird,” you said. “Stop it.”
The first hour passed in the way these events did: circulating, small talk, accepting a glass of wine from a passing tray and using it as a prop. You were good at these things, actually. Easier to be charming when you weren’t worried about being scrutinized.
Except people kept looking at you.
Not everyone. But enough. A man from the WSC who you’d met twice before did a small but visible recalibration when he saw you. A Stark Industries board member held your handshake a moment longer than necessary. One of the string quartet musicians made eye contact with you from across the room twice in a way that was probably not about the music.
You kept waiting to feel like yourself again. Like the version that fit the wallpaper.
The dress was apparently not interested in that.
You were doing fine. Genuinely. You’d talked to Pepper, laughed at Tony’s speech, held a twenty-minute conversation with a man in sustainable architecture whose name you’d already forgotten, and you’d only looked for Bucky across the room four times, which felt like personal growth.
Then Wanda materialized at your elbow.
“He’s been staring at you,” she said pleasantly, “since approximately eight minutes after you arrived.”
“Hi Wanda, lovely to see you, beautiful event-”
“He stopped talking to Rhodey mid-sentence.” She sipped her champagne. “Rhodey looked personally offended.”
“Rhodey’s fine.”
“Rhodey is not fine. Rhodey was talking about the F-35 program and Bucky just-” she made a gesture that indicated a man going completely offline “and Rhodey had to finish telling the story to me, which took another twelve minutes.”
You didn’t look. You were a professional. You were a trained agent with genuine combat experience and emotional fortitude.
You looked.
Bucky was across the room in a suit that Tony had clearly strong-armed him into and it was deeply, profoundly unfair. Dark fabric, properly fitted, his hair pushed back from his face. He was holding a drink and not drinking from it and he was looking at you. Not in the quick, redirectable way of someone whose gaze had accidentally landed somewhere. Looking. Direct. Like he’d made a decision.
You turned back to Wanda. “I need more champagne.”
“You have champagne.”
“More champagne.”
You made it another forty minutes. Honestly, a personal record.
Then he was just there, at your shoulder, appearing from nowhere the way only very large men who had been trained as assassins could appear from nowhere, and before you’d even turned he said, low and easy, “hey.”
You turned.
He was close. Close enough that the noise of the party receded slightly, close enough that you could see the specific way his eyes were doing the thing, warm and certain and focused entirely on you, like you were the only interesting thing in a room full of interesting things.
“Hey,” you said. Impressive. Very composed.
He looked at you for a moment. Something shifted in his expression, quieter than his usual easy grin, more considered.
“I’ve been trying to say something to you,” he said, “and every time I try, you go red and find a reason to be somewhere else.”
“I don’t-”
“Three weeks ago you suddenly needed to refill a stapler.” He tilted his head slightly. “We don’t use a stapler. We’ve never used a stapler.”
“It was empty,” you said weakly.
“It was decorative.” He was almost smiling now but his eyes were serious. “I found it. In your desk. It doesn’t even open.”
The silence had a quality you couldn’t quite name.
“Okay,” you said. “Fair.”
“So I need you to stay put for like two minutes,” he said, “and actually hear what I’m saying. Think you can do that?”
Your heart was loud and you were probably going red right now in real time, which was humiliating, and you said “yes” because apparently you had no other words.
Bucky looked at you, properly, unhurried, the kind of looking that had nowhere else to be, and then said, “You are genuinely the most beautiful person in this room.”
You opened your mouth.
“Nope,” he said, “we said two minutes.”
You closed your mouth.
“And I don’t just mean right now, though that dress is-” he exhaled briefly “yeah, we’ll get to that. I mean all the time. I mean the way you laugh before you can make it polite. I mean the way you went completely red when I handed you coffee in January and I thought, there she is. That’s the person.” He paused. “I’ve thought it every day since January.”
The party was very far away.
“That’s nine months,” you said.
“I know how long it’s been.”
“You’ve been- for nine months…”
“Waiting for you to stop inventing reasons to be in another room, yeah.” His mouth tugged at the corner. “I’m patient. It’s a whole thing I’ve developed.”
A laugh came out of you, genuine, surprised, the kind that arrived before you could make it polite. His whole face changed when he heard it, something lighting up in it that made your chest do something complicated.
“There it is,” he said softly.
“You’re so-” you started.
“Charming? Handsome? Worth the nine months?”
“I was going to say a lot.”
“Also those things though.”
“Bucky-”
He reached up and touched your jaw, tilted your face up, and kissed you, and it was warm and easy and a little bit like laughing and nothing like you’d expected and exactly right, and when he pulled back you were holding his lapel in your fist and he was looking at you like he’d just been proved right about something.
“Still want to go refill the stapler?” he asked.
“It’s a decorative stapler,” you said, “and I hate you.”
“Sure you do.” He was grinning now, properly, the real one. “Come on. There’s a hallway with significantly fewer people in it.”
“That’s your pitch?”
“Less Rhodey. More us.” He offered his hand. “Objectively better.”
You took his hand, because he was right, and because you’d been wanting to for nine months, and because the stapler thing was never going to stop being embarrassing and you might as well lean into it.
“You’re going to tell Sam about the stapler,” you said, as he led you toward the door.
“Sam already knows about the stapler.”
“What?!”
“He found it before I did. He showed me.” Bucky glanced back at you, delighted. “He has a photo.”
“I’m going to kill him-”
“You can kill him tomorrow,” Bucky said pleasantly. “Tonight you’re busy.”
Later, much later, significantly fewer clothes involved, you were lying in the quiet of his room with the city doing its city thing outside, and you said, staring at the ceiling, “The stapler thing is genuinely mortifying.”
“It’s genuinely adorable.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s really not.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you, expression open and easy, no performance in it.
“Nine months,” you said.
“Nine months,” he confirmed, unrepentant.
“You could have said something-”
“I said things constantly. You filed them in the ‘it doesn’t mean anything’ folder.” He raised an eyebrow. “I could see you doing it in real time.”
“I-” you stopped. “Okay. That’s fair.”
“I know.”
“You’re very smug for someone who also waited nine months.”
“I was patient,” he said, with great dignity, “which is different from smug.”
“It really isn’t.”
“I’m choosing to believe it is.” He pulled you slightly closer, warm and easy. “Go to sleep.”
“I’m just saying, for future reference, if you have something to say-”
“I know.”
“-you can just say it. You don’t have to wait-”
“I know.”
“Nine months is a long time-”
“I know.” He pressed a kiss to your lips. “Go to sleep. The stapler will still be embarrassing in the morning.”
“The stapler is always going to be embarrassing.”
“Yeah,” he said, and you could hear the smile in it, “but it worked out.”
of course there are a ton of other fics (mostly old ones when i got my account online for the first time) but i need to dig more into the memory… here's the first list of all the amazing works and people on here <3
by knowledgeableknitter
🎀 matchmaker steve
🎀 isn't it obvious?
🎀 valentine's day disaster
by sassandscribbles
🎀 crimes against curls
🎀 the quiet between us
🎀 the time when i drundenly wrote letters to my boss…
Summary: Bucky owns the best nightclub in town. You own his attention.
Content Warning: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, pwp, semi-public, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it age gap (unspecified, but reader is at least 21), unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), use of pet names, mild hair pulling (m. receiving), mild begging, creampie (he deserves it), brief aftercare, a bit of fluff, reader has hair, Bucky is implied to be taller than reader.
A/N: Happy Birthday, Bucky! 🎉 Thanks to everyone that voted in my poll. This is me shoving myself out of my comfort zone and working on my smut—I’m so sorry if it’s ass. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by me.
Main Masterlist || AO3
You feel his presence long before you see him.
It's the same every time.
Music blaring, lights flashing a deep purple hue, the crowd pressing in. It never matters how surrounded you are; whether you're near the bar or off in a shadowed corner where the lights don't quite reach, Bucky Barnes has a way of finding you.
It starts with his eyes.
Warm, intense. Studying every inch he can see, from the way your hair falls, the bead of sweat forming along your hairline, to the sway of your hips to the music.
It doesn't take long before you can sense the way the crowd moves, parting around him as he makes his way to the one thing in his club he wants in that moment.
His hands find your hips without hesitation, fingers flexing. It's so routine at this point you don't even have to look back; his hands are familiar in more ways than one. He pulls you back just a little—just enough to feel the solid expanse of his chest against your back. The thin fabric of the dress you picked out just for him does little to hide the heat that radiates off him.
"You look incredible," he murmurs, lips brushing against your ear. A shiver has you pressing further into him, and when his hands slink around your waist, your hand finds its way into his hair. "Hope you didn't get dolled up for me."
"You know I did," you tease. A slow roll of your hips reveals the hard length already pressing against his slacks. Bucky growls, his arms tightening around you.
"Fucking tease."
You carefully spin in his arms, hands landing on his chest. "Sorry, can't hear you," you smirk, "What'd you say?"
His eyes narrow, glittering mischievously in the low light. The soft pink of his lips curve up on one side as his gaze rakes over you, lingering on your lips before meeting yours.
He doesn't say a word as his hand finds yours and begins guiding you through the crowd. It parts for him easily. His stride is long, purposeful, making his way to the VIP area. A single glance at the bouncers is all it takes before the rope is moved and Bucky pulls you into the first open booth, snapping the curtain closed.
As you take in the new surroundings of plush carpets, faux leather seating, and sconces that match the same purple vibe as the main dance floor, Bucky's arms circle around you again.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me dressed like this?" he mutters against your ear, lips already beginning to trail down to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his touch, head tilting to give him better access. The scent of his cologne is floods your senses— warm, spicy, utterly intoxicating. It's your favorite of his collection.
"I might have some idea." Your voice comes out softer than you expect, heart already stuttering when his lips finds your pulse. "You practically dragged me back here, didn't you?"
The contrast of his soft lips and the scratch of his beard are nearly enough to make your knees collapse beneath you. He must sense the struggle because he chuckles against your skin before pulling back.
"Had to, before I decided to do something about it in the middle of my dance floor."
He slowly turns you to face him. That same mischievous look is still present, one eyebrow quirked up in a taunt. Music still thumps, only a fraction quieter than before, and your eyes flick to the curtain behind him. "It's not exactly as private as your office, is it?"
Bucky's smirk widens. "Guess we better be quiet, then."
A moment passes, heart slamming against your ribs. "Quiet?"
His hand cups your cheek, warm and callused. "Think you can handle that? Or would you rather go elsewhere?"
You shake your head and take a slow step back, grabbing his tie and tugging him towards the large couch. "You're the loud one, Barnes."
He follows your lead easily, now cupping your face with both hands and leaning down. His breath fans across your face, close enough you can taste mint on it.
"Let's test that theory."
His lips find yours before you can respond, the kiss slow and deliberate—like he has all the time in the world. His hands are warm and distracting, sliding down and lifting you into his arms before your mind has time to catch up. Your heels fall to the floor forgotten as your legs instinctively wrap around him, arms following suit just in time for him to sit.
The couch dips under the combined weight, the bass vibrating through the cushions. By the time you break the kiss, his hands are already cradling your hips, rocking you against the hard line of his cock.
You bite back a whimper as the friction against your core begins, brows pinching together. Your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck in an attempt to ground yourself.
The look in his eyes is pure hunger, lips parted as he watches you perched in his lap. A purple glow shines off his hair, the specks of scattered silver glowing brighter under the light.
"Look at you," he teases, "Already struggling. Still think you're the quiet one?"
You'd laugh if it wasn't for the way his hips grind up, adding to the friction and making you choke on air.
"Asshole."
Bucky chuckles. "Just proving a point. Come here."
His hand now moves into your hair, pulling you towards him to capture your lips in a heated kiss. The tie he's wearing suddenly feels too in-the-way, the urge the feel his chest too strong to ignore. You fumble with it before tossing it aside, fingers deftly undoing the top two buttons, once again too distracted to notice his free hand has already pushed the hem of your dress up.
Bucky's fingers push aside the already soaked fabric of your panties to feel your slick folds, pulling a gasp from you that he swallows wholeheartedly.
He starts slow—tantalizingly so—thumb drawing careful circles around your clit and savoring every moment, every small sound you make without a care about the laughter just on the other side of the curtain.
"God—Bucky!" you pant, breaking the kiss. Your nails lightly scratch the bit of flesh you've managed to free from his shirt. He groans at the sensation but doesn't stop his movements, instead adding more pressure to your clit. You gasp, your head falling back, your hips grinding against him without thinking.
"Shh, sweetheart, you're too loud."
He's smug. Too smug. It's almost irritating.
"Shut up and fuck me already."
He chuckles but doesn't argue, pulling you back in to kiss you once more and adjusting you on his lap to try and free himself. Deepening the kiss, you move to help him, undoing his pants and zipper, tugging the fabric down just enough.
His length is hot and heavy in your palm, a bead of precum already forming on the flushed tip. You waste no time, adjusting yourself until you're hovering over him.
"Wait—" Bucky stops. His lips are swollen, pupils blown wide. He looks up at you. "No protection?"
"Not this time. Unless—?"
"No. I want to feel you. All of you."
You give him another moment, searching his eyes for hesitation. When you find none, you slowly lower yourself onto him.
Groans fill the air.
It's louder than either of you want, both of you pausing again to listen for any signs of incoming interruption. When nothing comes, a brief sigh of relief slips between your lips.
"Fuck, you feel amazing," he rasps, voice low. He leans back further into the couch, one hand gliding up your back to pull you down towards him. "You always feel amazing, but—shit—you're so tight."
His lips are soft on yours again, unhurried as he rolls his hips up into yours, pulling a whimper from your throat.
It's not long before you start to lose yourself in him—the smell of his cologne, the taste of mint on his breath, his strong arms around you as he drives his cock up into your fluttering cunt. Every thrust is accompanied by uncontrollable moans and whimpers, each one louder than the last.
"You're killing me with those sounds," he grunts. "You sound so pretty, sweetheart, but even the music can't hide everything."
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, desperately hoping to muffle the sound in the fabric of his shirt. He chuckles. As you shift, his arms tighten around you and before you realize what he's doing, the world tilts.
Couch cushions meet your back as you sink into it, the bass vibrating rhythmically through it. His hands are gentle as they slide along your thighs. Fingers wrapping around the fabric of your panties, he peels them down and off your legs, finally freeing you—and tucks them in his pocket.
Bucky smirks down at you, eyes trailing over your face before leaning over you, one arm braced above you.
"Don't hide that face from me," he mutters. The same hand that just stole your favorite pair of panties guides your thigh around his waist before he lines himself back with your entrance. One roll of his hips has you gasping for air and wrapping your arms around his neck. "Just—fuck—just stay quiet."
The new angle has his cock hitting just right. Stars begin to blur your vision as he picks up the pace, fingers gripping the couch, brows pinched in concentration. His free hand moves up your thigh before dipping between your bodies and finding your clit with ease. Your hips roll to meet his thrusts, biting your lip to quiet the sounds threatening to spill out once more.
When your hands slip into his hair, he groans, leaning down to press another fervent kiss to your lips, your jaw, your throat.
"Fucking perfect, look at you. Squeezing me so tight. Thought you'd be used to this cock by now."
His hips slam into yours, the sound of skin on skin mixing with the music that's barely concealing your activities. The combination of his thrusts and fingers have you spiraling, heat building low in your belly and twisting.
"Bucky, please," you whine, giving his hair a short tug. He moans this time, loud, hips stuttering.
"I love it when you beg. C'mon, tell me what you need."
You try to catch your breath, air flowing into your lungs in gasps, but the sensations are too much. Every passing second has your mind scattering and only able to focus on one thing: him.
"Please. I—I'm close."
"You want to cum? Say it." He grits his teeth, not daring to slow his pace. His eyes are wild, locked on yours.
"B-Bucky, please, I'm gonna—ah—I'm gonna cum."
He growls in response, hips snapping harder into yours. The coil twisting in your belly tightens, his fingers working your clit until you finally fall over the edge. Pure ecstasy crashes over you in waves. Your limbs tighten in response, pulling him further into you.
Bucky swears, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he works you through your climax before he falls over the edge himself with a moan.
He stills, breath combining in the thick air between you. Neither of you move for a moment, wrapped up in a tangle of limbs.
By the time Bucky pulls out and cleans you up with the limited resource of his tie you discarded earlier, your muscles are beginning to ache in the best way. You're on your feet before you know it, heels back on, dress tugged back down.
He's halfway out of the booth, one hand holding the curtain open, before he stops. "Let me take you out."
Your eyebrows shoot up, hands stilling their attempt to fix your hair. "Out? Like—out out?"
He turns, a slow smile spreading on his face. "Out out. Flowers, dinner, the works."
You pause. "The works?"
He rolls his eyes with a chuckle before releasing the curtain and stepping towards you. "I like you. I don't want this to stay casual."
The look in his eyes swims with unguarded want.
"I'd like that," you agree after a moment. His shoulders visibly relax. "If you think you can handle me, old man."
His hand finds your waist, pulling you back into him, his nose brushing yours. "I think I can handle you just fine. Or do you need round two?"
You kiss him this time, a barely there gesture that has him chasing you when you pull away. "Save your energy, I expect a lot on dates."
He grins, wide. Unashamedly happy. "As you should. Don't worry, I won't disappoint."
Summary: Bucky Barnes can totally handle an undercover mission with his ex. It was his idea to ask for her help, after all.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!fem!reader
Content: mentions of a friendly breakup so that means exes to lovers ;) reader wears a dress. slow burn + tension in denial + spice ;)) sam’s onto you guys. no use of y/n. cap quartet cameos bc everyone’s alive!
Word Count: 5.4k
A/N: wow this fic got me out of writer’s block. inspired by various scenes in the captain america movies…you’ll see muahaha
“Barnes, I’ve seen you do a lot of dumb things,” Natasha muses, crossing her arms. “But this has to be a new low.”
Bucky throws his head backwards onto the couch and decides he is definitely not in the mood for this.
The team sits around the compound’s living room table, eating takeout and discussing their latest assignment: to infiltrate the gala of a secret crime syndicate.
This group specializes in art heists around the world. By hour three of debriefing, everything about intercepting small yet priceless stolen artifacts – on their way to be smuggled into some high-profile museum – was clicking into place.
That is, until Bucky’s teammates determined he would be the one to go to the gala in person. And, looking for help, he messaged one of the retired Avengers – you.
Now everyone wants to act like he’s the one who committed a crime.
They should be grateful you live in the same location where the event is taking place. And that you happened to be knowledgeable in the arts world prior to your Avenging duties. It’s not his fault they’re sending him to a huge city he’s never been to. More than anything, your stealth and background will be a perfect asset. Texting an ex-agent was a great idea.
So you’re also his ex-girlfriend. What does it matter?
Waving a utensil at him accusingly, Sam snickers. “Your brooding won’t get you out of this one.”
“Whatever.” Bucky gives a singular roll of his eyes. “It’ll be fine. I’m over it.”
“Right,” Natasha observes, judging how he very casually checks his phone for what must be the tenth time in the last two minutes.
“Other potential contacts aside,” Steve – ever the mitigator – continues, “this is a job that’s a little out of our ordinary routine. That means we need to be precise. We’ve already established Bucky will infiltrate as a guest. We should also consider a group for surveillance, another for–”
Bucky’s phone buzzes. He flips it over like it’s sizzling.
Shit.
Shit.
You agreed to help.
Hell, you responded.
This is good. Great! It’s exactly what he wanted! For the mission, of course. His flesh palm is only sweating because you hadn’t talked in a couple of months. Absolutely nothing to be–
“Let me guess.” Sam’s voice goes sympathetic. “She said no?”
“Actually,” Bucky says defensively, “she said she’ll come out of retirement just this once. To join me on the field. That’s it. All business.”
When the others stare blankly – expressions falling on along a spectrum of concern to amusement – he swallows. “You’re welcome.”
“First of all, chill. Second of all, tell her we said thank you.” Turning to Sam as if Bucky weren’t even there, Natasha asks through a mouthful of food, “So how much are we betting?”
“Twenty five they get back together afterwards,” he declares.
“Alright, thirty if it happens before the mission’s even over.”
They lean over the table and handshake directly in front of him. Steve stifles a laugh with a bite.
“Ha, ha.” Frustrated, Bucky feels his face flush. At least, he thinks it’s out of frustration. “You guys know you can trust me, right?”
Natasha’s curls bounce when she nods exaggeratedly. “Oh, totally.” Then she leans back into her seat with a smirk. “Unrelated, but I think infiltration just became a three person party. You’re on it, Wilson.”
It takes everything in Bucky not to groan like a grounded teenager. That, quite possibly, is the worst case scenario. Sam was always teasing you two to no end even when you were dating. Not that Nat’s bluntness or Steve’s tendency to turn everything into a lecture would be much better.
“We have power in numbers here. Nothing personal, pal,” Steve offers – unconvincingly, given how his face still shows traces of the grin harassing Bucky since 1929.
Sucking in a deep breath, he mumbles something about “being monitored” and “the audacity.”
The others go back planning or finishing up their food. After a few moments of moping, Bucky is about to re-engage in the conversation, but the reminder notification of your unopened message draws his eyes back to the phone.
What he mentioned about your response was true. Mostly. He skipped over the last part.
Glad to hear from you :)
For a second, any mixed emotions dissolve into a different kind of blush.
Reconnecting. That’s all this is.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The breakup was mutual. Super amicable, as most interactions with you are. With your retirement and Bucky’s mental health, it was simply time to move on. He was finally starting to accept that as an ending, not a footnote or an introduction to the next chapter. So even though he is in a better place now, Bucky swears he won’t shoot any shots.
Sam thinks that’s the biggest lie he’s ever said.
Normally a stakeout car below a freeway overpass wouldn’t seem like the best place to discuss this. This whole time, they’ve been sitting without exchanging a word. But you’re about to meet them with intel, and the event is already tonight. Avoiding the elephant in the room forever is impossible. Sam needs to break the ice.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Did she tell you what time she would get here?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he says, dragging out the last syllable skeptically. “Did she…tell you anything else?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t tell her anything else?”
The musty air conditioner buzzes louder for a second.
“Nope.”
Blood pressure rising, Sam realizes he has to cut straight to the point. “Come on, don’t have any feelings about doing a mission with your ex?”
“You’re only asking because you have money riding on this.”
“That doesn’t answer my–”
“We’re friends.”
Sam’s face goes deadpan.
“Shh,” Bucky hisses.
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“Whatever. I’m saying she’s here.”
Hunching over to see through the windshield – this car was not built with Avengers in mind – they watch as another vehicle pulls up. Admittedly, it puts their mini beat-up one to shame. Bucky wishes they had driven something else as a good first-impression. The polished exterior of your car is sleek yet low-profile, as anticipated.
He also expected you would look drop-dead gorgeous, but that doesn’t stop his breath from becoming shallow as soon as you step out.
Even though you’re wearing civilian clothing to blend in, the cunning agent’s sparkle in your gaze is as strong as ever. You haven’t changed at all. If anything, you became even more beautiful. Only you could make a sketchy underpass look like a runway.
Sam snorts. “Some friendly eyes you’re making over there.”
“It’s nothing,” Bucky lies straight through his teeth. Literally, since it only took an instant for him to fold and grin absentmindedly.
And, while your gaze is partially guarded, you’re returning the gesture with sparkling teeth.
“I cannot believe I’m already third wheeling,” Sam mumbles, with only a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Refusing to give him any other chances to comment, Bucky shoots him a dry look, opens the door, and forces himself to stroll across the clearing.
“Hey!” he says as cheerfully as possible. This should be fine.
Except that’s as far as his plan goes. Does he give you a hug? No, it’s too soon. A handshake is another option, but what the hell are you, bankers at a business meeting?
He settles for shoving his hands straight into his pockets. “I really appreciate you helping us out with this. Thank you.”
If you noticed him hesitating like an idiot, you don’t seem to mind. You still smile so widely. “Of course! No problem at all.” A beat. “Here’s, uh, the file you asked for.”
He barely registers the manila folder you hold out, stamped and filled with information key to the operation. Right. How could he forget that while standing in the face of such a mesmerizing force to be reckoned with.
“Yeah, I…probably need it, don’t I?” Bucky stammers, dragging his hands back out to take the envelope.
You let out a breathy giggle. “Just like how you probably needed a bigger car.”
The joke hangs in the air for a second, a test of the actual waters between you. At least the highway’s rumbling above is overwhelming enough to distract him from the violent pounding of his heart.
Then, breaking into full on light-laughter, you punch his shoulder playfully. “It’s good to see you, Buck.”
He was not expecting that. The contact sends sparks flying throughout his entire body.
Even if your hand might not have any rekindling intentions, looks like caution can be damned.
“You too.” Bucky thinks another dumbass blush is coming on. But so far, so good (enough). An opportunity for small talk will not slip away. “I mean, it feels like it’s been forever! How is everything?”
Much to his relief, continuing the conversation doesn’t change your relaxed demeanor. “Great! Retirement has been nice to me, thankfully. Pretty under the radar. How about you?”
“Same as always, you know?” He shrugs, as if nonchalance were his default emotion in this situation. “Been excited about this mission more than anything. I missed–”
Never mind. He’s all over the place, and his mouth got ahead of his brain. It’s definitely overstepping to say you.
Bucky blinks. “I missed, um, being covert. For once.”
Coming from a super soldier like him, that excuse is absolutely terrible. Your expression goes unreadable for a second. Maybe you had a hard cutoff for the number of questionable interactions you would accept from an ex today.
Before he can collapse straight onto the ground, however, you offer a close-lipped grin. A bit awkwardly, which he’s surprised, and relieved, to see.
“That’s good,” you respond with enthusiasm. “We’ll need that energy tonight.”
Whatever’s happening, it makes Bucky more glad that your good terms haven’t changed.
You clear your throat, gaze moving past his shoulder with an amused raise of your eyebrow. “Sam, you can stop lurking.”
“I was brainstorming,” he says. The gravel clicks under his feet when he comes closer, his tone as teasing as it is genuine. “And waiting for my turn to say hi.”
Thankfully, Sam stays too busy catching up with you to make any obvious faces.
After an exchange in friendly pleasantries, you motion towards the file threatening to crinkle in Bucky’s tight grip. “Speaking of brainstorming, this thing tonight is no joke, so…” A flash of what might be nervousness passes through your eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by a flame that’s unusually bold, even for you. “I have an idea. Hear me out.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Later that night, the three of you coordinate your disguises in the living room of the team’s safehouse, tucked away in the outskirts of the city. The other option was to stay at your apartment, which you did offer. Nobody wanted to risk drawing attention back to your home if things went awry, though.
Thankfully, with your guidance, the chance of that happening is already very slim.
The plan starts off with one person going in for recon. During the big art auction of the night, the other two replace the stolen artifacts with replicas (whose likeness is courtesy of Nat and, fun fact, her elite knowledge of one of Tony’s old 3D printers). Because the items are no more than a few centimeters at most, you said you would carry them in a small, unsuspecting purse.
If anybody even notices the swap, it’ll be when you’re long gone.
Now that everybody is dressed as cuttingly elegant as the actual attendees surely will be, you can sneak in without a hitch. Asking for your help was indeed the move. Foolproof plan.
Bucky, running his gloved metal hand through his hair, just wishes it wasn’t so excruciating on his part. When you mentioned splitting up for this plan, you wanted the pair replacing the artifacts to look as non-Avenger as possible – something you could see at any party.
So, with his luck, you pitched an undercover couple heist.
Anybody could guess which third-wheel genius volunteered to be in charge of recon right away.
“I’m heading out now,” Sam announces. He stops by the full-length mirror near the door, adjusting his sleek suit with confidence. “You guys almost ready?”
“Almost!” you respond. “I need a couple more precautions.”
Excitement radiates from your face at being back in the swing of things again. You hide weapons and gadgets beneath the folds of your dress, in secret holsters that not even the most trained mercenaries would suspect. Propping your leg up on the table, you strap the latest knife through the slip of your dress and onto your thigh.
Bucky looks respectfully, but damn, is his mind overflowing with hot static.
It’s barely occurring to him how difficult it would be for you to see each other so tastefully dressed. Maybe a skim through this list of big criminals in attendance tonight can keep his eyes from bugging out of his head.
Rereading the same sentence on a file for the thirtieth time, he chokes out, “I’ll review this information one last time, then I’ll – be good to go.”
The shabbily disguised statement prompts a knowing glance from Sam in the mirror. He nods towards your back with his eyes and, humiliatingly, wiggles his eyebrows.
What is he, twelve!
Silently begging him not to say anything, Bucky gives a hard glare. Which, of course, is ignored.
“Hey, uh–” Sam starts, turning to face you. “It’s been great to have you back. Like old times, huh?”
To be fair, he isn’t joking when he says that. Your bond in particular was really tight. It goes without saying that the compound is far from the same when you’re not there, and that’s not Bucky’s own bias speaking.
You pause your weapon packing to share an honest smile. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Tonight’ll be fun! Really. We missed you.” Unfortunately, the sentiment that doubled as the temporary exemption from bullying is over. “And believe me, I mean we.”
Just as Bucky is overcome with the urge to, say, tackle him from across the room, Sam’s lips curl into his classic smirk. “Good luck tonight, guys. See you there!”
He rushes out with a gentle slam of the door, leaving nothing but an electrical charge in the air. Bucky swallows whatever the hell he was feeling.
Now that makes space for the questions. Would you have felt more comfortable partnering up with an uncomplicated friend like Sam? Why did you suggest this idea in the first place? Does this all mean you’re actually interested again, or that you think of Bucky so painfully platonically that pretending to be back together is easy?
You step off the table as if nothing, heels quickly clicking as they carry you across the room towards the mirror. He begins to worry that it’s an attempt to establish distance – because being caught looking at you earlier would be so embarrassing – but a huff of a laugh leaves your mouth.
“Classic Sam,” you say softly, meeting Bucky’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror.
Any remaining energy he has goes towards a lopsided smile of his own. “Gotta respect his honesty, I’ll say that much.”
“Mhm.” Sighing, you smooth out wrinkles in your dress. “I’m really happy to be here with you guys, honestly. Guess I couldn’t stay away for long.”
“Glad you didn’t,” he blurts.
The statement would have sounded casual if his voice didn’t waver in the middle. Looks like he’s already fumbling through this anyway – might as well throw in a compliment. A friendly, innocent compliment.
Ignoring the blaring thoughts that tell him he shouldn’t, Bucky says, “You – you look really good tonight, by the way.”
“Thanks.” You bite your lip. “So do you.”
Something shifts. Suddenly making eye contact with you in the mirror is making him sweat. You look away at the same time.
“Okay, um…” You quickly grab the purse off the bag hanger hook by the door. “We should get moving.”
Bucky nods weakly. Fixing his tie when he stands up off the couch, he shoves away whatever just happened. Maybe he imagined it.
One thing is for sure: the toughest part of tonight isn’t going to be putting up a convincing front. On the contrary – it’s going to be denying you still look good in each other’s arms now.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The party is overrun with security. Limousines pull up through the mansion’s roundabout driveway, and out step people who ooze high profile aura. Designer clothes probably paid in blood money, entourages that scream well-trained-assassins. They go up and down the wide marble staircase in the middle of the grand foyer like they mean business.
You fit the environment perfectly.
As you two make your way through this lobby, your arm interlinked in his, Bucky tries to ignore the knot in his stomach. Even though it’s part of the plan, being seen with you so publicly – when you look like this tonight – is intoxicating.
With impeccable timing as usual, Sam speaks into Bucky’s individual earpiece channel. “Coast is clear so far. Keep me posted.” He snickers. “And remember you’re on a mission, not a date.”
“Thank you, I’m well aware,” he murmurs, trying not to make it obvious to bystanders that he’s communicating with someone.
“Sure.” Sam purposefully coughs into the mic. “Nat hacked into surveillance back at the compound, by the way. This is your first and only warning not to do anything you wouldn’t want caught on camera.”
The image that instantly popped into Bucky’s mind should not be there.
He clears his throat. “Muting you now.”
As soon as he hangs up, though, the ideas prompted by Sam’s stupid joke resurface. Particularly the sight of your figure leaning while you prepared your weapons, the dress’ slit falling around your knee and calves like a delicate silk waterfall.
Bucky can’t help but glance at you from the side now. Every part of him is pulled towards you like a magnet – including his eyes, which are starting to wander down to the neckline of your dress.
Then he processes you’re already staring right at him.
Fuck.
Nervous that he crossed a line, the beginning of an explanation starts to tumble out. “I, uh – I was just–”
“Uh huh,” you muse. “If this is to sell our act tonight, then you’re doing a great job.”
You seem a bit more relaxed than earlier. A look you haven’t given him in ages appears on your face, the teasing one that always used to make his mouth go dry. It still does.
And it almost makes him forget that you’re supposed to be through.
As you stop at a small standing table covered in expensive appetizers, Bucky realizes you do have a good point about selling the act. You’re surrounded by all kinds of extravagant, flashy art looters and criminals; this makes it seem like it’s another day on the illegal-activities job for you.
If it makes the mission more believable, then…it’s fine, right?
Mentally flipping off his better judgement, Bucky lets you go temporarily. Careful to avoid the bag on your other shoulder, his arm snakes around your waist instead. The sleeve of his suit gently brushes over your silk.
He pretends to care about hiding his grin. “How’s this, then?”
“Perfect,” you hum. “Your act’s definitely convincing to me.”
The encouragement suddenly pushes Bucky into his old element, with that flirt that comes back ten times stronger. He brings you in close, and the side of your body presses flush against his. It’s not a possessive signal for any potential onlookers – rather, a silent personal follow up.
Leaning in, he drops his voice to a whisper. “Who said I’m acting, sweetheart?”
You are not about to be one-upped in this game. Feigning innocence, you tug at your dress neckline to readjust it. Excruciatingly lower. You don’t even have to say anything. Your eyes are on fire.
Not that this was a competition, but you just beat him at this interaction.
He’s so tempted to keep fanning the flame, except a well-dressed assistant comes up to your table with a tray of champagne glasses. “Would you all like anything to drink?”
“Oh, no thank you! We’re good for now,” you respond, your words instantly becoming polite and losing whatever undertone you were using with Bucky.
Your body stays pressed against him all the same.
The assistant – who, upon further inspection, is one of the higher-up mercenaries in this syndicate – nods. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He looks like he’s about to laugh. “I’ll let you get back to your…conversation.”
As soon as the man leaves, Bucky exhales heavily, releasing the tension pent up in his body from the interruption.
“So it’s working,” you say in a low voice.
Bucky chuckles, still breathless. “Yeah, I guess.”
Your eyes twinkle. “Then let’s keep it up.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
An announcement for the beginning of the art auction eventually places your little show on hold. People begin to filter out into the area functioning as the exhibition hall, with their fancy shoes clicking across the spotless tile floor.
Through all the commotion, Sam emerges seamlessly from the crowd on the other side of the room.
“In position,” Bucky hears you whisper into your earpiece.
Doing one last scan around, Sam nods towards a hallway next to the staircase. With that, he disappears back into the wave of individuals headed towards the big event. That’s your cue.
It’s easy for you and Bucky to slip out into the hallway. To stay close in the bustling transition, he makes sure to place his hand on the small of your back. He feels you tense up – a bit of friendly payback for your teasing earlier.
All for the act, of course. Even if no one else is watching at the moment.
As you sneak through, you both take mental note of the decorative archways that lead to other rooms – full of crime-paid treasures, no doubt – in case you need to duck away. The rest of the area is exquisitely adorned with expensive artwork and old collector’s weapons that stand out even in the dim light.
Your artifacts of interest are on display in a glass case down the back, exactly as your intel revealed. Now your countdown to make the swap has begun.
“Get me the code,” you command, already taking the replicas out of your bag.
Bucky reads out the combination to the case – another courtesy of Nat’s sleuthing – without missing a beat. Simultaneously keeping an eye out for any passerbys, he watches in awe as you swiftly switch the items out, being careful not to leave fingerprints. Within minutes, the replicas are in place, while the originals are safely tucked away in your bag.
“Damn, you’re good,” Bucky says under his breath.
“Thanks.” You exhale proudly. “I missed this so bad.”
Pure determination in your voice makes his chest ache. Your intelligence, your effectiveness out on the field – they were always some of his favorite things about being your partner. And obviously not just in the mission sense.
The realization that this ends after tonight is crushing.
“You know…” He rubs the back of his neck. “When this is all over, I was thinking–”
The words die on his lips instantly. Several voices are carrying down the hallway. Including that of the assistant from earlier.
“Shit,” you hiss. “We have to go.”
Within the second, you both start walking as quietly as possible. Yet picking up the pace would only make more noise. Reality dawns terrifyingly – it’s no use. You cannot be seen. You have to think of something, and fast.
Before Bucky can even blink again, he’s yanked by you into one of the archways. The agent in you truly kicks in as you throw your arm across his abdomen, backs rigid against the side wall. Your breath slows. On the other hand, his breathing can’t stay steady.
Not with your hand splayed on his body like this.
You have bigger problems, though. The conversation is growing louder. Frantically, your free hand leans towards the doorknob next to you. It wiggles slightly, but to no avail. You look back at him, eyes screaming.
“What do we do?” he whispers, barely audible. “Why the hell would we be here anyway? There’s nothing…”
It hits you both simultaneously. There is an excuse you could use for being here alone.
And it’s the one prompting you to pull him closer by his tie.
Oh, bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.
You’re breathless. “Kiss me, Bucky.”
He probably shouldn’t.
But you’re staring so intensely. His brain shuts off. You throw your arms around his neck, exchange a nod. Permissive. Dangerous. Necessary. Not for the mission, or for the act.
For each other.
Fuck it. It’s fine.
Every simmering spark explodes all at once. After months of agony, your lips are reunited in a kiss, hot and blinding, that ignores the very idea of knowing better. His hands run endlessly over the material of your dress. Your fingers intertwine in his hair.
As soon as he hit send on that message and you shot back a reply, you both hoped for this exact moment.
If it weren’t for the bag bumping gently against your side like a reminder, you would lose all self restraint. The sounds of your lips and tongue are practically echoing off the walls. You wrap your leg around his waist, and he grabs your hip in response. To make it really convincing, you throw in a few broken gasps.
But Bucky knows damn well you’re not just acting. It makes him dizzy.
The intensity does definitely sell it. Your unwanted guests pass by as if nothing, save their disgusted looks. Disappointed, somebody points out that you must be the third couple they’ve caught doing this tonight.
“Saw those two earlier in the lobby,” the assistant grumbles. “I’m not surprised.”
They come and go, footsteps disappearing down the hallway until the door closes.
Not that either of you care. You’re still a mess, tangled in the darkness of the archway.
Eventually, your kisses lull – only to catch your breath. Foreheads pressed together, you are utterly drunk on each other’s proximity.
But this isn’t quite over. Bucky’s metal hand, cool to the touch even through the glove, tilts your chin upwards for better access to your neck. The increased air exposure feels raw on your skin.
He gets back to work right away.
Slowly, he presses a trail of several kisses up and down, from your jawline to your collarbone. Each is more agonizing than the last. You can feel the way he grins against you. It gives you goosebumps.
“Bucky.” You grip his shoulder. “I think they’re–” Wow, his mouth is really distracting. “I think they’re gone.”
“Oh, are they?” He plants his latest kiss below your ear. “I didn’t notice.”
He’s not letting up. Hmm, what a shame.
With a long sigh, you move your hand to the back of his head for stability. “Hilarious.” You make a sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp. “I knew you’d be good for this job.”
“For which part?” Now Bucky lifts his head to look you straight in the eye. “Being undercover, or…” Putting an arm next to your shoulder, he pins you in with a smirk. “Being believable?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Mind you, this was my idea, babe.”
“And it was a goddamn genius one,” he exhales. “Because you’re the perfect partner.”
Your breath hitches in unison, vulnerability suddenly laid bare.
“On that note, I–” Bucky clears his throat. Inhaling sharply, he pushes himself off the wall. “I understand if this whole, um – partnership thing was for the mission. So if you don’t want to–”
Your hand flies to his shoulder again. He gasps quietly.
“I appreciate that, but…it was never just for the mission, Bucky. When I said I was glad to hear from you, I meant it.” You giggle. “Not strictly in a business sense, in case you couldn’t tell.”
He must look like he lost the ability to hear his own thoughts – which he did – because you throw your head back in another quiet laugh.
“I think this can work again,” you whisper. “Now that I want to come back.”
Bucky freezes. “You mean you want to rejoin the team?”
You nod. “It feels right. Everything about it.”
The air stills. Once again, you have a point. Everything does feel right.
There is a default part of him that still nags about all of this. What if this is another disaster waiting to happen, an increasingly terrible idea?
He feels a tug on his tie again.
“So, in the meantime…Sam hasn’t contacted us yet.” A smirk dances on your lips. “Any objections for round two?”
Strength dissolving, he leans back within inches of your face. It’s your back pressed against the wall, but you’re in complete control this time.
Grinning stupidly, Bucky shakes his head. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
By the time you reconvene with Sam and head back to the safehouse, nothing feels real. Your table has several orders of milkshakes and fries, ordered on your phone in celebration of a job well done. The artifacts are organized, labeled, and packaged to be shipped to research facilities accordingly. Now you’re on video call with Steve and Natasha, their holograms hazy under the kitchen overhead light.
You and Bucky both hope the marks on your necks aren’t visible yet. On camera or otherwise.
Except everybody is already ecstatic since you broke the news of your return. That is, in fact, a major reason why you’re giddy. Surely it’ll pass as the sole explanation.
“Excellent work, everyone,” Steve declares with a smile.
Nodding, Natasha adds, “That was one of our cleanest missions yet. By far.”
“Hell yeah,” Sam says. He raises his milkshake towards you in a toast. “Special shoutout to our un-retired agent of the hour.”
“Thanks, guys.” You beam. “This was definitely a team effort, though. You made it even more exciting than I already knew it would be.”
You press your knee against Bucky’s under the table. He wants to faint. He has to keep reminding himself to pull it together.
To his dismay, the zone-out celebration is cut short. He notices a glint in Sam’s eye that he really doesn’t like. Everyone else must have recognized it, too, because the table is strangely silent.
Bucky narrows his eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” he asks. “I’m not giving you a look.”
“If you have something to say, Sam, just spit it out.”
“That’s okay, I’ll do it for him.” Natasha grins wickedly. “He’s mad he owes me thirty bucks.”
You’ve been around them long enough to know when something is up. Cautiously picking up a fry, you add, “Do I want to know what this is about?”
All of the color drains from Bucky’s face. There’s no way.
He forgot Nat was on goddamn surveillance.
The woes are immediately interrupted by another whiplash – a complete outburst of laughter from Sam. Like, full-belly, tear-inducing laughter. “I don’t – I don’t even care about the money,” he manages to get out. “The story, it – it was too good.”
“I didn’t see much, if that makes you feel better,” she says. “Don’t worry, I gave you enough privacy.”
This time, Steve’s attempt to hide his laugh is very poor.
“Besides”– Sam elbows you with a wink –“from the sounds of it, you had fun.”
“Oh.” You pause another fry that’s midair on the way to your mouth. “I see.”
Bucky can think of a million other places he would rather be than here. Probably somewhere with only you, first and foremost.
Then, running your free hand over your face, you laugh. Nervous, but not quite ashamed. “Well.” You turn towards Bucky and tuck a piece of stray hair behind his ear. “In my defense, he was reminding me what a good partner he can be.”
The kitchen erupts into a chorus of either groans, fake gags, or laughs.
Still, humiliation aside, Bucky smiles. This mission left him silently hopeful from the word jump – no matter how much he denied it. Now he can’t believe you’re finally coming back into their lives.
If these are the worst consequences of your (sexy) little stint, then this whole idea really wasn’t that bad after all.
seat on his mouth ⋆｡°ㅤ1,652 words
ㅤㅤㅤ↪ bucky barnes x f! reader.
summary:ㅤafter a few months of dating and nights of sex that were far too gentle for your liking, you finally convince your boyfriend to follow your wishes and let you sit on his face while he gives you his tongue.
❥ㅤwarnings: 18+, smut, oral sex, face sitting, tongue penetration, light nipple play (blink and you’ll miss it), soft dom!bucky, reader yearning for her man, explicit descriptions of vagina (bucky doesn’t shut up), cunt drunk.
Despite what anyone might say, your relationship was still fragile, passing through those first months when everyone expected the inevitable collapse once the honeymoon phase wore off. You, however, knew Bucky was something steady and permanent. Your chivalrous boyfriend seemed like he hadn’t touched a girl since the ’40s. Ever since you started dating, his touches had been delicate, that almost fragile way he handled you charming—and, sometimes, honestly exhausting.
Things in the bedroom were no different.
Maybe that was why your lower belly still burned while your breathing slowly evened out, lying there with Bucky’s arm around your shoulders and his body still warm beside yours beneath the sheets. That night the sex had been as sweet as ever, his lips lingering on your skin only as long as they absolutely had to, his whispered words of adoration brushing against your neck.
Nothing calmed the heat in your pussy.
“Bucky?” you murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw that made him shiver briefly, just like he always did whenever your lips touched his skin.
And still he wouldn’t let you use your mouth to please him, you thought bitterly.
Even so, you didn’t let the thought discourage you.
That time would come.
Bucky only hummed faintly in acknowledgment, his body still loose and relaxed, his thumb stroking along your ribs. Not too high. Not brushing your bare breasts or the hardened peaks reaching toward him, begging for his mouth. Your lips pursed before you continued.
“I want to try something new.”
Your words clearly caught him off guard.
“Something… new?” he repeated, brow furrowing, head tilting like a curious puppy. It might have been cute if you weren’t already wet enough to make patience impossible. “New like… here, in bed? Or do you mean…?”
You barely let him finish before answering.
“I want to sit on your face. Fuck me with your tongue, Buck.”
The curse that slipped from Bucky’s mouth only made your cunt grow wetter, already clenching around nothing while a few drops of his semen still slid slowly between your thighs.
“Jesus, sweetheart. Why would you say—? What the hell…?” he huffed, chest rising fast as his arm tightened around your shoulders while you bit your lip and looked at him with those doe eyes that always made him give in. “We’ve never done that. I mean, I don’t think… that wouldn’t be good, and I—”
“Bucky, Buck, please,” you pleaded, lips already pouting as your leg shifted over his thigh, the friction of his bare skin against your center sending another wave of wetness through your folds. Bucky’s grip tightened even more. “I want to do it. You’re sweet and very chivalrous, but I need more. Please, please, my love. Just this once, and if it’s not good then we’ll never do it again for the rest of our lives, okay? I want to feel your tongue. Please, James.”
His name on your lips was enough to make his pupils expand like a predator’s, the feeling of his still-warm, soft cock against your thigh beginning to harden again. Bucky had never been a strong man when it came to you and your pleading.
“Climb onto my chest, sweetheart. Hands on the headboard.”
It was the only thing he said, in that rough tone that made heat coil deep in your stomach and wetness surge between your legs.
Excitement filled your chest at his words. You left a quick kiss on his lips before sliding your leg fully over his waist, dragging your wetness along the path of his abs until your ass settled on his bare chest. His hands moved down to grip your waist as if you were a doll made of clay beneath his touch. Your knees framed his head while Bucky silently examined the slick shine of your folds barely brushing his skin.
A low growl rumbled in his chest.
“Fuck, look at that. I just filled you and you’re already asking for more stuffing in that cunt, huh?” he muttered almost to himself, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip as he pulled your hips forward, his nose brushing your trembling thigh. “And how thoughtful. Still dripping my cum. Dirty little thing.”
“Buck, stop the—oh, fuck.”
Bucky’s tongue dove between your folds before you could finish complaining. His lips wrapped around your clit with a gentle tug that made you gasp and whimper. He ate you like you were the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, his tongue circling your clit while his nose brushed the start of your slit. Your eyes nearly rolled back as the wet sounds of his mouth filled the room.
“Oh, I—Buck, Bucky, please…” you moaned instinctively, your hips trying to roll to chase the sensation of his lips. Bucky growled low, pulling away with one last suck on your swollen clit, the pop echoing like your final sentence. You could have cried from frustration, looking down at him as your hands smacked the headboard.
“No! No, no… please don’t—don’t stop, I need it… I want—please…”
The teasing smile that left his lips would have earned him a slap if the heat twisting in your stomach weren’t so overwhelming.
“You asked for this, sweetheart. You begged for it,” he replied coolly, guiding your hips in a slow roll, his rough stubble dragging deliciously across your trembling folds. The sound that left your mouth was anything but dignified, but Bucky only kept smiling, lips swollen and wet. “So be a good girl, yeah? Stay still and I’ll give you a nice reward. But if you even try to move your hands off the headboard, I swear I’ll suck your pussy without giving you a single fucking orgasm. Understood?”
Your whimper came out faster than expected.
“Understood, understood! Please, just go back to—”
Before you could finish, his mouth was between your legs again. Your lips parted in a trembling sigh, your head falling boneless against the headboard while your nails dug crescent shapes into the fabric until it began to tear under the pressure. Bucky’s hands stayed anchored to your hips while his lips alternated between greedy sucks and kitten licks that made your head spin.
“Fuck, James! Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t you dare—”
The words spilled out of you faster than your mind could process them. But Bucky kept that arrogant air as you sat on his face, the lower half of it buried between your thighs and his eyes shut in pleasure. Low groans vibrated against your pussy between every suck, his words muffled against your wet folds.
“So fucking good, baby… best meal I’ve ever had,” he breathed against the slick heat between your legs, his nose hooked against your clit while his tongue moved side to side in a furious lick that sent fire straight to your belly. “I can feel how much this pussy wants something inside it. Fuck, my girl can’t get enough of my tongue, huh? So wet, so damn ready for my tongue and my cock.”
His words only stoked the fire in your stomach, your breath catching in your throat when Bucky’s tongue slid between your folds, sucking at your entrance like he was eating a glazed donut from the inside out. Your forehead dropped against your forearm on the headboard as the knot in your belly snapped and your orgasm crashed through you, flooding Bucky’s mouth and dripping down his chin like melting ice cream.
“Shit, yeah, give it to me, give me everything. I want every last drop, baby. That’s it. My strong girl, so fucking sweet,” he groaned, sucking down your release in obscenely loud noises, his hands pressing your hips firmly onto his face until the curve of your ass settled fully against his wet chin. “More… I’m not full yet. Give me another, sweetheart. Give me another and then I’ll give you my cock.”
The frustrated moan that left your lips broke into a sob while his tongue returned to its assault, your body still shaking and your thighs weak against his cheeks.
“I can’t, Buck. Please, no. I can’t, I don’t have another one,” you pleaded to deaf ears while Bucky kept sucking through the aftershocks of your orgasm and the tremors wracking your muscles. “Jamie, please, Buck…”
“Give me another, sweetheart,” was all he said.Your eyes filled with tears while Bucky guided your hips back and forth over his face, your slick soaking his bronzed skin. His tongue chased the salty taste of the drops of your orgasm his mouth had missed, sucking them up in quick, confident pulls that made tears run down your cheeks and your toes curl beside his shoulders.
“Buck, I can’t anymore! I can’t, please, it’s too much, enough!”
“Never enough,” he replied, the words nearly lost in the friction of his tongue against your folds as he licked up the pearly drops of wetness still pooling between them despite your pleas.
A sob tore from your chest as your thighs relaxed around his head. Bucky made a pleased sound, eyes shut tight and brows drawn together while he guided your hips, bouncing you against his hungry tongue. One of his hands left your waist, sliding like a snake beneath your stretched arm, his thumb brushing your nipple in slow vicious circles that made the knot in your stomach ache and tighten.
“I feel you getting close… give it to me, please, fuck, give me everything,” Bucky panted between increasingly fierce sucks that left your folds tingling and made your back arch. His thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple just enough for pain and pleasure to blur together—and for the second time that night, the pressure in your lower belly broke as your orgasm spilled in soft drops across his face.
Your sobs softened while Bucky licked and cleaned your release from between your legs for what felt like forever. His fingers left your nipple and settled back on your waist, his once fierce grip loosening until you felt his calloused but gentle fingers tracing soothing circles along your skin. Your muscles felt like jelly by the time his licking slowed, his hands guiding you back until you were once again sitting on his chest.
A hiccup caught in your throat as you looked down at his still-dilated blue eyes and the stains of your release smeared across the lower half of his face like a permanent mark of your claim.
He barely managed a breath before speaking again.
“I swear to God, sweetheart, I hope you like having a new seat, because we’re doing this every fucking day.”
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You and Bucky have been dating for six weeks, and sex is still a little clumsy and awkward. Until it isn't.
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings/tags: smut; lots of giggly/clumsy sex; p in v; praise kink (kinda); dirty talk; one instance of pussy pronouns; marking (fingers on back, light bighting); sweat licking; bucky's a very very very soft top; bucky & reader are in a new relationship
Notes: i'm not sure what this is. just something i had in my wips for a while and i got random inspiration for it this weekend. giggly sex is fun and hot and giggly sex with bucky barnes would be even funnier and hotter :)
You and Bucky have been dating for exactly six weeks.
Not that anyone’s counting. (You both are. Secretly. Bucky has it written down in his notes app, you’ve been crossing off days on the calendar on your fridge.)
Six weeks of him tugging your hoodie strings to pull you closer when no one’s looking, of the kind of late-night talks that drift into early-morning ones. It’s kind of a precarious middle ground, long enough that you already know exactly how he takes his coffee every morning, but short enough that your heart still does that funny little flip when his name pops up on your screen.
Domesticity settled with a terrifying ease. You know the weight of his arm draped over your waist in sleep, and he knows you being too quiet during a movie watch means you’re already falling asleep, even if you deny it a hundred times when he asks you about it. In certain situations, words no longer need to be spoken. Quick glances exchanged across a crowded room say ‘get me out of there’ or ‘you look incredible’. Six weeks is enough to make that kind of familiarity start to kick in.
And then, there’s the bedroom.
Inside those more intimate four walls, the practiced cool of the last six weeks tends to evaporate. It’s the one place where the “newness” of it all still feels just as electric and charged. And, occasionally, a little bit clumsy. The breathless “is this okay?” whispered against a collarbone, his hands sometimes hovering a second too long, unsure if he should grip tighter or be gentler. The awkwardness of trying to be sexy while accidentally kicking him in the shin, or a stray elbow hitting the wrong spot.
Neither of you is new to sex, obviously. Bucky had his fair share of it back before the war, even if it’s been a few decades since he’s been properly introduced back into the game; and you also didn’t lack experience, with your list of boyfriends and hookups that never quite made you feel like you do now. But sex with real feelings comes with a whole extra instruction manual that most people don’t talk about. How two very naked people learn to fit their bodies together when hearts are involved, too.
You hadn’t imagined it would be like this, the first time. Or the second. That even Bucky, who usually moves with soldier-like precision, would become a mess of soft sighs and flushed skin, wonderfully undone under you, over you, around you. Every touch feels like a first (sure, many of them are), and there’s a tentative reverence to it, a mutual understanding that you’re both still learning the map of each other’s skin.
Tonight you’re in his bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft golden light over the dark vibranium of his left arm, and your fingers are dancing over it to the rhythm of a song that only exists in your mind. Bucky’s above you, weight braced on his forearms as his lips press against yours in a filthy kiss.
Already, you’re both a little sweaty, a little desperate.
He shifts his hips, lines himself up and pushes in, giving you that little pause at the beginning that’s both him waiting for permission and also letting you adjust to his size. Both are a testament to the way he’s always a gentleman to you, even when you’re practically begging him to fold you in half.
You arch, sigh his name… and then his phone starts going off on the nightstand. Unbearably loud and with a very specific, extremely annoying soundbite: a loud air horn.
Freezing mid-moan, it takes you half a second to realize what’s happening before you snort so violently you almost choke.
“Bucky, what the fuck?”
Bucky drops his forehead to your collarbone with a defeated groan. “I’m gonna murder Sam.”
"Why..." You can barely get the words out through the giggles. "Why is his contact sound a literal air horn?"
“It was funny at 3 a.m. last month,” he mumbles. “I was half drunk on your martinis.”
You laugh harder, unapologetically so, and your whole body shaking with laughter does interesting things around Bucky that make his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Fuck, baby, stop laughing, you’re gonna make me…” he cuts off with a helpless sound as you clench on reflex from giggling.
He retaliates by rolling you both so you’re suddenly on top, all the while the sheet is tangled around his ankle like a boa constrictor. He yanks, pulls, then his knee bangs something and his arm hits the bedside table. The lamp on it wobbles and the low, dancing lights on the ceiling make the scene look like it’s out of a low-budget horror flick.
You both stare at it, wide-eyed.
“Don’t you dare fall. We just fixed the trust issues from last week,” you whisper to the lamp. And by trust issues, you mean that one time Bucky decided to throw your bra against the lamp so hard it fell and broke the lightbulb.
Bucky wheezes. “I’m being cockblocked by furniture and my best friend. This is rock bottom.”
You choose that moment to move, a slow grind of your hips that works wonderfully at making his eyes cross. “Technically, you’re cockblocking yourself. You picked his ringtone, Bucky.”
“I was clearly a different man thirty days ago. One who didn’t understand the consequences of his drunken actions,” Bucky gasps, hands sliding down your body and settling at your hips to anchor you, thumbs digging into the soft give of your skin as he helps you ride him. The air horn finally cuts off, and you lean down, brushing your nose against his, hair falling like a curtain around both your faces.
“Think he’ll call back?”
“Let’s not keep talking about Sam,” Bucky murmurs, lips half curled up as he moves with an upward surge, doing his best to drag your attention back to him. It works, because you sink back down, the laughter in your lungs turning back into a shaky exhale. It’s still a little messy, sheets bunched awkwardly between your shins, but nothing really matters anymore when the cool of his vibranium hand fingers your inner thigh, squeezes, then moves up your stomach, crawling over the skin, before it reaches one of your breasts and palms it slowly.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes your toes curl every time. You simply nod, unsure that the right words can find you in time before you make a fool of yourself by only babbling some sounds. Your hips roll forward, Bucky meets you by thrusting up as you shift your weight to find that sweet angle again. Doesn’t take for you to find it, hands clawing at his shoulders and nails leaving its usual faint red marks behind. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”
The praise makes your breath hitch in your throat, because it settles just like everything else in your relationship. Sweet, slow, still new, a little bit unexpected. Like you still can’t believe someone like Bucky Barnes would look twice your way, let alone have him under you, in his bed, calling you beautiful. He looks at you with a quiet sort of awe that makes the words land somehow deeper, branding themselves into your bloodstream. His thumb grazes your nipple, and you arch your back immediately.
“Bucky… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking sweet like that.”
He chuckles, and pulls you down until his lips are grazing the spot in your neck where your pulse is hammering. “That is kinda the point of what we’re doing.” The statement is punctuated by a sharp thrust up that steals the breath out of you, and you respond only with a high-pitched sound that is definitely not a laugh this time.
“You always make such pretty noises,” he tells you, vibranium hand sliding up from your breast to cup your jaw, cold thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His flesh arm fully bands around your waist and keeps you pressed flush against his chest, so tight you can barely move your hips. Six weeks is enough that you recognize this: he’s about to fuck you so good you’ll see stars for an hour after.
The bed beneath you creaks in steady protest as Bucky begins fucking up into you, his movements a little harder, deeper, eyes locked on yours as if he is memorizing the exact way you look every time he pushes home. Your fingers find the sheets under him, bunching the fabric until your knuckles go white, while your lips find his in a messy kiss, tongue, spit, some not-so-sexy teeth sometimes. Every time he hits that specific spot, your toes curl and you moan into his mouth, and his arm around your waist only grips you tighter. To this day, you still wonder how he’s been the first man in your life to find that spot so quickly. And how he sticks to it every time you make love to him, like he’s got a radar in his point pointing directly to it.
“Bucky,” you whimper, the name a prayer into his lips. You try to move, but his arm is solid around you, refusing to let you move an inch.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, shifting his legs so they’re bent at the knees, giving him a better angle to slide into your heat. “Just feel me, baby. You don’t need to do anything else.”
The friction builds, an electric coil in your lower belly that’s winding tighter with every thrust. Sweat slicks his chest where it presses against yours, a few drops pooling around his neck. Your eyes glint, and you consider reaching out and licking a stripe over him, but your mind slips. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the thought flickering through your heat-fogged brain like a dare. Maybe six weeks is too soon to get a bit kinky? Are you still in the “best behavior” phase?
Maybe coincidence, maybe the universe giving you the answer you were looking for, you hear Bucky speak in a quiet tone, right into your ear.
“She feels so good around my cock.”
The words sound more like a thought he couldn’t keep inside than a deliberate statement, the kind of blunt, dirty talk that is too far removed from his polite “is this okay?” that you’re used to. But he doesn’t retract it, and your heart trashes. You hadn’t realized that Bucky, always-a-gentleman Bucky, had this particular gear in him, and it’s a revelation that shatters your “best behavior” hesitation. If he can say that…
You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a salty, searing stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, right where beads of sweat had been pooling before.
Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, then moves his vibranium hand to the back of your neck and pulls you close until he can bury his head in your neck and inhale before his teeth gently dig into the skin. You moan, and he knows enough of you to know how good that felt to you from your sounds alone. A wall is breaking tonight. You like that. He does, too.
His pace changes, no longer steady, just urgent now, with the kind of friction that makes you see colors behind your eyelids, a building pressure that almost sends your heart beating its way out of your chest. The clumsiness hasn’t left the building; your leg cramps once when you move it slightly further away, he yelps when you pull his hair a bit too hard once (before asking you to do it again right after). But it’s part of the heat, now.
“Bucky, please,” you sob into the crook of his neck as the first waves of your orgasm begin to lap at the edges of your mind.
You’d been used to men who thought the word please meant faster, harder. Now you’re in bed with a man who knows a please when you’re right about to cum means keep doing just that.
And oh, he does.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Let me see you cum.”
You’d barely realized you had even closed your eyes, but you force them open anyway, vision swimming, only to find him watching you intensely, face flushed, jaw locked tight. And he keeps that soul-destroying rhythm that has your nervous system screaming until the coil in your belly snaps.
It starts as a low tremor that radiates from where you’re joined, heat that turns your bones to liquid. Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you sob, moan, maybe a mix of both, as a thousand golden sparks dance behind your eyes. All you can feel through it is the solid weight of him holding you tight.
Bucky doesn’t look away for a single second, because seeing you come apart is what does it for him, too. His muscles turn to iron, his entire body shuddering with beautiful force that has the bed frame groaning in protest. He thrusts one last time, buried as deep as he can go, and stays there until the world finally stops spinning.
When he finally rolls your bodies so you're both laying on your side, but still connected with arms wrapped around each other and legs slung over hips, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“You okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Best sex of my life. Kinda also the most chaotic.”
He huffs a laugh, nose brushing your hair. “We’re gonna get better at being smooth.”
“Don’t you dare. I want more of this.”
His expression softens, something tender and a little awed flickering across his face.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He kisses you slow this time. No rush, just the two of you learning what this feels like when it’s quiet too.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: When you send some inspiring photos to your super soldier boyfriend while he’s away on a mission, you don’t expect such an enthusiastic response.
Tags/Warnings: established relationship, male masturbation, phone sex in a public place, sending nudes
Word Count: 840
My wife @buckysdecaflove said BET and who am I to deny her?
You’d sent them before you fell asleep last night.
It was late, but that didn’t mean a thing when you didn’t know what time zone your super soldier superhero boyfriend was currently in. You’d switched off all but the bedside lamp as you undressed for the evening. Catching sight of your body in the mirror, glowing in the soft amber light, coupled with the ache of missing him, lended you some confidence.
You posed for him. A cheeky hand placement here, a little drool dripping from your open mouth to your chest there, and texted the photos through with a simple kiss emoji.
The photos already forgotten about the next morning, you were delightfully surprised to see your boyfriend calling as you rushed down the station stairs to catch your train.
“Hey, baby,” you breathed as you slipped through the double door of the train, clutching your bag closer to your body and making your way into the carriage.
“There she is.”
His voice crackled, but the heartbeat delay of the international call did nothing to hide the roughness of his tone or the way his voice wound through you like wine, warming you and settling hot and deep within.
“Bucky, where are you?”
A pause. “Can’t say.”
There’s soft sounds in the background. Cloth rustling, the creaky ping of tired old bedsprings, and Bucky’s breath huffing in the receiver.
“Are you okay?” You ask, the seed of worry beginning to grow in your mind.
But Bucky has his own unique way of setting you at ease and sending your heart soaring in the same breath.
“Okay? I’m about to combust from those pics you sent, doll.”
Oh.
Oh.
“You liked that, did you?” You murmur, trying to keep your voice low.
His ragged groan in response had you biting your lip, your eyes darting to your feet to hide your pleasure at the sound.
“Got me hard as a nail thinkin’ about you all naked and pretty alone in our bed. You touch yourself thinkin’ o’ me, babe?”
You hadn’t, not last night, but what was a little lie to help his situation? “Yes,” you breathed, a fluttering hand rising to your chest as your heartbeat spiked.
He groaned again and you heard more popping of bedsprings, and suddenly you realised exactly what your super soldier was doing out there all alone.
“Bet you sounded so fuckin’ pretty whimpering and aching f’me,” he rasped, his voice breaking with stuttered breaths. “Wanna bite that gorgeous skin of yours, doll. Wanna feel you under me and fu—fuck those tits while you drool all over my cock.”
Biting back the whimper that threatened to spill out of you, you pressed your hand firm against your mouth, eyes darting around at the passengers crowded close.
“Bucky,” you murmured in warning, “I’m on the train to work right now.”
“Funny, ‘cause I wanna fucking rail you right now.”
Squeezing your eyes shut and your thighs together, you breathed heavily out your nose as you listened to the unmistakeable sound of skin on skin and Bucky’s ragged breath as he jerked off at the thought of you.
“Wanna… wanna fuck that sweet pussy of yours,” he grunted, and you imagined the way his hand was fisting the head of his cock, how he’d spit into his palm and fuck up into his hand pretending it was you riding him. “Wanna get so deep you feel me f’days. Get you so wet and cockdrunk you just take it all and beg for more.”
The tangy taste of metal flooded your mouth as you bit your lip so hard to not utter a sound.
Your stop was coming soon.
It sounded like Bucky was too.
“When you’re home,” you promise him, your voice thready and soft, and just the sound alone makes him groan louder, move faster. You try to rub your thighs together to soothe the ache he’s built within you.
“‘M gonna … gonna cum, doll. Need to. Need you.”
His voice stuttered, his words barely a low moan of sound, and you nodded even though he couldn’t see. “Do it,” you told him on a whisper. “Do it now.”
The ding! of the arriving station couldn’t cover up his groan as he came, the sound setting your skin on fire and making you swallow hard as you unsteadily stepped off the train.
“Baby, I miss you,” you told him, voice more confident now you were moving.
“Home tomorrow,” he grunted. “Miss you too.”
You had to leave. You said your heartfelt goodbye and dashed away a small tear as you hung up on him, walking the few blocks to your workplace.
Until a notification sound had you looking at your phone again.
A message from Bucky.
You opened your phone to the glorious sight of your boyfriend splayed out on a rickety old mattress on the floor, his shirt hiked up and cock hard, with the telltale streaks of hot cum splattered across his stomach.
Summary: Bucky comes home from a mission utterly exhausted. you take care of him. [WC 674] [AO3]
Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst
Request: @late-to-the-party-81 Hey darling - I have a prompt for you 😘 From the fluffy domestic prompts 95. Character rubbing other character's hair dry Reader x Bucky, but Bucky is feeling bad after a mission (either emotionally or physically or both) and reader helps him shower and dry his long hair after before tucking him up (in bed for sleep or couch for cuddles and movies), maybe running fingers through his hair and soothing him til he finally relaxes. Ending up to you. Love ya!
The bathroom is quiet except for the steady sound of water hitting tile. Bucky hasn’t said much since he got home. He’d walked through the door like he always does—controlled, composed, jaw set—but you saw it in his eyes. That distant look. The one that means something went wrong. Or maybe nothing went wrong… and that’s worse.
You help him peel out of his gear slowly. The leather jacket drops to the floor. His gloves follow. There’s a bruise blooming along his ribs and dried blood at his temple.
“Buck,” you murmur softly, fingers hovering near his face. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” Automatic. Flat.
You don’t argue. You just turn on the shower and test the water. He stands under it stiffly at first, like he’s still waiting for gunfire. Steam curls around him, softening the sharp lines of muscle and metal. His long hair darkens, clinging to his shoulders. The tension in his neck doesn’t ease.
You step in with him. Not rushed. Not invasive. Just… there. Your hands are gentle as you wash the blood from his skin. When you reach his hair, you slow down. Work the shampoo in carefully, massaging his scalp with patient fingers.
His breath hitches.
“It’s okay,” you whisper over the sound of water. “You’re home.”
He leans forward slightly before he realizes he’s doing it. Forehead brushing your shoulder. A silent apology for needing this.
You don’t mention it. When you rinse his hair, you shield his eyes. You treat him like something precious instead of dangerous. Like a man instead of a weapon. By the time you turn the water off, his shoulders have dropped an inch.
—
You sit him on the edge of the bed wrapped in a thick towel. He looks almost shy like this—long hair dripping, dog tags resting against bare skin, metal hand hanging uselessly at his side. “C’mere,” you say, standing between his knees.
You start drying his hair slowly, rubbing the towel over the strands, then scrunching it gently to soak up the water. It’s longer now than it used to be, brushing his shoulders.
He watches you for a moment. Blue eyes tired. Soft. “Didn’t have to do this,” he mutters.
“I know.” You switch from the towel to your fingers, combing through the damp strands. Separating them carefully so they don’t tangle. Your nails lightly graze his scalp, and he exhales in a way that sounds almost like relief.
Your touch grows slower. Rhythmic. He closes his eyes. You see it happen—the way the soldier loosens his grip on control. His metal hand flexes once. Then settles against your hip. “Stay,” he says quietly. Barely audible.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You help him into soft sweatpants and an old shirt. Guide him to bed. When he lies down, he hesitates—like he doesn’t deserve the comfort.
You climb in beside him anyway. He turns toward you immediately. You gather his head against your chest and begin running your fingers through his hair again. Slow strokes. Over and over. Combing through the strands. Light scratches at his scalp.
His breathing stutters once. Then again. Then it evens out. He presses his face into you like he’s hiding from something only he can see. “Too loud in my head,” he admits quietly.
“I know.” You kiss the crown of his head. Your fingers never stop moving. You trace through his hair, down to the nape of his neck, back up again. You hum softly under your breath—some tune that doesn’t need words. Your other hand rests over his heart.
It takes time. Minutes stretch.
His body slowly grows heavier against you. The tension drains from his shoulders. His grip on your shirt loosens. Finally— He exhales fully. For the first time all night. Asleep. Even in sleep he stays close, metal arm curling carefully around your waist like he’s afraid to break you. You keep stroking his hair long after he’s gone. Because this, this quiet softness—is how you put him back together.
YOUR STUCKY FICS OMG- I don’t think I’ve ever read better literature my entire life. When I tell you I stayed up til 3am to reread the farmer!stucky fic over and over again (I had an exam the very next day. No regrets 😌)
Thank you for feeding us so well my love<333 we need like a hundred more fics like those 🫶🏻
But aside from the point, do you have any good stucky x reader fic recommendations from other writers too?
Much love <33
thank you!! actually, this fic that i've been working on (excruciatingly slow) is another stucky one! 40s this time.
here are some recs (i surprisingly don't read that much steve so i don't have a lot, but these are ones i enjoyed)
there's something in the trees. - @54nboo
debrief. - @epiphanyrogers
team building. - @epiphanyrogers
between a cock and a hard place - @blowingbarnes
extra credit. - @slutdier
finders, keepers - @nonotwithoutu
𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑻 You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension you’ve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.
alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 17,9k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss
author’s note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? that’s actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all… since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic 😩😩
Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Bucky’s truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.
There’s one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your “enormous” weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.
Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.
A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.
Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.
They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how you’d catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.
They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and you’d stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.
Now you’re both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.
Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone else’s lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.
This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.
Bucky 9:56am
Hey. I’ll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?
Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.
You didn’t tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.
The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.
Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.
Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. It’s sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.
The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying “don’t-” you’re already leaning halfway out the passenger window.
Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like you’re flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and it’s just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.
“Jesus Christ!” Bucky’s voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like you’re about to tumble onto the road. “You’re gonna fall out! Get back in here!”
You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. “Buck, it’s fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!”
He can’t stop looking.
Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.
“Fuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,” he stutters, voice pitching like he’s sixteen again. “You’re- Jesus, you’re killing me here.”
You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.
“What? It’s hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, “when you were eighteen and flat as a board.” He swallows hard. “Now you’re… you’re not.”
You blink at him, teasing edge softening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.
You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.
“Buck?” Soft, teasing but gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just- road’s bumpy.” He clears his throat twice. “Don’t do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.”
You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.
He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.
Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.
The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.
You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driver’s seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.
He tells himself it’s nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.
But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.
That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.
You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesn’t feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesn’t catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.
Pretending he doesn’t already know what’s coming.
Because he does.
He’s felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. He’s ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.
But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.
And something inside him is finally starting to crack.
The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.
You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last night’s humidity.
Bucky’s side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldn’t sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache that’s been building since the truck ride yesterday.
You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Bucky’s scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.
Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Bucky’s mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.
Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Bucky’s sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.
“It’s already pushing ninety out there,” Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her mom’s swat. “Lake time before lunch? Come on, we can’t waste this weather!”
Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. “I’m in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.”
Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Bucky’s dad claps his hands together. “Alright troops, suits on, towels ready. Let’s make it happen.”
You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. It’s silly, you’ve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe it’s college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering “night” like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.
The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summer’s clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.
You’ve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.
The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.
Bucky’s already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like it’s the most important task in the world. He’s in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.
He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.
“Uh… looks good,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. “I mean- the suit. It’s… new?”
You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. “Not new. Just haven’t worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.”
He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing. Doesn’t meet your eyes fully. “Right. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.”
The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Bucky’s dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.
It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. “Oh, it’s on now!”
You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.
At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.
You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. “Truce?” you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.
“Never,” he says but he’s grinning, that real, boyish smile you haven’t seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, it’s just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.
But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. “Come on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?”
Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.
Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.
You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didn’t notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush that’s not just from the sun blooming across your chest. What’s his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. It’s just a swimsuit. Just me.
He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. “Sorry,” he calls over, voice strained. “Thought I saw a fish or something. Big one.”
You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. “Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.”
The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. “Come on, you two! Food’s ready!”
You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.
Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, he’s shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, that’s what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.
You don’t think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.
Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. You’re on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Bucky’s stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.
That’s when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.
Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.
Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, he’d snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.
He shouldn’t do this.
He knows he shouldn’t.
He’s done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.
But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and there’s that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude that’s been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.
With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “Fuck, I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry.”
The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.
He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. “I’m so fucked up,” he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. “You’re right there… my best friend… and I’m doing this… smelling you like some creep. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”
His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.
When it’s over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like it’s evidence. She’s outside reading, trusting me, and I’m… this.
He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.
The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyone’s clothes from the day. No one’s around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.
But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesn’t fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.
And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesn’t care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.
Something that just wants more. And it’s only the first full day at the cabin.
The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.
Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.
The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like it’s protesting the climb.
Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.
You tell yourself it’s just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. You’ve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.
You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones you’ve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.
The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.
You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Bucky’s scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. It’ll be gone in the morning.
Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.
He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.
It’s not the full force of heat yet, but it’s close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.
His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.
Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend you’re drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like they’re not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step he’s known since he was ten. To the attic door.
He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers you’re trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.
He opens the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. You’re curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.
You don’t look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. “Buck?” Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.” He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. “Couldn’t sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.”
A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. “Liar.”
He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize it’s him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.
“I can smell it,” he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. “Your heat. It’s… starting.”
You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. They’re dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. “I know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But it’s not going away. It’s getting worse.”
He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. “Mine too.”
Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. “You’re-?”
“First rut.” He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. “Figures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.
You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. “It hurts,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Not bad yet, just… constant. Like I’m burning from the inside out. Empty. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.
“I… I can help,” he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. “With the scent thing. If you want. It… calms it down. A little.”
You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.
“Yeah, uh… like, close contact. Nuzzling, or… licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less… frantic.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without… without going all the way. Said it’s safer, especially for first times.”
The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Becca’s door last summer, frozen when he heard his mom’s voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. “Just scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.” Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.
You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. “Oh. I… didn’t know that was a thing.” Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. “Does it really help?”
He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. “From what I’ve heard. Yeah. But only if you’re comfortable. I can… I can go back downstairs if-”
“No.” The word slips out fast, desperate. “Stay. Please. I trust you.”
He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like you’re something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.
You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. “That… that feels better already.”
He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. “Tell me if it’s too much. Or if I should stop.”
It isn’t too much. It’s exactly what you need.
He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.
He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.
You don’t pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.
His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.
But it’s not one-sided.
Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.
His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what he’s doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. It’s clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.
You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. “Is… is that okay? I just- I thought… maybe it works both ways? Like… fairness?”
He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.”
You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.
“Feels… weird,” you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. “Good weird. But I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither,” he admits, voice cracking. “Never done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.”
You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.
He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.
Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.
“Buck…” you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.
“Mmm?” He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. “You okay? Still good?”
“Feels… so good…” Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.
He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.
You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alpha’s presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.
Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.
He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.
“Oh fuck,” he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.
He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.
Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that he’s this close, this immersed in your scent.
“Baby…” he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. “Need more. Just a little more. Please…”
No answer. Of course not.
He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.
His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.
“Just gonna touch,” he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. “Won’t wake you. Promise. I’m sorry- I’m so sorry…”
Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“So wet for me,” he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. “Even when you’re dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, don’t you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if you’re asleep-”
He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.
The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. She’s asleep. She trusts you. You’re disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way he’s always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. She’s your best friend. What kind of monster are you?
But his body doesn’t listen. The rut doesn’t care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.
He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows it’s him and wants more.
He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his chest.
Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what he’s done.
You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.
He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where he’s been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.
“Love you,” he whispers, voice cracked and raw. “So fucking much. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right. Somehow.”
He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.
You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way he’ll allow himself tonight.
Bucky’s chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.
It’s not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasn’t pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.
He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.
Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.
But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that you’re his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin who’s never even kissed anyone properly, the one who’s been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.
Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way he’d excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.
Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and he’d saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?
His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where you’re even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.
The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.
He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like he’s afraid to taste but can’t stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.
A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesn’t stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. “F-Fuck- fuck, you taste like… like honey… so sweet… so good… how are you this perfect? Even asleep, you’re dripping for me… like… like you were made for this…”
His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesn’t know what he’s doing (because he doesn’t).
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. “I’m a monster,” he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. “Tasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now… saw me like this… you’d hate me…”
He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.
“S-See that? Even dreaming, you’re gripping me… pulling me in… like you know it’s me… like your body wants me to… to…” He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.
“Been perving on you for years… that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved… showed everything… jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you… tasting you then… stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat… came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name… and now- now I’m here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I can’t control myself… because I can’t… I’m disgusting, baby… so sorry- love you-hate myself- can’t stop- been holding back forever, but the rut… it’s breaking me…”
Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and he’d held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and he’d kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. “You think I’m the good guy,” he chokes out around his fingers. “The best friend who protects you. But I’m not. I’m this. Always have been.”
His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.
Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like it’s his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. “You’d hate me. Wake up and see the creep I’ve always been, the way I’ve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much it’s killing me. That’s why, that’s why I’m like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.”
He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.
Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like he’s breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.
When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rut’s haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.
“Oh god,” he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like it’s a lifeline. “What did I do? What the fuck did I just do? I’m sorry- I’m so sorry- how do I fix this?”
Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.
“I’m gonna tell you,” he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way I’ve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldn’t. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, I’ll take it. I can’t keep this secret anymore. Can’t keep hurting you like this, pretending I’m just your friend when I’m… this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please… please don’t hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.”
He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.
The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. He’d even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now he’s awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.
His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.
He still feels like a monster.
But the rut doesn’t care about guilt. It only cares about claim.
His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You don’t stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly who’s touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until they’re bunched at your thighs.
He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. He’s shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry… I can’t stop… can’t-”
He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like he’s never done this before (because he hasn’t). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesn’t know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.
“F-Fuck- baby, you’re so… so tight…” he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. “I’m sorry… I’m trying to be gentle… I don’t wanna hurt you… you’re so warm… so fucking warm… feels like coming home… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t be doing this… shouldn’t be taking you while you sleep…”
He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.
“C’mon, sweet girl… it’s just me… you know me, baby… it’s Bucky… just Bucky… open up for me, honey… please… let me in… I’ll be so gentle… promise… you’re so tight… so perfect… like you were waiting for me…”
He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like it’s a shy thing he’s trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.
“There you go… good girl… that’s it… just like that… you know me… you trust me… let Bucky in, baby… please…”
Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.
“So good… so sweet… like honey… fuck, you’re letting me in… you’re so tight… so warm… feels like home… I’m sorry… I love you… love you so much…”
He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. You’re molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.
Then he moves.
Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. He’s whining, high, pathetic little sounds he can’t swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like he’s worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.
“Can’t stop,” he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. “Can’t- fuck- can’t stop. You feel too good. Too right. I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry… been wanting this for years… watching you, stealing pieces of you… hoodie, swimsuit, now this… I’m disgusting… pervy little creep… but you’re mine… feel like mine…”
He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.
“See that?” he mumbles, voice cracking. “Even dreaming you’re pulling me in… like you want it… want me… fuck, I’m gonna knot you… gonna lock inside… fill you up… mark you as mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I need- need it so bad…”
The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. He’s whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he can’t swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.
“Gonna knot you,” he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. “Gonna lock inside… fill you up… make you mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I can’t stop… love you… love you so much it hurts… need you to be mine…”
One last deep, clumsy thrust.
The knot catches.
Swells.
Locks.
Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where you’re stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.
And that’s when your eyes flutter open.
A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way he’s clinging to you.
Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.
“Bucky…?”
He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. “I’m so fucking sorry- I couldn’t- I shouldn’t have- please don’t hate me- please- I’m disgusting- I know I’m disgusting-”
Your breath hitches, but it’s not fear, it’s need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.
You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.
“Shhh,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. “It’s okay… feels so good… so full… Buck…”
He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.
You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.
“More…” you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. “Bucky… please… more… feels so warm… so right… don’t stop…”
He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.
“Love you,” he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. “Love you… love you… thank you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.
“More… Buck… please… feels so full… so good… keep going…”
He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.
Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.
The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.
Inside, there’s only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.
Bucky’s face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like he’s afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasn’t let go.
Not even an inch.
His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. He’s trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side he’s never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though he’s trying so hard to stay still.
You’re both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what he’s done and the overwhelming relief that you haven’t pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. You’re still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and it’s making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.
You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.
“F-Fuck- baby, don’t-” His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. “Don’t do that unless you want me to… to lose it again… I’m already- god, I’m barely holding on… I’ve never… never felt anything like this…”
You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. “Maybe I do.”
He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. “You’re gonna kill me. Swear to god, you’re gonna kill me and I’ll die happy… I’ve never… never even kissed anyone properly before tonight… and now… now I’m inside you… knotted… bonded… I don’t even know what I’m doing…”
Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like he’s mapping territory he’s only dreamed of touching. He’s clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like he’s scared he’ll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.
“Do you remember… the summer we were seventeen?” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. “You had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.”
You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where you’re joined. “I remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.”
“You were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didn’t say much. Just… let you lean on me.” His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.”
Your breath catches. “You never told me.”
“Couldn’t.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your shoulder. “Every summer after that… every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college… I’d go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasn’t crazy. I’d come so hard I’d see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, you’d never look at me the same.”
Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. “Buck…”
“I was terrified,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. “Terrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldn’t lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didn’t know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.”
He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like he’s apologizing to it too. “I’m still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you… with your slick on my tongue… with the bond humming between us. Scared you’ll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep I’ve been. That you’ll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways I’ve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared you’ll leave. And I wouldn’t even blame you.”
You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. “I’m here,” you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. “I’m not leaving. I’ve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But I’m here. I want this. I want you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like he’s trying to remember them. He’s clumsy and hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might ruin the moment.
“Can I…?” His voice cracks, barely audible. “Can I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know it’s forever. If you’ll let me.”
Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.
You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.
“Yes.”
He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like he’s terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.
“I love you,” he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. “Always have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.”
He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. “Is… is it gonna hurt?” you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. “The bite…?”
He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. “I… I dunno, baby,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’ve never… never done this before. I don’t wanna hurt you. You’ll tell me if it does, okay? Promise you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. I swear.”
You nod, trusting, sweet. “Okay. I trust you.”
He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.
Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful it’s almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock that’s always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.
You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.
He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. He’s whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.
“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.
You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.
“Yours,” you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.
He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.
The attic is quiet again.
But the silence feels different now.
It feels like home.
The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. It’s slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where he’s still half-buried inside you.
You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like he’s afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now there’s a goofy lightness in it. “I’ve got you. Just… breathe, okay?”
He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.
You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.
“Shit,” you whisper, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they’re glowing.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. “Shit. That’s… that’s a lot. Like… wow. Did we… did we do that?”
Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like he’s trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because he’s laughing too hard under his breath.
“Sorry if it’s- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or… everything,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. “I’m trying to be… gentlemanly? I think?”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. “It’s fine. You’re being very… thorough. Like a little nurse.”
He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. “Just- don’t want you uncomfortable. You’re probably sore. I was… enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.”
You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. “That’s one word for it. You were… very thorough there too.”
He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.
You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Bucky’s eyes flick to it, then away, but this time there’s no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.
You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”
He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. “I did that,” he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. “I… I marked you. And you let me.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “And I wanted it.”
He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. “You did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying ‘yes, Bucky... please’ like… like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.”
You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. “You didn’t drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.”
Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Becca’s laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.
Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.
“They’re gonna smell it,” you whisper, but there’s no panic, just giddy excitement. “The whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. They’ll know. Oh god, they’ll know.”
Bucky’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They will. And I’m weirdly okay with it? Like… I want them to know you’re mine now. Officially. No more hiding.”
He looks toward the stairs like they’re an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. “They don’t get to make this weird. Not today. Not when we’re this happy. You’re mine now. Officially. And I’m not letting anyone act like it’s something to tease about… unless it’s cute teasing. Then maybe.”
Before you can respond, he’s moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
“Buck- what-”
“Shh.” He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. “I’m carrying you down. No arguments. You’re sore. And… I don’t want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just… really like carrying you. It’s fun.”
The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.
He’s careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way he’s still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.
“This is so embarrassing,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide it hurts.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. “And I’m allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also I’ve wanted to do this forever and now I can and it’s awesome.”
You snort against his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.
Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Bucky’s dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.
The room goes dead silent.
Becca’s mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your mom’s spatula hovers over the pan. Bucky’s dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.
No one says a word.
They don’t have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows you’re mated now.
But no one speaks. No teasing. No “so… how was it?” No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.
They just… look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Bucky’s dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.
It’s a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. We’re not ruining this.
Bucky’s grip tightens on you, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because he’s too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.
He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.
He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.
The possessive fire dims. What’s left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still can’t quite believe you’re letting him stay but now he’s glowing, eyes shining, smile so big it’s almost painful.
“I need to say it properly,” he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. “Not in whispers in the dark. Not while I’m inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if I’m lying… or if I’m just a giant dork who can’t stop smiling.”
You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but you’re smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.
“You already-”
“No.” He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. “I need you to hear it. I’m sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I should’ve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I don’t deserve this- don’t deserve you- but I’m begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or don’t. But know I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. I’ll be better. I’ll be honest. I’ll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.”
Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but he’s still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. He’s shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing he’s ever done, even after last night, but he’s also so happy he can barely sit still.
You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.
“I’ve wanted you too,” you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. “For years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didn’t feel it back. Scared I’d ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That I’d touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.”
You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each other’s mouths.
He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, he’s smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.
“Mine?” he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.
“Yours,” you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. “Dork.”
He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).
Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesn’t look, doesn’t speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Becca’s boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Bucky’s dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.
No one ruins the moment.
It’s yours.
And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.
“Think we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?”
You elbow him lightly, grinning. “Behave. Or I’ll make you do dishes.”
He groans dramatically. “Cruel. You’re cruel to your mate.”
You laugh and lean into him.
The morning continues.
Normal.
Except it’s not.
It’s better.
It’s yours.
And you’re both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.
One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.
But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.
You’re officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like it’s brand new, like he’s reminding himself you chose this, chose him.
You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.
He’s changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.
The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body… god. He’s beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. He’s not just your Bucky anymore. He’s a man. Your man. And you’re completely obsessed.
This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.
No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long “walks” that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.
They’ve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about “finally,” Becca teases you mercilessly about “locking him down before he could escape,” and Bucky’s dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says “good man” like it’s the highest praise.
The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. You’re in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Bucky’s eyes don’t dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like he’s allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.
You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, he’s already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.
“Race you to the buoy?” you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.
He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.
You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.
“Cheater,” you breathe, laughing against his mouth.
“Winner,” he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way he’s perfected over the last year, like he’s reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, “Missed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.”
You nip his bottom lip, grinning. “You’re allowed now.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Good thing we’re underwater.”
He kisses you again, harder this time until you’re both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because they’ve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now it’s edged with something darker, hungrier.
You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. “This hair is getting ridiculous,” you tease, voice breathy. “You look like a sexy pirate. And this beard…” You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. “God, I love it. It’s so scratchy. I’m gonna have beard burn everywhere and I’m not even mad.”
He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. “Fuck- keep doing that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me, honey.”
“I am,” you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. “Makes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. I’m obsessed. You’re so hot it’s unfair.”
His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. “Careful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and we’re not making it back to the cabin.”
That night, the attic room feels different too.
No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.
You’re already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still can’t believe this is real after a whole year.
You crook a finger, smiling. “Come here, baby.”
He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace he’s learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.
“Missed this room,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “Missed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.”
You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. “No fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.”
He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.
“On your knees, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. “Wanna see you like this.”
You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Fuck… look at you. So pretty for me.”
He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.
One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.
He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. “Been holding back for years, baby. Now I don’t have to. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you like I’ve always wanted to.”
Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. You’re dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.
“God- yes- right there,” you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Harder, Bucky… please…”
He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.
“Fuck- you take me so good,” he rasps. “So tight… so wet… all mine.”
You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.
After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.
He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.
You laugh softly, sleepy. “What are you doing?”
“Reclaiming every inch,” he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Gonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.
“God, I really love this beard,” you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.
He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. “Keep scratching like that and we’re not sleeping tonight.”
You grin, wicked. “Good. Because I want you again. And again. And again.”
He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.
“I love you,” he says softly.
“I love you too Buck,” you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.
The attic is quiet again.
But this time, it’s full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.
The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.
Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.
You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like you’ve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier he’s gotten. He looks like a man who’s been well-loved and is very pleased about it. You’re in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.
The second you step through the doorway, the room doesn’t exactly go silent, it just… pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.
Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.
Bucky’s dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Bucky’s arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. “Took you long enough.”
Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. “Okay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.”
Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.
Your face flames instantly. Bucky’s ears go bright red, but he doesn’t let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like he’s trying to calm you both down at once.
Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. “I mean, we were all sitting there like ‘should we turn the volume up?’ and then it was just… ‘oh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-’” She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.
“Becca!” you squeak, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.
He’s laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he can’t help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like he’s shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). “We… uh… got carried away,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, “Sorry, honey. Guess we weren’t quiet. At all.”
You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but you’re giggling too. “You were the loud one,” you whisper back, poking his chest. “All those growly noises. And the… the spanking. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. “You liked it,” he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Don’t lie.”
“I did,” you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.
Becca makes a gagging noise. “Gross. You’re both gross. And loud. And gross. But also… kinda cute? In a disgusting way.”
Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. “So… when can we expect grandpups? I’m not getting any younger, you know. And after last night’s… enthusiastic performance… I’m thinking it won’t be long.”
Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.
“Mom!”
Bucky’s dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. “She’s right. Cabin’s been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of ‘em, judging by all that racket.”
Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. You’re basically built for it now. Dad material.”
She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. “I just want a little niece so bad. I’d braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? I’d be the best aunt.”
Bucky’s ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but there’s a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re… uh… we’re working on it,” he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. “Eventually. When we’re ready.”
Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. “Take your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Becca’s right- she’d be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:
“We’ll get there, honey. When we’re ready.”
You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “When we’re ready.”
Becca fake-gags again. “You two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also… hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.”
Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.
The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.
The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.
You’re sprawled across Bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.
He’s got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt you’re wearing.
You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.
Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Um… what if… what if we started trying? Like… tonight?”
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.
“Tonight?” he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. “You mean… pups? With me?”
You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you don’t look away. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About… us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyes…” You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. “I just… I want that with you. If you do.”
He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion. “You have no idea how much I want that. How long I’ve wanted it.”
You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.
The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.
You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. “You know… if it happens, my body’s gonna change. A lot.” Your voice drops lower, teasing now. “These are gonna get so full. Heavy. And… leaky.”
Bucky’s breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.
“Jesus,” he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.
You press on, voice turning huskier. “Imagine it… me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while you’re still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.”
His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. “Fuck baby- you can’t just-” He swallows hard, voice cracking again. “You start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?”
You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard he’s gotten. “Can’t help it. Thinking about you breeding me… getting me all swollen and full… it makes me so wet.”
He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like he’s trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?”
You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.
“Baby-” His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.
You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.
Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like you’re ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.
“You think you can say all that,” he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, “get me this desperate… then just roll over like you’re going to sleep?”
You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.
His palm spreads over your stomach, like he’s already picturing it round with his child. “Not happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.”
He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. You’re soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.
“Bucky-”
He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. “Gonna fill you up tonight,” he rasps against your ear. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until you’re carrying my kid.”
The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.
He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.
“Tell me you want it,” he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me to breed you, baby.”
You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. “I want it,” you whisper, voice shaking with need. “Want you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until I’m full. Please, Bucky.”
That’s all it takes.
He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until he’s seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.
“Gonna keep you like this all night,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Gonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.”
The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.
He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
“Come for me,” he growls low. “Come on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.”
The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he can’t stop.
He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.
“Gonna stay like this a while,” he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. “Gonna make sure it takes.”
You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”
The attic is quiet again.
But now it’s full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.
summary: after a night out with some new friends, you call your best friend bucky to pick you up. he expects you to be drunk, but not this drunk, and now you’re spilling out all of your secrets, including how much you love him and how much you want him.
prompt: one of you gets silly drunk 🍒 and “i want you so much, it hurts to hold back.” 🌶️
pairing: bestfriend!bucky x reader
word count: 4k
content contains: fluff and a little angst. suggestive content, reader is drunk, bucky is a little overprotective, you both like each other but it hadn’t been evident until now, a little suggestive, reader was left out by their friends and abandoned, drunk confession :P
authors note: day 8 of galentines collab i think. i am more than halfway done i need alcohol. title is from 'why'd you only call me when youre high' by arctic monkeys you know i had to do it to em
erin's galentines collab masterlist
your message had come at 3:45 in the morning as a quick flash of light on bucky's phone.
hi bucku u up? i knw i ask a lot but colud you pick me up
bucky hadn't been asleep anyways. he'd been laying on his back in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other holding his phone to his chest, the device warm from when he'd checked for the seventh time in ten minutes.
he knew you were going out tonight. you'd made it a habit to inform him of when you were going out and when you might have a drink or two— or in this case, a few.
tonight was special for you. you'd recently gotten a promotion at work and your new colleagues had decided to take you out to celebrate. although bucky usually tries to persuade you to stay sober and enjoy the night with a glass of water in your hand instead of alcohol, but he knew this meant a lot to you.
tonight, he had simply sighed through the phone call and told you, "alright. have fun and don't do anything stupid."
his apartment is quiet apart from the shuffle of his blankets as he sits up, already halfway out of bed. he pulls on an old shirt, tugs on a dirty pair of jeans, and slings a jacket over his arm. just as he steps into his living room, another handful of messages light up his phone.
im srry bucky i know m bein g annoyisn but i donr knwow where the others wen t.
thy said they were goins to thebathrom and never came back ;(( it's beeen maybe a hour??? i think
so i'm jsuy sitting here
its okay if ur sleepoinf i can calal an uber!
a familiar knot tightens in his chest. it's not annoyance— he could never be annoyed with you— but worry, the feeling sharp in his chest as he imagines you sitting alone and in the cold on a curb somewhere in brooklyn waiting for him.
his reply is almost instant.
I'm up
Where are you?
Are you okay?
message bubbles pop up immediately after he hits send, but they vanish and appear a few times before you finally text back.
safe yes just col d
i want to sleeep can i come home??
Can u bring me jackey
bucky sighs as he leans over and grabs his key, his flesh hand typing on his phone while his other is unlocking his door.
What bar are you at
read
Sweetheart?
read
the hallway of his apartment complex is dim like it usually is during the night, and the few sensor lights that line the floor light up as bucky heads towards the elevator. his brows furrow as he looks at the read receipt, but then his phone buzzes again, his phone lighting up.
A Location Was Shared With You! 📍
he presses on the notification, and he can see exactly where you've been abandoned. the little red pin sits in an empty street just outside of a bar you'd never been to before, unmoving and lonely in the greyscale map. his phone buzzes again.
ur the bestt bucky
i owe u soooo much
i love u
he stares his phone as the elevator sends him down to the parking garage. something heavy settles in his chest, aching and almost tender as he stares at your message— but he shoves his phone into his pocket. he knows you love him, and he loves you too, but only because you're best friends, and best friends love each other.
bucky gets into his car, starts the engine, and turns on the heater. his headlights cut through the dark as he pulls out of the parking garage. the traffic is practically nonexistent at this time of night and the traffic lights change for nobody at all. he cruises through the roads, his hands steady on the wheel as he tries his best to get to you before anything else does.
he doesnt let himself think about it— about how easy it feels being there for you, about how right it felt that he was the one you called when you needed help.
as he drives, his phone buzzes in the centre console.
can i sleep in ur bed
bucky swallows. that's a weird question. you always sleep in his bed when you stay over. he's usually the one who sleeps on the couch—
with you
?
oh. bucky has to do a double take to make sure he's reading your message correctly. his thumb hovers uselessly over his phone screen. he wasn't sure he trusted himself with that kind of honesty at four in the morning while you're drunk and cold.
We'll see
he texts back. it's short and simple, and he hopes it's enough to keep you happy until he gets there.
bucky sets his phone down again into the centre console as his location approaches yours, the red pin creeping closer and closer as he rolls to a stop outside of a bar with a blinking green sign, close enough that it overlaps with his blue dot.
and then he sees you. you're sitting on the curb exactly like you said you were, just a few feet down from the bar. your knees are drawn to your chest to shield yourself from the cold, your breath comes out in curly lines of smoke as you stare at your phone. his headlights wash over you and your head snaps up almost immediately.
bucky parks along the curb, crooked and careless, before he sets it into park and jumps out while it's still running. you recognise his smell before you see him, and that brings a dopey relieved smile to your warm face.
"bucky." you breathe out like you'd been holding onto his name and using it like a prayer— like there was a real chance he wouldn't have shown up tonight.
he hates that you ever doubt it.
"i'm here." he says immediately as he walks towards you and kneels right in front of you. his voice is soft and steady as he takes your face in his hands, examining you for anything wrong. "you okay"
"hmmm." you hum with a small nod. "i'm okay. tired."
up close, you smell of perfume and alcohol and that familiar hint of your shampoo that always makes his chest tighten. your eyes are glassy and your face is warm in his palms, and you lean into his touch like you've never felt the touch of a human before.
bucky smiles despite himself, something soft and helpless tugging at the corners of his lips as you look to him with a small sigh.
"did you bring me a jacket?" you ask, fingers digging into the cold flesh of your arms like you'd been dealing with it for longer than you'd wanted. "'s cold."
"course i did." he tugs at his sleeves, pulling the jacket he's wearing off and placing it over your shoulders. "here."
the night air bites at his skin immediately after his jacket leaves his shoulders, but he doesn't flinch. he settles it around you instead, watching the material eat you up as he tugs it tightly around you, instinctive and practice. you sigh and melt into the warmth like it's your missing puzzle piece despite the frown that's grown on your face.
"but you'll be cold.." you complain, brows knitting together in concern that feels painfully sincere, and he's sure it is.
"i wont be once we get in the car." he says easily.
you look unconvinced, still staring at him like you're weighing between his warmth and your own. bucky's head tips towards the car, and you huff.
"c'mon, princess." he says with a fondness he doesn't try to hide as he gestures for your hands, "up you get."
you reach out and place your cold hands in his, letting him help you up. you wobble— just a little— and bucky slides a hand around your waist to keep you upright. you're sure you could probably ask him to carry you bridal style to the passenger seat of his hand and he would without hesitation, but you feel an odd sense of intimacy in the way he simply holds you like this.
he's only doing this because he's a good friend. this is what friends do, you tell yourself. even in your drunken haze, you know this is him doing what he thinks is best for you, but god, it feels so nice to be held by bucky. you loooooove it.
you let him guide you to his car, letting the warmth of his skin seep into your cold body. the closeness is intoxicating, disarming in a way that makes your heart stutter and your legs give out (you hope you can blame it on the alcohol).
he slides you into the passenger seat, and when he leans over to grab the seatbelt and buckle you in, you catch a whiff of him— soap and leather and the faint scent of his cologne. it wraps around you the second he leans into your space, close enough that you can feel his warmth, close enough that your breath catches in your throat for a second too long, because you cough and that catches bucky's attention.
"you okay?" he asks, but he's already pulling open the glove box and pulling out a bottle of water and opening it for you.
you nod, but it's slow and delayed.
"here, water." he murmurs. "open."
you barely have time to render what's happening before bucky's fingers slip under your chin, steadily tilting your head back. you obey and part your lips for him, the contact sending a shiver through your body. he tips the bottle over just enough for a stream of water to pour into your mouth, stopping when you'd had enough. you shut your mouth with furrowed brows like you're not sure what to do next.
"swallow." he says, and you do. "good."
your throat works as you drink, one hand coming up to grab at his wrist— not to stop him, but to keep yourself steady. he notices, and his hand stays where it is until you give him a soft nod.
"thanks, buck." you sigh, wiping at your mouth. you smack your lips a few times before you smile. "you're really good at this."
bucky huffs out a tired laugh as he screws the lid back onto the bottle. "we've done this a few times. i've had a bit of practice."
you slowly pull your hand away from his wrist with a content sigh and watch as he places the bottle into the centre console. bucky pulls away and shuts the passenger door, the absence of his presence weighing heavier on you than you'd like.
the car hums around you, the heater blasting hot air into your face and bucky's jacket weighing heavy on your shoulders as you watch him circle the front of the car. its only when his body lights up in the headlights that you realise that nobody has ever taken care of you like this— like how bucky does.
the drivers side door pops open and bucky slides in, the cold rushing in before he shuts it. you turn your entire body on its side so that you're facing him, struggling a little bit with the seatbelt strapping you down, but otherwise making it work.
he notices, because of course he does, and he resists the urge to look you up and down. after your awkward shuffling in the seat, your skirt had slid up awfully high, and he's sure that if his eyes dropped down even an inch, he'd catch a glimpse of something he shouldn't be allowed to see.
his eyes stay on yours as he reaches over and tugs at the hem of your skirt, pulling it further down your legs. you let him do so, even lifting your butt up so its a little easier for him.
"you warm enough?" he asks, grounding himself in your eyes.
"mm-hmm. m'toasty." you hum with a nod. you settle into the seat like you've never been warmer. "everything smells like you."
he huffs out something that barely resembles a laugh as he turns back to the front of the car and pulls away from the curb and onto the road. "yeah, that tends to happen when you're in my car and wearing my jacket."
you hum in content, tugging the sleeves of his jacket over your hands, practically drowning in it. bucky glances over for just a moment and takes in the way you've melted into yourself and how peaceful you look now that you're warm and not alone.
his eyes turn back to the road. "how was your night? you have fun?" he asks,
"mm... it started off good— like really good. they were nice... kept buying me drinks..." you hum again, a little more thoughtful this time as you lean your head against the headrest of the seat, but then your face turns almost sour. "but then they got weird."
bucky's jaw tightens. "weird how?" he asks, his voice still even, but there's something protective in it now.
"i dont know..." you sigh with a shrug, his jacket following the movement. "this other girl showed up and they started ignoring me and started being real interested in her. i wasn't jealous, it was just like—"
you pause for a minute, the words sitting on the top of your tongue. then you furrow your brows as the memory comes back.
"she was really mean to me, and everybody laughed with her." you add. "shes friends with most of them and she wanted the promotion that i got. pretty sure she thought she'd gotten it and then i showed up."
bucky exhales through his nose, feeling a little guilty for not being there for you when you'd needed him. "so they iced you out."
"kind of?" you mumble. "they started making weird jokes about how 'management makes weird decisions sometimes'. and then she was all fake-nice to me, like... you know that voice? where it's all high pitched and her smile is so obviously fake?"
bucky knows. he knows all too well.
"that's bullshit." he says quietly, "you earned it."
you glance at him, a little surprised like you hadn't expected him to be so sure about something as mundane as this. "you think so?"
"i know so. promotions aren't handed out because they feel bad. they gave it to you because you're good at what you do. that other woman was just mad she can't do what you do."
you go quiet at that, eyes fixated on the side of his face. you trail along his stubble on his jaw, then at the curve of his adams apple, and then it sits in the hollow of his throat. maybe its the alcohol, but he looks really handsome in this lighting.
"thank you, bucky. means a lot to me." you smile, exhaustion creeping up on you. "i'm okay now. just kept wishing you were there to celebrate with me. everything is better when you're there."
"yeah, well, i wouldve just told you to slow down on the drinks and eat something." he says, his tone deliberately light, "real fun company."
you smile at that, soft and sleepy, the corner of your mouth lifting just as your eyes start to droop. "i like your company no matter what."
that does him in.
bucky has to press his lips together like he can physically hold back the feeling if he tries hard enough. his chest feels warm, unnaturally so, like there's something in him that wants to free itself from the restraint he's holding it under.
a beat passes. the empty road hums underneath the tires as you near bucky's apartment complex, and bucky glances at you.
"you did good tonight." he says. "promotion and all."
your eyes flutter open at that. a small, proud smile tugs at your mouth, "you're the first person who's said that."
his heart twists.
"yeah?" he softens his tone and ignores the tightening ball of pity in his chest, smoothing down your hair. "i'm sorry about that, princess. you deserve it more than any of those assholes do."
you beam in the lowlight of the street lamps, too tired to reply. but bucky knows you take it to heart, because you lean over and cup his cheek with a softness that makes his heart ache. your thumbs skims over the stubble of his jaw, feeling every tight muscle under his skin. but soon after you pull your hand away, and the side of his face is left feeling colder than before.
by the time bucky parks, you're a little out of it. for some reason, you can't stop laughing, even when he's pulling you out of the passenger seat, even when he's holding you up in the elevator by your waist, even when he's pulling you through the halls with a hand hesitantly covering your mouth sí you don't wake up his neighbours, and even when you're right at his front door.
he unlocks the door one handed and nudged it open with his foot. the two of you step inside, you a little less coordinated then him, and bucky wastes no time pulling you towards his bedroom.
he'd be a little embarrassed by how messy he let it get since the last time you had come over— evidence of a life lived alone— but he's sure you couldn't care less, now more than ever. you stumble a little in the doorway, just enough that bucky's arm tightens around you enough to keep you upright.
"easy." he murmurs, more fond than demanding.
"iiiii've got it." you express with a little righteousness, but you trip over one of his boots and fall into his side. "whoops."
he helps you sit on the edge of his bed, still warm from where he laid before he left. you lift you foot, a little limp, and he undoes all of the weird and intricate buckles of your heels, placing them neatly onto the floor beside each other despite the rest of his room.
he peels your jacket off of you despite your protests and tosses it onto his bedside table before he pulls the blankets back and helps you settle in. you pull the blankets up to your face and shamelessly breath in the smell, a dramatic sigh leaving you.
"there," he sighs, "comfy."
he straightens, already turning like he's about to head for the couch, like muscle memory is steering him more than his mind, but then your hand shoots out and catches his wrist. he turns back.
"arent you gonna sleep with me?" you ask, voice drowsy but earnest, brows knitted together like the answer matters more to you than you'd admit.
and he hates that the first thought that comes to mind is sex. his mind— the traitor that it is— goes somewhere wildly inappropriate for a second before he has to shake it off.
"what?" he blinks. "what do you— what do you mean?"
you squint at him, confused at his confusion. "are you getting in the bed with me? are we snuggling?"
he sighs, and he's not sure if it's out of relief or fear of snuggling. his eyes flick to the other side of the bed, than back to you. you're already scooting over without waiting for permission, making space for him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"...yeah." he says finally, "okay. i can do that."
he kicks his boots off, messily splayed next to yours, before he moves to the other side of the bed and eases into the spot next to you.
for a moment, it feels odd to be sleeping in one side of the bed. usually he sleeps in the middle, but now there's a weight there that feels immovable— you.
you curl into him almost instinctively, trying to chase his warmth, your head finding his chest like it's always known the way. he's sure you can hear how fast his hearts racing and he wanders if you're choosing to ignore it or if you're too tired to realise. he hesitates for a moment before he finally wraps an arm around you, pulling the blankets up with his other hand.
your breathing evens out quickly, and after a few minutes, bucky's heart slows just the slightest bit. the room falls silent expect for your soft breathing and the late night noises outside.
your fingers twitch once against his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. then, barely above a breath, you whisper, "i love you, bucky."
his chest tightens, but he answers easily like he always does and always will. the words slide off of his tongue like it's the most natural thing in the world— and to him, it is.
"i love you too, sweetheart."
"but i mean it." you whisper.
he squints, a little defensive. "and you think i dont?"
you shake your head against his chest, your voice muffled in his arms, "no, bucky. i mean i love you."
bucky feels himself get a little lightheaded at your words, and he has to blink a few times to make sure he heard you right. you continue, the words pouring out of you slow and sleepy but devastatingly sincere.
"like i want to kiss you on the lips love you. like i want to sleep in your bed with you love you. like i'd have your babies if you asked me love you. like i want to fuck you love y—"
"you're drunk, princess. you don't know what you're saying." he cuts you off, but he doesn't know whether he's trying to convince you or himself.
"no, bucky, i know what i'm saying. whats that— what's that saying?" your head presses into his chest, eyes clenching shut as you think. "sober... words and drunk thoughts?"
"drunk words, sober thoughts." he corrects.
"right." you nod. "so do you love me too?"
the question catches him a little off guard. you've always been forward, but this felt like another level of forward. he almost doesn't really know what to say. he sucks in a breath before he speaks.
"you're exhausted and you've had a lot to drink. how about you just try to get some rest and see if you remember this in the morning?" he presses a kiss onto the top of your head, the action a little impulsive but otherwise welcome. "i dont want you saying stuff you might regret."
"but i wont." you whisper. "i'd never regret loving you."
and at your words, all of his breath leaves his lungs. he's spent years teaching himself restraint— what to say, how to act, what feelings to lock away— and right now, all of that training is what's keeping him from steady, because the truth sits heavy in his throat, heavy and undeniable.
i love you too, and i always have.
but he doesn't say it. not because it isn't true, but because when he does, he wants you to remember it in all of its truthfulness and all of its meaning. he wants you to know it.
"we'll talk about it in the morning, okay?" is what he wills himself to say instead even though it pains him to.
you dont argue, because you know he's right. you probably couldn't even count to twenty right now, let alone tell your best friend that you're in love with him.
"okay," you breathe out, "morning."
"morning." bucky echoes, his arms tightening around you.
his hand smoothed over your hair once more before settling in the crook of your neck, and within minutes, he can hear your soft snoring against his chest.
and as bucky lay awake for a while after, he wonders if the drunk words, sober thoughts theory is real, because if it is, the hundreds of other times you'd ended up in his bed muttering how much you love him weren't just throwaway words, but confessions you knew you couldn't say in the daytime.
either way, bucky knows one thing with startling clarity; he's never letting you go, even through drunken confessions and clueless mornings, because the truth sits in his chest and burns brighter than anything he's ever felt— he loves you completely and irrevocably, and he's too far in to turn back now.
summary: steve is and always has been a loverboy. you just hadn’t expected his love to come in the form of a ring box after a gruelling three months of being apart.
prompt: “is that a ring in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” 🍒
pairing: steve rogers x partner!reader
word count: 4k give or take
content contains: fluff! established relationship, very suggestive content at times, steve is essentially just super whipped for reader and reader is supper whipped for steve, a foiled marriage proposal but it's all good at the end
authors note: day two of the galentines collab! i dont know if i’m meant to be tagging isla and pinky but oh well i dont want to be a bother. i enjoyed this
erin’s galentines collab masterlist
ever since steve had laid his eyes on you, he knew that he never wanted to be apart from you ever again. that's why when fury had given a three month long mission away from you, he knew he wouldn't be able to breathe without you.
steve told himself it was just a simple mission. three months, ninety days. before he met you, he'd crossed entire continents and entire oceans without a simple complaint, but when fury had slipped him the file in the meeting room that day, all steve could think about was the quiet weight of you asleep on his chest at night and the way your hand slotted perfectly into his whenever you decided to grace him with your touch.
he hated the idea of leaving you., but steve's a big boy. he could shoulder a war, a shield, a reputation, and the weight of the world; he could definitely handle three months.
that's what he told himself anyway.
the mission itself was fine. steve and nat were sent somewhere in eastern europe to clear out some HYDRA remnants and see if they could find leftover files and documents. a simple in-and-out recon mission that turned into a couple of skirmishes and a few arrests. it was nothing full-avengers worthy and nothing big enough to make the news. it was mainly just a long few weeks of trekking through snowy mountains and walking down icy roads, spending nights in safe houses that smelt of rust and burnt wood.
except every quiet second and every mundane moment in between the noise and the fighting betrays him.
a cracked ceramic mug on a safe house shelf reminds him of the one you'd dropped last month and had a crisis over. he'd reassured you that it was okay and that things break all the time, but it was your favourite, so steve had gone and bought you a replacement of the same mug that night. he wonders if you've broken anything else since he's been gone.
they pass a small flower shop on the main strip somewhere in moldova— a bright stain in the middle of a grey town— and steve slows down without really meaning to. you would've loved these, he thinks. you would've bought at least two bouquets with the excuse of needing some colour in your bleak house, and he would've handed you cash without a second thought.
when they're sorting through old HYDRA documents, steve's fingers brush against a record. he holds it to the dim bunker light and brushes off the dust and debris, and the vinyl record that stares back at him only brings him back to the thought of you. it looks like something you'd dig for in second hand shops, one you'd bring home and play on a loop until you got sick of it and couldn't stand to listen to it anymore. he's sure you've compiled a stack of records for the two of you for when he gets back.
steve did his job like he always did— quick, reliable, and unshakeable— but he could never slip away from the attentive eye that was natasha romanoff.
they're holed up in a SHIELD bunker carved into the side of a mountain somewhere in slovakia, the concrete sweating cold and the lights ahead flickering with whatever life they've still got in them. dinner is fine, generous enough to keep them fed but cruel enough to lack any real flavour or comfort. neither steve nor nay are speaking— just the hum of the mountains shifting and flimsy forks scraping against the metal plates.
steve eats mechanically. he does so with a steady and repetitive pace, from plate to mouth, eyes focused on a far-off wall— to nothing, to somewhere else.
"alright," she says as she puts her plate down on the table, leaning back on her chair and crossing her arms against her chest, "what's up?"
steve blinks from the rim of his plate. "what do you mean?"
"i mean what's up." natasha repeats, unimpressed. "you've got that look on your face and you're staring at the wall like you're having some kind of telepathic conversation with it. so what's up?"
steve takes a moment to gather his thoughts. his tongue runs against his teeth, collecting all of the grubby food before he puts his plate down. he exhales through his nose, his eyes dropping to the table.
"it's okay to worry, right?" he asks, the question simple and light yet carrying every thought and doubt he's held with him since he stepped out of the quinjet.
a crease appears in nat's brow. "worry about what?"
"about home. i don't know," steve hesitates, eyes darting down to his battered hands, and all he can think about is you setting him down near the sink and fixing them up for him. "i thought i was good with this kind of thing. i used to be able to go months without worrying about home or missing anyone. used to be easy."
there's a brief silence between them, heavier than the bunker's stale air. steve turns his head, trying to stare at nothing, but it only makes him think of you— of your hands, of your smile, of your voice— and it almost feels like a disease how even empty spaces fill up with you anyways.
then natasha leans forwards, her elbows digging into the pathetic excuse of a safe house table. it squeaks under her weight, and steve's eyes flick up at her.
"it comes with the job, steve." she sighs before she readjusts herself, "look, i'm not gonna try and tell you to you shut it out and pretend you don't care, because i know you can't. you're whipped, and i don't think there anything you can do about it except take it to the next level."
steve turns her words over in his head. his jaw tightens and loosens as he thinks about it, but then a certain phrase gets caught in the crossfire of his mind— the next level. it lodges right in the divots of his brain and he's sure it'll stay there for a while.
he looks back up at nat, a little stunned and blinking a little too fast to be anything other than honest and a little confused.
"what, are you saying i should propose?" he says, voice a little higher than usual.
nat cant really tell what he's feeling— amusement? confusion? a little anger? she's unsure, but the tips of his ears are turning a pretty noticeable shade of pink and she's finding it hard to stay serious.
"well—" she sucks her teeth. "i'm not not saying that. you love this person and they plague your every thought, so you might as well take it a step further and put a ring on it, don't ya think?"
and maybe steve should stop taking natasha's advice so often, because he soon finds that the weight of a ring box in his pocket is heavier than any shield he's ever had to hold.
he's coming home today. he's coming home to you. after a long, exhausting three month long mission, the thought of you makes every mile behind him worth it, because soon, he'll be back where he belongs.
after the obligatory tower visit, steve finds himself at the front door of your shared home. your neighbourhood is quiet just like you wanted it to be, your house tucked away in cul-de-sac and surrounded by neighbours who are much too old to pay any attention to the fact that their handsome young neighbour is captain america.
steve's hand brushes the doorframe, his key held out and hovering just in front of the lock. he doesnt really know why he's so stuck; maybe its because he knows you're on the other side, probably curled up on your seat with a book in your hand, completely unaware that he holds something that will change your lives forever with a single answer.
he takes a breath. why is he so afraid?
he looks up at the front porch light. it's turned on, warm and buzzing just like it always is on nights when he's away. he tilts his head to the side and can see a vase of calla lillies sitting on the windowsill— his favourite. if he listens close enough, he can hear music curling through the rooms of your home, and he can tell from the swinging voice and the soft trumpet that you're playing— one of the very few— records that he picked out.
even in his moments of doubt, you always show that you care for him. it makes the weight on his heart a little lighter and makes the ring box in his pocket feel less like a solution and more like a promise.
steve swallows as he pushes the key in and turns it, the lock clicking as he shoulders open the door.
everything hits him at once. the smell of your perfume mixed with the faint trace of the dinner you'd cooked earlier, the sound of the music you never let him play without teasing, the soft lighting of the lamps you bought together, the quiet hum of the house you'd carefully curated to fit the both of you for years to come, and steve doesn't know how he survived with this for three months.
his chest tightens, but before he can think much more of it, his voice breaks the soft quiet: "honey?"
it's tentative at first, like he's unsure if you're actually there. he drops his bag onto the floor and nudged it to the side with his boot. he peels his jacket off one sleep at a time and sets it on the coatrack by the door, eyes set on every single doorway just in case you decide to stroll through one.
"i'm home!"
he calls again, undoing the laces of his left boot and pulling it off, placing it neatly next to yours. he tilts his head around a corner, looking into his office as if you might be sitting in his desk chair with your headphones on full volume. he unlaces his right boot and pulls it off as well, lips curling into a small frown.
"are you home—"
and then, just as he starts thinking you might be out, your pretty face pops out from the hallway, looking just a little frazzled with your eyes wide and your sleeves pulled up to your elbows, but you look more happy than anything else.
"hey," you huff out with a huge grin, a little breathless from moving around so fast to greet him, "welcome home, sweetheart."
before he can reply, you cut through the distance between you, arms wrapping around his torso in a way that makes the world narrow down to just the two of you. steve melts into your hug, big arms wrapping around your neck and wringing the fabric of your his shirt in his hands. he buries his face in your hair, holding on like he never wants to let go.
you pull back just enough to plant a kiss onto his lips, soft at first like you're making sure he's really there. you pull away, but steve reaches for the side of your neck and pulls you in for another, smiling into the kiss before he pulls away.
"hi, honey." he presses another kiss onto the side of your head, smoothing the frizz down with the palm of his hand. "i missed you."
"i missed you more." you murmur into his chest, arms tightening around him like you never want to let go again.
steve lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, because in all truth, he's sure he's the one who missed you more. his chin rests on the top of your head, and for a long moment, neither of you say anything. there's not much to say, and neither of you have ever thought the doorway of your house was the best place to talk about how missions went.
but although in any other context he would never deny you your wishes of wanting to be close to him, steve notices that you're inching closer and closer by the second. you press a long kiss onto his chest, your hips scooting dangerously close to the box in his pocket. your hands are reaching lower and lower, and he's afraid you're going to feel the box before he can even bring up the topic of marriage.
i should've put it in my bag, he thinks.
"hey—" he accidentally lets out when your hand begins to tuck itself into his back pocket.
you pull your head back, a little surprised, because steve is never one to pull away from you like this. you notice the slight blush of pink on his face and think it's probably because he's a little flustered since it's been a while since he's had any action.
"is something wrong?" you tilt your head up at him, brows knitted together in slight concern but a smile on your face nonetheless. your hands slide back up his back, and the sigh of relief he lets out is almost instant.
"no, it's.. uh," he blinks for a moment before nodding, "just a little sore. fell and hurt my back in slovakia. nothing too bad, don't worry."
which is only half a life. steve did fall and hurt his back in slovakia, but it doesnt hurt as much as the thought of you accidentally finding out his plans early. your hands resting on his back, your closeness, your eyes looking into his; it all makes this little secret of his feel scandalous, and he's worried it might slip out if you kiss him a little more.
and you do, pressing your lips to his bicep with the most beautiful smile he's ever seen. "ah, okay. i can get that fixed up for you later if you'd like."
he hums in acknowledgment, but much to his (unfortunate) dismay, you fall back into him like gravity has decided he's your favourite surface.
he tries to distract you by pressing a warm kiss to your cheek and then another just below your ear, which usually makes you ticklish and let go, but it only seems to make you nuzzle closer to him. he then tries— very carefully and almost idiotically— sticking his butt out to try and distance the box from you, but you seem to notice the odd shuffling off his feet and the strange curve in his back.
you squint at him. "why are you standing like that?"
"bad posture." steve says almost immediately, and if you were suspicious then, you definitely were now. "doc's orders. standing like this helps corrects it."
you blink at him, unconvinced— because there's no way that the captain america has bad posture— but shrug it off anyways. you know he wouldn't lie to you unless it was for a good reason.
you finally push away from him just enough to give him a once over, your hands smoothing over the fabric of his shirt. steve thinks it's finally over, that he can quickly excuse himself to the bathroom and hide the ring anywhere other than his pocket.
but then, unable to resist, you lean in again and press a quick teasing kiss to his lips. your hand brushes near his hips, and your fingers graze against something in his pocket. you freeze, eyes widening slightly as you cock your head, and steve knows that everything is about to blow up.
"steve..." you murmur, a teasing tilt in your voice, "is that a ring box in your pocket, or are you just really happy to see me?"
steve freezes, a sharp inhale catching right in the centre of his chest where your hand rests. he knows you're only joking about the ring box, but you don't seem to realise you've hit the nail right on the head.
his ears flare pink and his hands go stone cold on your waist. every working neuron in his brain is firing and yelling at him to just say 'yeah, i'm really happy to see you', but when he opens his mouth to speak, no words come out.
you watch his face, amused at first, but as his eyes dart between yours and you feel his heart thudding uncharacteristically fast in his chest, your face falls a little bit as the realisation dawns upon you.
"uh..." is all that he can manage.
"oh. did i just—" your eyes go wide as your voice trails off, scanning his features like you're trying to read the truth on his face, "don't tell me i..."
"yeah, you, uh..." steve finally stammers, "you... kind of did."
frantic, your eyes drop to his waist where you first expected something far more sexual in nature. instead, you find that the object you'd bumped into was not steve, but a small, velvet-covered box peeking out of the pocket of his jeans.
your eyes flick back up to steve's face faster than you've ever looked at anything before. his face is brighter than ever, his hands still stiff on your waist, and he's a little breathless as he tries to calm himself down.
for a heartbeat, you're completely smitten— heart racing, hands warm against his chest, and your feet almost bouncing off of the ground. this is all you've ever wanted and now you're finally getting it; it's quite literally a dream come true.
"stevie." you coo, face falling into a sweet smile. your body leans into his, craving the intimacy you've needed for so long.
but then it dawns on you— steve wouldn't propose like this. he would have taken you to one of your favourite places in the world and gotten on one knee for the entire world to see. he would never let you find it out this way, let alone in the doorway of your house while he's in his work clothes and you're in your pajamas.
your hand slaps against your mouth, eyes even wider than before as the realisation hits you full force: this was an accident. the giddiness in you burns out and is replaced by guilt, the horrible feeling crawling into your body and making its home right in the centre of your heart.
"oh no, i ruined it, didn't i?" you ask into your palm, the words muffled yet clear enough for steve to hear every sad word.
steve takes in the panic on your face, then gives you a small awkward laugh, still pink around the ears. he reaches up with a hand and lays it to rest on the side of your neck, your skin warm in his palm.
"yeah, you, uh... you kinda did." he manages to answer, the words still rough in his throat.
your face falls. "oh my god—"
you turn around to try and walk off the panic, regret settling deep within your bones, but before you can even properly turn away from him, steve catches your wrists just as you take a step, pulling you back gently.
his hands cup your face and yours rest on his waist. you're so close that you can feel his breath fan over your face, and your heart stutters in your chest.
"no, no, honey. it's fine." he reassures you, his eyes soft and his voice full of something that calms you down. "you didn't ruin anything. i should've known that putting it in my pocket was a bad idea."
you frown, uncertainty still tugging at your chest, but then you feel it— the warmth of his hands against your cheeks, the steady weight of him holding himself against you, and the love in which his eyes pour into yours. somehow, just being around him makes the panic seep away.
your heart slows, and you find yourself believing him, just as you always have you always will.
"i, um... i actually got you something too." you say, pressing a quick kiss the the side of his hand before taking both of his hands in yours. "i mean, it's not a wedding ring, but i'd say it's similar in terms of sentimentality."
steve's brows furrow and you shoot him a warm smile. he certainly didn't expect a gift from you when he came home, but judging by the sudden flicker of surprise and delight in his eyes, it's safe to say he's definitely not complaining.
you reach into your back pocket and pull out a secret of your own. a gold trimmed compass sits in the palm of your hand, delicate and warm to the touch, it's polished surface catching the dim light enough for it to glow.
steve's eyes soften. catching the meaning before your words even seep in. he gently takes the compass from your hands and turns it over a few times, his fingers running along all of the seams and dents. he holds it like it's the most precious thing in the world, and in a way, you realise it is to him.
you fold your hands together, a little nervous for his reaction and a little impatient for him to get to the part that took you forever. "it's a compass, but on the other side—"
steve pops the lid off of the other side before you finish your sentence, and what stares back at him destroys any doubt he ever had of you saying no.
inside sits a photo of the two of you, your faces smushed together in a rather unprofessional but endearing picture you took together on the day you moved in together. the photo is a little grainy and the colour is a little off, but it's real. it's home.
you watch as steve's face softens, all the harsh lines and knitted brows melting into something you'd describe as pure fascination. you rock on your heels as he takes his time studying every imperfection like it's the most interesting thing he's even seen.
"i— uh... i went to a metal working class and i made the locket part of it." you scratch the back of your neck as the nerves run through you. "i know you probably don't have space in your suit for it and the picture's a little weird looking because the printer ran out of ink, but—"
"it's perfect." steve interruots gently, his eyes locking with yours, a hopeless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "and i love you."
a giddy smile finds you. "i love you too." you say softly, the words coming easy and natural, like they've always belonged there.
steve leans in for another kiss, neck craning down and hands sliding around your waist to hold you tighter than he ever has. you melt into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, and when you finally pull back, it's only to catch your breaths. you feel the metal of the compass press against your back and your fingers idly mess with the curls of hair on the back of his neck.
"are you sure you're not mad at me for ruining the surprise?" you ask, still a little worried.
"not at all. if you think about it, this is kind of perfect." he adds like he's already thought this part through."i can go through with the proposal like i originally planned, and you can get a head start on the wedding. i know how much you love to plan ahead."
the words are sweet and sincere coming out of his mouth, but then he pauses, suddenly a little bashful. "and i'm assuming you're going to say yes."
that drags a breathy laugh from you, your smile wide and sure as you lean in and you press yet another kiss to his lips.
•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader
Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying
Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.
Word Count: 2.0K
Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3
Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!
You and Bucky were dating.
Like- really dating.
In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.
And no one believed you.
Especially not Sam.
"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"
You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."
"You're spooning."
"We're affectionate."
"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."
Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"
"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."
You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.
"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."
"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."
Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"
Bucky flipped him off without looking.
~~~~~
The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.
The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.
You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.
Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.
"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."
Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."
"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."
"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"
Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."
Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"
~~~~~
At first, it was funny.
Then it got exhausting.
You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.
But still. No one believed it.
Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."
No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).
Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"
It all came to a head one night at a bar.
You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.
"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"
You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."
"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"
You stared at him.
"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.
Sam smiled. "Still not proof."
Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"
"Bucky-" you warned.
"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."
He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.
Not a polite kiss.
Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.
A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.
Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.
You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.
When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."
"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.
Sam blinked again. "Not really."
You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."
~~~~~
Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.
Because of course it didn't.
"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.
"What?"
"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."
Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."
"You're just mad I cracked the code."
"There is no code!"
You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."
Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."
"Bucky bought me this frosting."
Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.
~~~~~
Eventually, you gave up.
Let them believe what they wanted.
You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.
Until-
One night, you got sick.
Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.
And Bucky took care of everything.
He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.
Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.
He backed out slowly.
Didn't say anything.
Didn't tease.
Didn't breathe.
The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.
From Sam.
With a card.
"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word.
P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."
~~~~~
You- of course- showed Bucky the card.
He smirked. "About damn time."
You kissed him with a smile.
And this time, no one questioned it.
~~~~~
The peace lasted exactly five days.
Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.
No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.
And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.
(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)
"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.
You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."
"I brought bagels."
"And chaos."
Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."
Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"
"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."
You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."
"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."
Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."
Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."
"Oh my god-"
~~~~~
You tried ignoring him.
Didn't work.
Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.
Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'
Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'
("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)
And worst of all- he documented everything.
"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"
You stared at him. "Non-physically?"
"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."
"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."
"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."
~~~~~
Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.
He stopped being annoying.
(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)
But... he also started being kind of helpful.
Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.
It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.
You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.
"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.
"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.
The room froze.
You didn't cry.
You never cried in front of him.
But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.
Bucky didn't come in.
Not until morning.
But Sam came over first.
~~~~~
He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.
Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."
You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"
Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."
You didn't cry.
But you breathed.
And it helped.
~~~~~
Bucky apologized that afternoon.
He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."
You looked at him.
He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."
You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.
That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.
And you whispered, "You're safe with me."
~~~~~
The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.
"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.
You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.
~~~~~
Over time, you adapted.
You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.
He became your sounding board.
Your crisis texter.
Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.
One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.
Sam looked over at you both.
"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."
Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."
"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."
You blinked.
Bucky squeezed your hand.
Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."
~~~~~
Months later...
You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
Sam walked past, muttering into comms.
"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."
You smiled to yourself.
You were real.
You were loved.
And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.
Note I love jealous Bucky. Gives me life. Gives me serotonin.
Bucky gets shot on a mission he insists was nothing.
It’s not nothing.
The bullet tears through his thigh during an extraction gone sideways—bad intel, too many hostiles, one second of distraction because he clocked you behind him and thought, stupidly, I’ve got her. The pain barely registers until his leg buckles mid-step and suddenly the ground is coming up too fast.
He still finishes the mission. Of course he does. He always does.
But by the time you’re back at the compound, he’s bleeding through the tactical wrap and trying way too hard to look fine. You notice immediately. You always do.
“Bucky,” you say, already moving toward him, hand hovering near his arm like you’re not sure you’re allowed to touch him when he's in pain because you've never seen him this way, “You’re limping.”
“I’m not.” he lies, jaw tight.
Steve doesn’t even argue. One look at the blood and it’s over. Medical. No discussion. Bucky protests just long enough to make it obvious how much it scares him to be benched—how much it scares him to be away from you.
The verdict is brutal in its simplicity. Someone took their time fabricating bullets to injure him and Steve, resulting in fractured femur, muscle damage, weeks of recovery. No fieldwork.
Bucky takes it silently, staring at the floor like he’s already calculating how useless he’s about to feel.
You stay with him until med forces you out.
“You’ll be fine,” you tell him softly, squeezing his hand once before you leave. “I’ll check on you.”
He nods, but there’s something in his eyes then—something unsettled, like he’s already imagining all the things that could happen while he’s not there to see them.
Two days later, Steve calls you into the briefing room.
“Temporary reassignment,” he says, too casual. “Until Buck is cleared.”
Your stomach drops. “Reassignment with who?”
The door opens like it’s timed for maximum damage.
Agent Jameson Cole.
Tall. Dark hair. That stupid, easy grin that says I know I’m charming and I’m going to use it. He looks you up and down openly, not even pretending otherwise.
“Well,” he says, extending a hand. “Guess I hit the jackpot.” He smiles at you with something you clearly see can be his flirty smile. “You can call me James or Jamie.” He says.
You shake it, polite but guarded. “Yeah, no. I’ll call you Cole, I already have my James, my Jamie.” You say, polite smile on your face. “I’m sure Bucky is gonna be thrilled.”
Steve grimaces. You don’t miss it.
Bucky finds out by accident.
He’s halfway down the hall with a cane when he hears your laugh—lighter than it’s been since the mission. It stops him cold. He follows the sound like it physically pulls at him, and then he sees you.
You’re in the gym. Sparring mat. Cole is standing way too close, adjusting your stance, his hands lingering at your hips longer than necessary. He says something low, something that makes you roll your eyes but smile anyway.
Bucky’s chest tightens so fast it almost hurts worse than his leg.
He knows, rationally, that you’re allowed to have other partners. Friends. Coworkers. That he never said anything—never claimed anything.
But watching another man’s hands on you makes something ugly and possessive coil in his stomach.
Cole glances up and spots him.
“Oh,” he says, grin widening. “You must be Bucky. Heard a lot about you.”
Bucky doesn’t offer his hand. Doesn’t smile. Just nods once.
“You call me Barnes and just try not to get her killed.” Bucky says flatly.
You freeze. “Bucky.”
Cole laughs like it’s a joke. “Relax, man. I’ll take real good care of her.”
The way he says it—easy, suggestive—makes Bucky’s jaw clench so hard it aches.
You come back bruised, adrenaline high, talking about close calls and perfect teamwork. Cole always has a comment. A wink. A hand brushing your arm when he passes you a bottle of water.
The missions are torture.
Bucky watches it all from the sidelines, helpless and burning.
He starts skipping physical therapy. Starts pushing himself too hard, too fast, until med yells at him and Steve gives him that look—the disappointed captain one.
“What’s going on with you?” Steve asks quietly one night.
Bucky doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out the window, jaw tight.
“You didn’t have to assign him.” he mutters.
Steve exhales. “You don’t get to choose your replacement.”
Bucky turns then, eyes sharp. “I didn’t need a replacement.”
Steve softens. “You needed to heal.”
“And she needed—what?” His voice cracks despite his effort. “Someone else?”
Steve says nothing. That silence says everything.
You knock on Bucky’s door, still in mission gear, hair damp from the rain outside. He opens it shirtless, a faint grimace crossing his face when he shifts his weight.
The breaking point comes late.
“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”
He steps aside to let you in without a word.
You talk. About the mission. About Cole almost blowing your cover and how annoying his flirting is getting. You don’t notice how Bucky’s hands clench at his sides.
“He’s harmless,” you shrug. “Just… a lot.”
Bucky laughs, humorless. “Doesn’t seem harmless to me.”
You look at him then—really look at him. The tension. The jealousy he’s been pretending not to feel.
“What’s going on?” you ask quietly.
He exhales, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t like seeing him with you.”
Your heart stutters. “Jamie—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “We’re friends. That’s it. I don’t get a say.”
You step closer. “Is that really what you think this is?”
He swallows. “It’s what it has to be. Because if I start wanting more—” His voice drops. “I don’t know how to stop.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and electric.
You close the distance.
“Then don’t.” you whisper.
His breath hitches. His hand comes up like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you—and then you’re kissing him, slow at first, then desperate, months of tension collapsing into heat.
It’s messy. It’s hungry. It’s in the way that comes from too much restraint finally snapping. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, his mouth rough against yours as if he needs to prove something—to himself, to the world.
When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, his voice is wrecked.
“I lost my damn mind,” he admits. “Thinking about you with him.”
You smile softly, thumb brushing his jaw. “Good. Because I was losing mine watching you pretend you didn’t care.”
He laughs, breathless, then kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, like he finally understands what he’s been holding back.
Cole notices immediately. The way Bucky’s hand rests at your lower back. The way you don’t pull away.
The next day, you walk into the briefing room together.
“Well,” Cole says, raising his hands. “Guess I missed something.”
Bucky doesn’t even look at him. Just squeezes you closer.
“Yeah,” he says calmly. “You did.”
Steve watches from the table, pretending not to smile.
The physical therapy room smells like antiseptic and rubber mats, and every stretch reminds him of how fragile he still is. His leg aches in that deep, maddening way that says not yet. The therapists are patient. He is not.
Bucky’s recovery is hell—not because of the pain, but because of the waiting.
What makes it worse is that you’re busy.
You stop by, yeah. You always do. Coffee in hand, leaning against the doorframe, filling him in on missions in a way that’s careful—not too detailed, like you’re afraid of reminding him he’s not there. He notices the way you’re glowing with adrenaline when you come straight from the field. Notices the faint bruises. Notices how often you say Cole’s name without meaning to.
“He almost blew our cover today,” you say once, rolling your eyes as you sit on the edge of his bed. “Too cocky. A big idiot.”
Bucky hums noncommittally, fingers tightening in the sheets.
“You should’ve seen his face when I corrected him.” you add, smiling.
Bucky smiles back. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
At night, alone, he replays images he wishes he hadn’t seen: Cole’s hand on the middle of your back. The way Cole leans in when he talks to you. The way you don’t shove him away—because why would you? You’re professional. Friendly. You’ve always been like that.
But now Bucky knows what it feels like to have you in his arms. To kiss you like he’s starving. To fall asleep with your weight against his chest and wake up calmer than he’s been in decades.
Knowing makes it worse.
It’s subtle. He’s not stupid.
Cole makes his move two weeks later.
You’re in the common room, late evening, post-mission exhaustion heavy in your bones. You’re alone, scrolling through your phone, waiting for Bucky to finish PT so you can walk him back to his room like you’ve started doing—your quiet little routine.
Cole drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh presses into yours.
“You always this tense after a mission?” he asks, voice low, easy.
You sigh. “I’m always this tense, that's it.”
He chuckles. “Could help with that.”
You finally look at him, brows raised. “Cole.”
“What?” He lifts his hands innocently. “Just saying. You deserve someone who’s actually here. Not stuck on the sidelines.”
Something in your chest hardens. “You don't get to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he interrupts gently. “I see the way you look at him. I’m just saying… people get hurt. Sometimes they don’t come back the same.”
You stand so fast the couch creaks. “That’s enough.”
You say, your voice cold and firm.
He looks surprised. Actually surprised. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” you snap. “And you don’t get to talk about him like that.”
You turn away before he can say anything else—and nearly collide with Bucky in the doorway.
He heard everything.
His face is unreadable, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something dangerously close to rage. Cole freezes, suddenly aware that he’s miscalculated.
Bucky steps fully into the room, cane tapping softly against the floor.
“She already said no.” Bucky says calmly. Too calmly.
Cole clears his throat, standing. “I was just—”
“Yeah,” Bucky cuts in, gaze never leaving him. “You were.”
The air is thick. Charged. You can feel Bucky holding himself back—not physically, but emotionally, like if he lets go even a little he might do something reckless.
Cole lifts his hands again. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”
Bucky’s eyes flick to you for half a second.
“She is.” he says.
Cole nods, mutters something about grabbing a drink, and leaves.
The door closes. Silence crashes down.
You turn to Bucky, heart racing. “Bucky—”
He exhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
You step closer. “I don’t care about him.”
“I know,” he says, softer now. “I just… hate not being the one there with you.”
You reach for his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “You are. Even when you’re not.”
That night, he kisses you like he needs reassurance—slow, deep, intense. It’s not about urgency; it’s about grounding. About reminding himself he hasn’t lost his place.
Limited duty. One mission. Evaluation pending.
The clearance comes sooner than expected.
Bucky doesn’t sleep the night before.
When you gear up together for the first time since his injury, the familiarity hits him hard—the weight of the vest, the quiet efficiency between you, the way you check each other’s straps without speaking.
Steve watches from across the room, arms crossed. “You sure about this?”
Bucky nods. “I’m sure.”
You squeeze his hand once. “I’ve got you.”
The mission is messy. Close quarters. Exactly the kind of thing Bucky’s leg shouldn’t be tested on—but he adapts, compensates, moves with a precision that reminds everyone why he’s the Winter Soldier and why he survived long enough to become something more.
At one point, a hostile comes up behind you.
Bucky reacts on instinct, pulling you back against his chest, shielding you, taking the brunt of the impact. His leg screams in protest—but he doesn’t falter.
After, when it’s over and the adrenaline is still buzzing, he looks at you like he’s just proven something vital.
Back at the compound, he doesn’t let go of your hand.
Not in the hallway. Not when Cole passes by and pointedly looks away. Not when Steve clears his throat and pretends not to notice.
Later, alone, Bucky presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in.
“I’m not sitting on the sidelines anymore,” he murmurs. “Not with you.”
You smile, heart full. “Good. Because I don’t want anyone else watching my back.”
He kisses you then—confident, sure, like a man who’s reclaimed something that was never really gone.
And for the first time since the injury, the tight coil in his chest finally loosens.
Summary - You thought you had everything you wanted, you thought you were happy. Until you stepped into Avengers HQ and your life began to unravel. Office AU
Warnings - 18+ Only, adult themes throughout, including SMUT. My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk!
A/N - Steve Rogers will finally be joining us in the next chapter!
Series Masterlist
After having a good look around your new apartment, you, Yelena and Bucky went back over to his place and made a plan to go to Brocks to get your belongings the following day. Bucky ordered thai food for the three of you, despite Yelena's protests that she could make a mean macaroni for all of you. Bucky insisted he didn't want his apartment burnt down.
That evening with a full belly and a smile on your face, you decided to finally, brave looking at your phone that had been ignored for the past week. You were thankful Bucky had apparently kept it charged for you, despite your lack of interest in the object.
Text after text sat awaiting on the screen and so you began to scroll through them one by one.
Thor - Hey superstar. I know you're going through a hard time right now. Don't worry about the job, it'll still be here when you are feeling up to it. Here if you need anything.
You were thankful for the text and glad to at least not worry about your job being gone, your division boss was the coolest.
You - Thank you so much duet buddy, I'll be back monday.
Papa A - Yelena told me about the asshole! I will come back from Russia and rip his arms from their sockets and feed them to the crows! You send him Alexei's way if he bothers you again! No one messes with my girls. я тебя люблю
You laughed loudly, fighting back happy tears as you read Alexei's text, he had always been like a father to you, knowing you'd grown up basically alone.
You - Calm down Papa A, I'm okay, I love you too.
The work group chat was filled with well wishes and updates from Bucky and Yelena over the course of the week on how you were doing. Most were that you weren't doing great, besides the update from Yelena this morning saying that you were out of bed and going to see the flat. You couldn't believe they had all done that for you.
In less than a month this team of misfits had become a home for you that you didn't know you needed, you dreaded to think how you would have gotten through this without them.
You - Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I can't believe you all sorted a place for me to live, I'm so grateful to all of you.
The chat began chiming almost immediately.
Ava - You're welcome! We all miss you!
John - No worries, glad you are doing okay. Hurry back so I can stop picking up your slack haha
Ava - Don't be a dick john
John - I'm joking! It's a joke! I said HAHA
Bob - What's so funny?
You - God I can't believe how much I actually miss you guys after one week
Bob - Oh hey y/n!
You rolled your eyes as you smiled widely at your phone.
Thor - See you monday superstar, you are most welcome
Yelena - Anything for you pretty lady
Bucky - You said you were going to sleep, so sleep
You - Bossy much
Bucky - Don't make me come in there
Ava - Uh oh shes in trouble
You - Okay okay, night guys, see you monday
You scanned through your phone and landed on the last set of unopened messages, heart plummeting immediately and the smile dropped from your face.
Brock - Baby I'm sorry, answer the phone please
Brock - and tell that asshole I'm gonna sue his ass for hitting me
Brock - Who the fuck is he anyway? Why is some guy creeping on MY girlfriend?
Brock - Are you sleeping with him? You fucking slut
Brock - Babe, come home now you've been out all night, it's not funny anymore
Brock - Honestly you're being so fucking childish, just answer the fucking phone
Brock - We'll get through this babe, just come home and everything will be okay
Brock - 4 fucking days! not one text, why are you being a god damn bitch!
Brock - babbb, cumon i ned yuuuu
Brock - the fucking coffee pot is packed up and I don't know how to fix it
Brock - All your shit is here so I know you're coming back to me, stop being so fucking stubborn and come home already, its been a week for fucks sake
Brock - You've made your fucking point babe. I'm ready to sort this out like adults when you are.
You swallowed the sick that had risen up your throat, wiping at tear stained eyes before throwing the phone back down and hiding your face in the pillows. You knew you'd made the right choice by leaving. You could see that now and this time tomorrow you would be in your new apartment and away from him, for good.
You, Yelena and Bucky turned up at the apartment complex late the following morning, armed with both Yelena and Bucky's cars. There was a discussion on whether or not there was enough space but given the size of your apartment, you didn't have much and you were only bothered about getting your clothes and personal items, Brock could keep the rest.
You were relieved when you stepped over the threshold to find that Brock wasn't home and you also weren't surprised that the apartment was filthy.
Takeaway containers littered the worktops and coffee table, beer cans were scattered around. News papers were strewn on the floor and couch and the whole place stunk of week old food and sweat. A small part of you wondered if Brock finally realized how much you did for him, not that it would change anything.
You made your way around the kitchen with Yelena, as Bucky boxed up the few books you had on a little shelf by the TV unit. You collected the few photo frames you had scattered around and your favorite mug and turned back towards the living area, gasping when your sights fell on your bouquet of daisies.
They were upside down in the open trash can, petals fallen on the floor.
"Yelena I'm so sorry." You said, shedding a tear at the complete disrespect Brock had for something someone had cared to get for you.
"What. What is it?" Yelena questioned as she followed your gaze to the ruined flowers.
"You bought them for me and he destroyed them. I'm sorry." You whimpered once more, looking back at her with glazed eyes.
"I didn't...." She began, before Bucky stepped forwards with his hands on his hips.
"I bought them." He sighed, "but it's not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for."
"You got them for me?" You were surprised, you had no idea he was the one who'd sent them, he hadn't said anything.
"Yeah. Of course." He smiled softly and that familiar flutter returned to your stomach.
You threw your arms around his chest and tucked your face into his neck, squeezing tightly and inhaling his woody scent. Bucky wrapped his arms around your back and kissed your forehead before releasing you with a blush on his cheeks.
"Let's go get your clothes." Yelena said, interrupting the moment and heading towards the small hall between the bedroom and bathroom.
"Yeah okay." You said softly, casting a shy smile at Bucky before stepping away and following her.
"I'll get these two boxes down to the car." Bucky announced behind you, "I'll be back in a few minutes."
You split up and went into the bedroom with Yelena, another gasp leaving your mouth when the door swung open.
Brocks dirty clothes were all over the floor, a few frames lay smashed near the bed. The curtains were drawn and the sheets were in disarray.
Yelena made no comment, simply letting out a scoff before moving quickly to your small joint wardrobe and she began removing the clothes inside.
"God, this is insane...." You muttered to yourself as you scanned the destruction.
"Babe!" You heard yelled from the main room and your body stiffened immediately. "Are you here?"
Yelena looked over her shoulder and met your eyes casting a concerned expression you're way.
"It's okay." She whispered. "We're nearly done, just a few things left."
"Okay." You whimpered. "I should go talk to him."
"Babe! Are you here, the door was open?" Brock yelled once more.
"You don't have to do anything." Yelena replied sternly through hushed tones.
"I know but I should end it properly." You said whilst your hands shook at your side.
You walked slowly into the living room where Brock was looking at the empty book shelf with his hands on his hips.
"Hey." You said quietly, crossing your arms over your chest nervously and his gaze snapped to you.
"What the fuck are you doing? Where's your shit?" He snapped, gesturing toward the shelf.
"I've taken it," You said with a deep breath, "I'm leaving Brock."
"This is a fucking joke right." He scoffed, shaking his head angrily as he placed his hands on his hips. "You can't be fucking serious babe. You're not leaving me."
"She is." Yelena said as she appeared beside you with the last box in hand.
"Fuck off Yelena, this doesn't concern you." Brock yelled at her furiously.
"Like fuck it...." Yelena began with a glare, but you quickly placed your hand on her arm to calm her.
"Yelena it's okay, I'm good." You said with a flat lipped smile. You weren't okay, but you needed to do this for yourself.
"Yeah Yelena, she can speak for herself so get the fuck out of my apartment." Brock spat.
"Fuck you Brock." Yelena scoffed before stepping towards the apartment door. She stepped out into the hallway and leant against a nearby wall, eyebrow raised towards Brock challengingly.
You turned back towards Brock.
"Brock, listen...." You began but he was quick to interrupt, taking the few small steps towards you until he was a mere foot away.
"Babe, we can work this out. You're being ridiculous." He said patronizingly whilst looking down his nose at you.
"I'm not being ridiculous Brock. You cheated on me." You said as confidently as you could muster.
"So what?" He spat, "You weren't exactly forthcoming when it came to sex babe, did you seriously think I wouldn't get my kicks elsewhere?"
Your mouth gaped open at the absolute audacity of this man. You couldn't believe the shit that had just dropped from his mouth.
"You're unbelievable." You said shaking your head in disbelief.
"No, I'm realistic." He grunted, "But if you come back, we can talk about it, I'll stop sleeping around, we can compromise."
He stepped forwards and placed his hand on your bicep but you stepped back and shrugged him off instantly. Your brain processed his words, quickly realizing what he had just eluded too and you felt your own anger finally snap.
"How many times?" You said as you dropped your hands to your sides, fists clenching.
"What?" He asked with a nervous tick in his jaw.
"You heard me, how many fucking times?" You spat, "How many times did you fuck someone else?"
"I dunno babe I didn't exactly count." He yelled defensively. The implication alone that he couldn't put a number on it was enough to have sick tumbling up your throat.
"You are un-fucking-real. I did everything for you." You spat, pointing at him aggressively.
"Hey, let's go." Bucky said softly from where he had appeared behind you, stepping over the threshold of the apartment to place a reassuring palm on your shoulder.
"Oh this asshole again! You trying to get in her pants?" Brock yelled, turning his attention to Bucky.
"Oh fuck you Brock, just because you're a slut doesn't mean everyone else is." You yelled back, "Besides I'm single now."
"Like fuck you are." Brock yelled, raising his fist angrily and punching a hole into the nearest wall.
You flinched back before regaining your composure. You wouldn't be weak, not in front of him, not anymore.
"We're done Brock. Have a good life." You sneered and then turned towards Bucky.
"You aren't fucking leaving me." Brock screamed from behind you.
"I am." You announced loudly as you made your way to the door.
"You'll fucking regret this." Brock sneered and you felt a sadistic smile spread to your lips.
When you'd stepped over the threshold to the apartment, you turned and reached out for the door handle, pausing before closing it to look back at the man you thought you'd loved.
"Oh and one more thing Brock." You said with a sarcastic smile. "I faked it. Every. Fucking. Time."
You slammed the door closed and walked away with a triumphant grin. You were free.
Summary: You hook up with a stranger while you’re out with your friends.
Word Count: Over 2.7k
Warnings: Smut, explicit sexual content, instant connection, lust at first sight (maybe more), consensual unprotected rough sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, oral mentioned, dirty talk, drinking (not drunk), term of endearment (sweetheart), quick discussion of birth control and STI, possible feels, confident Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Inspired by this nonnie. Happy Moanday. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Hooking up with a stranger wasn’t like you, but tonight was different.
You and your friends wanted to let loose after a long week. You couldn’t remember the last time you wore your little black dress and now you had a reason. Your group settled at a club after some bar hopping. You drank enough to feel it but not enough that you couldn’t think straight. Everyone moved to the music, living in the moment.
A few guys tried to dance with you, but you subtly moved away. A couple of your friends frowned and you shrugged. They knew you hadn’t been laid in months, but you weren’t about to fool around with a random guy when you had a perfectly good toy at home.
And then you saw him.
A stranger in all black, from the tight t-shirt down to the boots, watched you from the corner. The handsome man didn’t smile when you two locked eyes. You forgot how to breathe since he wouldn’t look away, his stare somehow both cold and hot. Something told you to run far away because he seemed dangerous.
But a voice in your head said he’d like the chase.
You tried to focus on dancing, but it was difficult with his eyes following your every move. You glanced at him over your shoulder, looking more enticing than you meant to. Or maybe you did it on purpose since it felt good to have his attention on you. You couldn’t understand why since he looked far from safe.
That was part of the appeal, wasn’t it?
Lust and need sizzled up and down your spine when his gaze went over you from head to toe, your instinct warning you not to play with fire. You didn’t care. You wanted to feel the heat. Hell, you wanted him to burn you by the time he was done with you.
“I need a drink,” you told your friends.
You walked through the crowd with purpose, not letting any guys brush against you since you weren’t interested in them. Your heart raced, but you did your best to stand with confidence once you reached the bar. From the quick glance at the man, he was more handsome up close and no less intimidating. His muscles were two seconds from bursting through his clothes and his dark hair framed his face perfectly. The trimmed beard added to his allure.
Oh, the burn was going to feel good.
You held your breath when moved beside you, so close you felt the heat from his body. The heady scent of his cologne made you dizzy once you remembered to breathe. Heat rose in your cheeks when he stared, your throat so dry you weren’t sure if you’d be able to speak.
“Bucky,” he said, his deep voice so low you almost missed it.
“I’m sorry?” you asked, confused.
“Bucky,” he repeated, a hint of warmth in the blue of his eyes. “That’s my name.”
A name you wanted to scream before the night was over.
“Oh,” you breathed, giving him your name in return. “Nice to meet you.”
He licked his lips and said your name, making it sound like something sinful. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Were you watching me out there?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
He tilted his head. “Did you like me watching you?”
Bucky already knew the answer, too.
You inhaled when his finger dipped under the strap of your dress, lightly tracing your skin. It was a bold move. If it were anyone else, you would’ve smacked their hand away. But his touch lit a fire within you that you hadn’t felt in a long time.
“I think you want me to do more than just watch.” He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Come with me.”
Your heart pounded in your chest. The request sounded dirty and intimate, which was likely his intention. “Come with you… where?”
“On my cock.” He took your hand with a firm yet gentle grip, your thighs pressing together as his words registered. “Outside.”
You followed without protest as he pulled you along, your breaths shallow. You should’ve yanked your hand away or called for your friends once he reached the door. The man could be a killer for all you knew. Were you so desperate to get dicked down by a hot man that you threw all caution to the wind?
The door shut with a bang, the music from the club muffled as you realized you were in a dimly lit alley. It was the perfect backdrop for something seedy. “I don’t usually fuck strangers,” you blurted out when he faced you.
You didn’t judge anyone who did. Their bodies and choices were their own. But you made it a point not to hook up with random people. There had to be some sort of connection.
Which is exactly what you were feeling with him, so what was the problem?
Maybe the instant chemistry scared you more than you wanted to admit.
“I gave you my name and you gave me yours, so we’re not strangers,” he said.
You laughed because you couldn’t help yourself. His logic was… something. “We’re still strangers.”
“I’m clean,” he said, like that solved everything.
“Congrats. So am I. And I’m on the pill,” you retorted, shaking your head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here.”
His nostrils flared, making you step back as he stepped toward you. You jumped when your back hit the brick wall. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll let you go back inside,” he demanded, grasping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. His lips were so close that they grazed yours. “You can forget all about me.”
Your mouth parted. You believed him when he said he’d let you go back inside and you didn’t want to forget him, but he was still a stranger. He could be married or have a partner, at least. You didn’t even know his last name.
But he excited you. Your panties were damp and your nipples were hard against your dress. Your pussy clenched around nothing, begging for some relief. Your body knew what it wanted. That was all you needed to know tonight.
His cold eyes searched yours, waiting for an answer. “You scared of me?” he whispered.
If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he sounded vulnerable. “No,” you whispered back. “I’m not scared of you.”
Maybe you should’ve been, but you weren’t.
His gaze softened, or maybe it was the dim light playing tricks on you. “Say you don’t want me,” he dared, his thumb brushing your lips. “Say it.”
“I can’t,” you whispered, your next breath shaky. “Because we both know I want you.”
“Atta girl.” Bucky smiled, the first time he smiled since you spotted him tonight. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. And if you say stop, I will.”
At least he cared about consent.
“Sweetheart?” You raised an eyebrow. “Did you really just-”
He cut you off, pressing his lips against yours in a demanding kiss. You thought your legs would give out when he bit your bottom lip and swept his tongue inside, a sigh escaping as he dominated your mouth. He didn’t release your chin, tilting your head to give him more access. Every thought faded from your mind, your body melting into his.
Fuck, he was going to ruin you.
The kiss ended far too soon, but heat flowed from your core when he nipped along your throat. His teeth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and he bit down hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue soothed the sting, fueling the fire between you.
How did he know what you needed?
“Fuck,” you whimpered, your legs turning to jelly as his hands roamed your body.
It was crazy. Insane. Maybe you were daydreaming and still out on the dance floor, letting yourself get lost in some fantasy.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promised, cupping your breast and brushing your nipple through your dress. “Wanted to fuck you as soon as I saw you. Wanted to own you.”
He brought his mouth back to yours, devouring you as he slid a calloused hand between your legs. He ran it up your trembling thigh until he brushed the fabric that barely covered your pussy, robbing you of your breath. Your hips jerked when he rubbed lightly, making you grow wetter by the second.
He pulled back enough to let you breathe and made a rumbling sound of approval. “You’re drenched,” he rasped, shoving your panties aside and brushing a finger through your folds. “Desperate for me.”
You could only nod and moan when he slipped his finger inside you. He groaned at the feel, the sound vibrating through your bones. Pleasure seared down your spine when he added another finger. When was the last time you wanted someone so badly?
Your mouth went dry when he pressed close, feeling his hard cock through his jeans. He was huge. You hoped he split you in half. You wanted to feel him for days.
He stared at you with a predatory hunger as he removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth, growling as he licked them clean. “Such a sweet cunt.”
You shivered, wishing he could have a proper taste.
“And it’s gonna feel even sweeter around my cock.”
Without warning, he spun you around and pressed your front against the cold wall. He hiked your dress up, your underwear still pushed aside, and you barely registered the sound of him unzipping his pants over the rush of blood in your ears. Your breathing picked up when he spread your legs wider.
If anyone walked out and saw you like this…
“Need to be inside you. So beg for it,” he said, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. You tried to squirm when he didn’t push in more, but he held you still. “Beg for me to fuck you.”
You whimpered. Wasn’t your pussy trying to suck him in enough begging? Of course not. He had to hear you say it.
“Fuck me, Bucky,” you begged, not caring how desperate you sounded. “Please.”
God, you were really doing this.
You were about to let some guy you just met fuck you in a alley.
He filled you in one ruthless thrust, you cry echoing in the night air. It was like you felt every ridge and vein of his cock. You had never felt stretched, so full. It was reckless to not use protection, but the feel of his bare cock deep in your pussy heightened your pleasure.
And at least he was kind enough to give you a moment to adjust to his size.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, letting you feel every inch of him before he nearly pulled out completely and buried himself deep again. “Practically strangling my cock.”
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moaned, your hands scrambling along the wall for purchase.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunted, setting a steady pace. “Say my name and take my cock like a good girl.”
Oh, you did.
He took you hard and deep, the fog of arousal growing thicker with each movement. Every brutal thrust drove you up on your toes and you could only hold on for the ride. He gripped your hips with a force that bordered on pain, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. No one had ever fucked you like this.
It was dirty and perfect.
A hand moved to your throat, your pulse hammering. The possessive grip wasn’t enough to choke you, but it made you aware of his power and dominance. He was in control and you both knew it.
The world around you stilled until all you knew was him.
You reached back to grip his hair, making him groan. “Please,” you gasped when he thrust faster, his lips moving across your skin.
You almost stopped breathing as the coiling pressure built, your muscles tight and your nerves igniting. Your moans grew louder, mixing with his grunts in a euphoric melody. He was ripping you apart at the seams.
“You need to come, don’t you?” he asked, his hand snaking around to rub your clit. The dual sensations sent shockwaves through your body and you didn’t know how much more you could take. “Do it, sweetheart. Come all over my cock.”
His name was a fractured prayer on your lips as you shattered, your back bowing. You convulsed and clamped around him like a vice, colors swimming in your vision. An arm moved around your waist to keep your legs from giving out and he kept driving into you, your head spinning as he drew out your orgasm and chased his own.
When was the last time you came that hard?
“Knew you’d be perfect,” he gritted, his rhythm starting to falter. “Such a good. Fucking. Girl.”
He groaned your name against your neck when his cock throbbed, his release flooding you. It almost pulled another orgasm from you from how good it felt. If his rough fucking didn’t make you feel owned, him filling you up did.
If he lied about being clean… Well, you took that risk, didn’t you?
He panted and slowly pulled out you, the loss making you whimper. You were still coming down from your high when he turned you around and you almost avoided his gaze. It wasn’t fair that he looked mostly composed while you probably looked wrecked. But there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
That had to be a good sign.
But you swallowed, wondering where you went from there.
Instead of walking off and leaving you there to collect yourself, he fixed your underwear, which were completely ruined thanks to the mixed release leaking out of you. He fixed your dress after with tender hands, smoothing it out as your breathing steadied. His eyes didn’t leave yours when he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, a stark contrast to the rough, passionate kiss from earlier. It made your heart flutter.
Oh, no.
Bucky fucked you against an alley wall. Just because you felt butterflies, it didn’t mean he felt anything. How could he when you gave it up so easily?
But why did you have a feeling that he wasn’t the kind of guy who would slut-shame anyone?
“You okay?” he asked, his thumb brushing your warm cheek.
You leaned into his touch without thinking. “Yeah,” you replied, surprised that you could speak and that he asked. “You?”
“Yeah.” He fixed his hair and tucked himself away. “Ditch your friends.”
“What?” you asked, not sure that you heard him correctly.
He stared at you with a faint, almost amused, smile. “Ditch your friends because I’m taking you home and fucking you in my bed.” His tone implied that it wasn’t a suggestion and you didn’t want to protest. “The night’s still young, I didn’t get to see how beautiful you looked when you came on my cock, and I haven’t eaten your pussy yet.”
You laughed breathlessly to cover up the whimper that tried to bubble up. You had wanted to see his face, too. And, fuck, you wanted him to devour you like a starved man.
“So, more sex?” you asked, already feeling that spark of arousal light up again.
The smirk he gave was enough to soak your panties again. “On as many surfaces as possible,” he said, taking your hand. “Oh, and food. Gotta make sure you’re comfortable and well fed.”
Your mouth fell open. He wanted to feed you? And was he implying that you’d stay the night?
“You’re something else,” you breathed.
He chuckled, the sound making you smile, before he snuck in another gentle kiss. You felt that flutter again. “So are you.”
You followed him out of the alley, your body eager for more. You wondered what excuse you’d give your friends for taking off. Surely they’d understand if they got a glimpse of Bucky.
It was reckless to go with him, but maybe it was just the beginning of something more.
Who wants to get dicked down by this man some more? Is it bad that part of me is also leaning soft!dark that he just decides he wants to keep you? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
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